During the few years preceding our big drive to South America, I had visited Costa Rica a couple times, each time leaving with the impression that it was unusually and positively Americanized. After all, Costa Rica does not have a military because they know they can enlist the support of the United States in the event that they need it. And there are restaurants like Papa John’s, Subway, Wendy’s, and other eateries based in the US. Because of its strong relationship with the US and because there are so many American tourists and foods there, I assumed Costa Rica would present the least problems on our drive to South America. The infrastructure would be better in Costa Rica and there would be less corruption, of course.
But driving through Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, and Nicaragua gave me new perspective on Costa Rica, allowing me to view the country in the context of all its Central American neighbors.
While waiting for our friend to finish the lengthy bureaucratic process of getting our car into the country, we were just hanging out on the Costa Rican side of the border. With the exception of Honduras, where we were caught in a riot, the locals at all the borders we crossed were friendly and their towns were not filthy like US-Mexico border crossings in Tijuana, Nogales, and Ciudad Juarez. But the crossing into Costa Rica was dirty and the unfriendly stares made me a bit uneasy. There were men in their mid-twenties and early thirties – dressed as though they were well off -- who had little children begging for them. The kids would get money and then give it to the men. Clearly they did not think we noticed because one of the kids was sent to ask us for money. I told the kid, who couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old, that I didn’t have any money – of course I refused to give money to the guys who were taking advantage of these kids. The boy asked again, so I told him I would give him money if he went home and did not give the money those older guys. The kid then said, in English, “Suck my dick!” and pulled his phallic member out of his jeans as if to let me know he wasn’t kidding.
From the border, we headed to Tamarindo, which is a tourist town on the north pacific coast of the country, most famous among surfers for its proximity to Witch’s Rock and Ollie’s Point. When compared to the beach towns we visited along the way, Tamarindo was not very interesting. The beaches were comparatively crappy. It was different than I remembered, seeming somehow less authentic this time. It was a town for foreigners to enjoy wild parties, like smaller Cabo or Cancun spring break festivities. Ten miles in either direction from Tamarindo, however, the beaches were pristine and beautiful. But relatively few people go there.
Next we drove towards Jaco Beach on the central coast of Costa Rica. Along the way, we realized that all the American influence didn’t make Costa Rica less corrupt. In fact, the only country in which a police officer requested a bribe from us turned out to be, ironically, the most Americanized one – Costa Rica. We were pulled over for driving the usual speed limit through a reduced speed school zone, but it was a Sunday evening and there were no children in the area and there had been no school that day. The officer pulled us over and asked for $50. My friends, who are native Spanish speakers, were furious, but we decided it was easier to pay the money and avoid any problems.
We arrived in Jaco to find that it was a town which had developed much differently than most Central American towns, mostly because of its large number of tourists. For only the second time in the many thousand miles of coastline we had travelled, we were confronted by conspicuous drug use and prostitution. Pretty women came from all over Costa Rica to sell a piece of themselves to American men. We talked to two men who vacation together in Costa Rica every year, leaving their wives and children at home, and spending each night in Jaco at the most well known hang-out for prostitutes, the Beatle Bar – appropriately named, I think. If you drive only five minutes south of Jaco, you will find the Costa Rica you see in travel magazines at Playa Hermosa – a beautiful black sand beach with great surf and only a handful of people on the beach.
On our way to Panama, we hit so many pot-holes that we were shocked the axels did not break. That was surprising considering that I had assumed the infrastructure in Costa Rica, a wealthy and Americanized country, would be much better than that of the rest of Central America. One of the pot-holes was impossible to see ahead of time, and we hit it at 45mph which caused our sleeping friend in the back seat to bounce and slam against the roof of the car – twice. The roads in Costa Rica were far from the best (that honor goes to El Salvador, which had roads as nice as any in the United States); in fact, they were hands down the worst roads we navigated on the trip.
What I really want you to know is that being the most Americanized country in Central America does not mean it is the best. Costa Rica is gorgeous, no doubt, and I recommend visiting there, but make sure you get outside of the tourist towns to see what life is really like in Central America – it is wonderful and you won’t regret it. And don’t refuse to go to other countries, like El Salvador or Panama, just because people tell you Costa Rica is more safe or more beautiful. All of the Central American countries are beautiful, and, just like my hometown and probably yours, they all have some problems.
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