Unlearning in Costa Rica

Moving to Costa Rica is a little like joining a circus without realizing you’re the main act. One day you’re juggling coconuts, the next you’re walking a tightrope over potholes. It’s entertaining, slightly terrifying, and strangely addictive.

Take navigation. Back home, if your GPS told you it was 30 kilometres to your destination, you could trust that. Here, 30 kilometres can mean 40 minutes or four hours. Google Maps is decent, Waze is better, but either one might decide the fastest route is down a goat trail with switchbacks sharp enough to make your passengers start whispering last prayers.

Street signs? They are few and far between, but they do exist. They are treated more like rare collector’s items than public utilities. You’ll find yourself giving directions by saying things like, “Turn left after the house with the purple gate, go past the barking dog, and stop when you smell fresh tortillas.” And believe it or not, that usually works.

The roads themselves are narrower than a North American politician’s excuses, and the ditches beside them are cavernous. Drop into one, and it may take the Red Cross, a tow truck, and divine intervention to pull you back out. And that’s just downtown.

Then there are the speed bumps, or as I like to call them, “Costa Rican chiropractic treatments.” Some are painted, but to make it more interesting, many are not. And some are placed right after a blind corner to see who still believes in guardian angels.

The honking is another adjustment. In Canada, a honk is aggressive. Here, it’s almost cheerful. Sometimes it means “I’m passing,” sometimes “You can go,” many times it’s “Pura Vida,” and sometimes it’s just “Good morning” to the rooster on the fencepost. It’s less road rage and more road gossip. As a driver, you wait for the fifth honk to think it could be you they’re honking at.

You’ll also have to adapt to “Tico Time.” If someone says they’ll meet you at 2, it could mean 2, or 2:30, or sometime after the rain stops. Life moves to its own rhythm here, like a salsa beat that outsiders are always half a step behind.

Then there are the critters. Geckos become your roommates, ants your persistent houseguests, and the occasional tarantula a reminder that you’re not in British Columbia anymore. The good news is geckos eat bugs, so you’ll forgive them for leaving little “presents” on the walls.

Shopping requires flexibility too. Back home, if you wanted peanut butter, you bought peanut butter. Here, you might find it one week (at three times the price) and not again for a month. The trick is to buy it when you see it, because the next time you go looking, the shelves might be stocked with ten varieties of guava jam instead.

And let’s not forget the weather. At this time of year, it rains sideways, upside down, and sometimes all at once. Your laundry can be on the line under a clear sky and still end up wetter than when you washed it. The good news is you’ll never need to water your garden.

But here’s the surprise. After the missed exits, the speed bumps, the geckos, and the sideways rain, you realize something. You’re not just adapting to Costa Rica. You’re adapting to a different way of living.

In Costa Rica, life is not about getting there quickly, or having every convenience at your fingertips. It’s about enjoying the ride, crooked roads and all. The potholes teach you patience, the geckos teach you tolerance, and the rain teaches you surrender.

And somewhere between the cow trails and the mango trees, you stop measuring life in speed and start measuring it in joy.