Driving in Costa Rica: The Road to Pura Vida

There are certain things you prepare for in life: retirement, marriage, the Leafs losing early in the playoffs. Driving in Costa Rica for the first time? That wasn’t on my bucket list but somehow, it found me.

It all started innocently enough. I picked up the rental car at the airport in San José, handed over my Canadian driver’s licence and passport with the same pride I used to show off my hockey cards in Grade 4. The clerk barely looked at them. I suppose in a country where sloths have the right of way, paperwork isn’t the most thrilling part of the day.

Keys in hand, I slid into the driver’s seat, naively thinking, How different could it be? After all, I’ve driven many years in Quebec, where drivers are known for being… crazy!

Answer: very.

The moment I pulled out of the lot, I was greeted by a chorus of honks. Not angry honks like in Montreal, but more like Costa Rica’s version of saying “Hi, welcome to the jungle.” And I mean that almost literally. Within minutes, I was dodging potholes that could swallow a raccoon whole, scooters weaving through lanes like mosquitoes at a summer picnic, and pedestrians casually crossing the road like they were in line for ice cream.

And the signs. Oh, the signs. Sure, they were in Spanish, but I thought I could piece it together. I mean, “Alto” looks enough like “halt”, right? But what I wasn’t ready for were the speed limits. They’re posted in kilometres per hour, just like back home, but Costa Rican drivers seem to treat them more like suggestions than rules. I’d be cruising at 10 KPH above the posted 60 KPH, only to be passed by a local flying past me with one hand on the wheel and the other holding what looked like a tamale. Motorcycles were passing me on the left and… even on the shoulder!

One of the first things I learned, after narrowly avoiding a concrete ditch, was that pedestrians don’t always stick to sidewalks. Mostly because there aren’t any. People walk right on the edge of the road, often at night, wearing dark clothing, which made me feel less like a driver and more like a contestant on a nighttime version of Wipeout.

Outside the cities, things don’t calm down… they just change flavour. The scenery turns lush and beautiful, but the roads go from “choppy” to “Was this designed by a man with a machete and a dream?” Gravel, mud, unexpected river crossings… it’s like driving through a National Geographic special, only without Morgan Freeman narrating. At one point, I was guided across a sketchy-looking bridge by a stray dog who seemed more confident in my rental SUV than I was.

But then, just when you think you’re about to snap, right there in your sweaty, bug-bitten panic, you get a moment. Maybe it’s a sweeping view of the mountains, or a toucan fluttering by your windshield, or a friendly wave from a local who somehow knows you’re lost but smiles anyway. And suddenly, it all feels worth it.

There’s something beautifully chaotic about driving in Costa Rica. It’s unpredictable, unfiltered, and unapologetically alive. Kind of like life, when you stop trying to control every lane and just let it flow.

Back in Canada, we follow the rules. We yield with purpose. We apologize when someone cuts us off (or we salute them with our favourite finger). Here, it’s every driver for themselves, with a smile and a “Pura Vida” thrown in for good measure.

The moral? You can’t navigate Costa Rica with a Canadian mindset. You’ll just end up stuck behind a tractor, yelling sorry to the gecko on your windshield. Sometimes, to really experience a place, you’ve got to let go of what you think driving should be, and just hold the wheel steady, breathe deep, and embrace the bumps… both literally and metaphorically.

And if the GPS tells you to turn into a river? Trust your gut. Or the dog.