It had been three years since I last had a sip of coffee in Costa Rica or felt the Caribbean sand and water underneath my feet. Three years since I saw my friends and family. It was time to go back home. Two years ago, Costa Rica held its presidential election. In the U.S., news about the army-free Central American country came in batches of negativity. The stories I heard were of a divided Costa Rica, torn apart by politics and religion. Deep inside, I feared to find my country transformed into a different place.

But I had a plane to catch.

It was close to midnight when the plane began descending. I hoped to see the green mountains contrasting with the rusty tin roofs. Instead, I gazed down at the yellowish tint of the streetlights. From the airplane’s window seat, I see a smiley man waiving at me as he unloaded the luggage. The hour drive from San Jose to the old house was almost as I remembered, concrete, advertisement signs, and traffic. Yes, even at 1 o’clock.

The next morning I woke up in Cartago to the sight of a ceiling I had forgotten. An hour later, I sat at a table in one of my favorite coffee shops. On a clear day, you can see the Irazú volcano in the distance. I order the usual, an espresso and a cappuccino. I went back the next day. It took him a while, but the owner approached me and said, “I know you. You used to come here. How’ve you been?”

La playa

When I was a kid, I would get desperate to see the ocean. On our way to the beach, I would ask my dad to drive faster. Years later, I felt the same urge. On a cloudy day, I rushed to see the surfers wave riding under a light rain. I stopped at one of Puerto Viejo’s landmarks, Lydia’s restaurant for their “Rice and Beans” with chicken in Caribbean coconut sauce.

After the meal I had been dreaming of, I found my way to a hostel. The dirt road had scattered lush plants growing on the sides. I went into the reception where I met the owner. The old lady hugged me as if I had been a lost child who found his way back home. She welcomed me to her humble hostel and said she would have coffee and tortillas ready for breakfast the next day. From the balcony, I could see the neighbors’ rusty tin roofs. That night the local high school band marched down the puddle-filled street in Puerto Viejo. Later, while seating at the surf, a Rastaman asked me to keep an eye on his weed while he danced away into the dark beach.

La Familia

I walked into the room where my 90-year-old grandma pretended to sleep. She never does, not until everyone has gone to bed. I sat by her side and touched her white hair. She opened her eyes in the dark and said: “Hi dear Pablo. How was work? “I’m not Pablo, Abuela, it’s me, William” I replied. With a long sarcastic “no” she said, “William is in the United States”. She squinted, adjusting to the low light and then hugged me so hard I almost lost my breath.

I wasn’t afraid anymore. People on the street walked slowly enjoying the afternoon sun. A few others rushed disappearing into the crowd. I saw a female couple holding hands, walking in a zigzag as if they were in a commercial. After the storm comes the calm and it takes more than a presidential election to break a country’s culture. In Costa Rica, wounds healed. What was said during heated debates is stored away in Facebook’s memories.

Before this trip, I had expected to find a changed country immersed in discord and resentment. The country has changed. The streets were a little bit cleaner and people were more aware of the importance of the environment and nature. There is room for improvement, but the “Pura Vida” vibe is still there.

Story + Photography: William Viquez-Mora @willviquez

Video + Photography: Aurola Wedman Alfaro @aurola.wedman

Going home: Costa Rica

La playa

La Familia

About us

The Blog