Buy me a coffee?
Once upon a Christmas, there lived a wealthy expat on the Pacific coast of Costa Rica. He owned a stunning white villa with a pool so blue it looked Photoshopped, steps from the beach, palm trees trimmed on command, and a view that screamed gratitude. He felt none.
He paid his gardeners “local rates”, which somehow always meant less than fair. The cleaning lady was reminded often how lucky she was to work for him, as if luck paid school fees, food or clothes. At the market, he negotiated vendors down to the last colón, smiling as if squeezing a mango also squeezed dignity. Pura Vida was something he wore like linen. Light. Wrinkle free. Convenient.
Christmas annoyed him. Traffic. Music. People expecting generosity like it was contagious.
That night, the heat and humidity sat heavy as the repairman couldn’t be there to fix his air conditioning unit. So sleep came thin. The first visitor arrived without knocking. Call it conscience, call it indigestion, call it the Ghost of Christmas Past… with a tan.
It showed him his early days here. New arrival. Wide eyed. Grateful. He remembered the family run soda that fed him when his money was tied up in divorce settlements at home, the fisherman who fixed his outboard for a handshake and a beer, the neighbour who watched his place during rainy season. Back then, he talked about community. About respect. Funny how success can act like bleach.
The second visitor came louder. The Ghost of Christmas Present had dirt under its nails and tired eyes. It took him into a small town just inland. A family lived there, same land for generations. The father worked two jobs. The mother stretched rice and beans into miracles. Their boy, maybe eight, wore shoes a size too small and hope a couple of sizes too big.
Rent had doubled. Groceries crept up weekly. Not because locals got richer, but because newcomers overpaid for land, food and amenities, then complained about the “Gringo price” over cocktails. The boy’s Christmas wish was simple. Food. A ball. His parents’ worry eased for one night.
Our expat shifted uncomfortably. He knew this town. Drove through it daily. Windows up. Music and A/C on. Guilt muted.
The last visitor didn’t bother with subtlety. The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come showed empty beaches and closed sodas. Resentment replacing hospitality. Gated communities surrounded by razor wire and quiet contempt. Expats wondering why smiles disappeared, or crime being up, blaming everyone but the mirror.
Then he woke up.
No thunder. No angels. Just a ceiling fan and a choice.
The next day, he did something radical. He paid his workers more fairly. Not generously. Fairly. He stopped grinding vendors like coffee beans. He learned names. Asked questions. Listened more than he spoke. He remembered he was a guest, not a saviour, not a conqueror, not an economy unto himself.
In some expat communities, small things happen quietly at Christmas. Neighbours pool money so local kids get a gift. Food appears where cupboards are thin. No saviour photos. No speeches. Just respect wrapped in simplicity. Integration instead of imposition. Gratitude instead of entitlement.
This is not about charity. Charity can be lazy. This is about decency. About understanding that moving somewhere beautiful does not make you better than the people who made it beautiful before you arrived with your realtor and your opinions.
Costa Rica does not owe anyone a discount on conscience.
The lesson is not subtle. If you come here and live large while others struggle harder because of your presence, that is not Pura Vida. That is colonialism with better branding. If you want paradise, earn it daily. Pay fairly. Act locally. Leave the place better than you found it.
Christmas doesn’t need ghosts anymore. We already know what’s right. The question is whether we are brave enough to live it, or rich enough to pretend we don’t see it.
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