Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
Pura Vida
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
A small prop plane with me in it is flying over an expanse of the Costa Rican rainforest. The plane’s distinguishing features are hard seats and a deafening engine.
When I arrived last week at Lapa Rios ecolodge, my plan was to soak up the tropical heat, watch howler monkeys swing from tree limbs and eat exotic fresh fruits until my stomach bloated. That was before I discovered Señor Santiago Morales, a vacationing accountant from the nation’s capital San Jose.
I first spotted him in the lounge, reading. Black, wavy hair. Intense, calculating eyes. Oblivious to the natural landscape around him, his head was bent over “Costa Rica, A Contemporary History.” It was enough to introduce myself.
The next day we met for breakfast. The fresh, fragrant, dewy air was just warming to the day ahead. From a nearby Guanacaste tree, a rainbow-colored macaw eavesdropped.
Extra strong black coffee, scrambled eggs still sizzing on the plate and gallo pinto was our daily fare. Gallo pinto—Spotted Rooster in Spanish—is a mélange of black beans, rice and vegetables served with a corn tortilla, a crispy slice of fried white cheese, plantains, avocado slices, sour cream. It pairs nicely with open-ended conversation.
“Do you know Costa Rica has 700 miles of oceanscape washing up on 600 beaches?” he asked. “A fourth of my country is protected parkland. We have more animal and plant species than Canada and your America combined. Ninety-eight percent of our electricity comes from renewable sources. Not bad for a country where your fragile American gastrointestinal tract is afraid of the tap water,” he laughed.
Not everything worth sightseeing in a country is visible, so like the social studies teacher that I am, I quizzed him. Instead of fussing over what to pack, I should have spent time researching what to know. A life lesson to teach my high history students.
Costa Rica’s stable democracy is intriguing. “For seventy-five years our constitution has banned a standing army while your constitution allows trigger-happy wackos to own military weapons,” he expounded.
His tax accountant brain wanted to know about America’s anti-taxxers. “Costa Rica is a tax haven for your countrymen,” he noted wistfully. Most Americans patriotically pay their taxes, I told him. I over-explained that during WWII—when America was the arsenal of democracy—the income tax on the richest Americans was 94%. He changed the subject.
“Do you know about pura vida—our laid-back lifestyle? he asked. “My country is home to one of only five Blue Zones in the world—places where people live significantly longer than the average global lifespan. Yours has none.”
We talked about our families, our hobbies, our pets.
Santiago suggested I visit Territorio de Zaguates, a mountain orphanage for canines. Eighteen hundred stray dogs run free, sniff out new friends, swim and play at their own ecolodge. Doggy pura vida.
I’ve shoved a hastily-written reminder note into my pocket to tell my dog Magellan about a country that aligns with his values. Mine too.
