JEFF GARMIRE

The bus motored away, and the realization that I would be living alone in a foreign country sank in. I was booked on a flight back to the United States, but after two weeks in Costa Rica, I decided to stay indefinitely.

Was it a spur of the moment decision? Not really—I had considered spending time alone in a foreign country to explore the landscape and experience the culture. Still, I didn’t know that upon arrival in the small Central American country, this would be that place.

I roamed the streets from the bus station back toward Cahuita. The small city in the Caribbean would be my home for a month. The air was thick with humidity, and my mind was full of thoughts. Carrying a backpack with all my possessions, I walked toward my home for the next few weeks.

Roy met me at the vibrant blue front gate painted with palm trees and toucans. Dogs barked behind him, and his girlfriend was cooking in the open-air kitchen. The two-story house brightly shined in the sunlight, with each quadrant uniquely colored. It was as if I were walking into a Doctor Seuss book. Immediately inspired, I knew this was the place for me. The tour included a detached outhouse, open-air shower, countless hammocks, and a small room for me in the back. It was perfect. In a mixture of Spanish and English, Roy and I decided on a price, and I set my backpack down in the room. I had a home.

Together the three of us accompanied by the three dogs walked down to the black sand beach and did our best to learn about each other despite the language gap. My Spanish was about as good as their English, but our will to communicate bridged the gap. They were Costa Rican natives and had stumbled upon Cahuita and fell in love. Our first day ended, but my time in paradise had only begun.

Each day I would rise with the sun at 4:45 a.m. and walk down to the beach to run on the sand for an hour. Locals walked and waved kindly as I passed with each lap on the dark sand beach. A quick dip in the warm Caribbean ensued before I slowly walked the dirt road back to my cabina in the jungle. Howler monkeys called, and toucans landed in the trees. I was content.

Each morning the three of us would drink fresh Costa Rican coffee together before I would sit at the table and write about whatever my mind could come up with. Freelance writing would pay for this extra month. Life was great, but I was in need of a goal.  

Cahuita sits at the entrance to the National Parque Cahuita. The Costa Rican national park encompasses both a coral reef and nearly six miles of beachfront trails. The jungle extends out over the crashing waves, and Capuchin monkeys hang dangerously over the ocean. Sloths sleep in the trees, and the rare pit viper can be seen slithering across the sand. On my first trip to the park, while staring up at two sloths sharing a tree, I had an idea. I would run out and back across the sandy length of the park. Now I had a goal.

Over the next two weeks, I extended the mileage of my morning runs and eventually added in an afternoon workout. It is as if my mind narrowed in on a single focus despite enjoying “pura vida” living. Locals began to recognize me daily, and their smiles were soon accompanied by a thumbs up. One man started running with me in the mornings, and the town of 8,000 people knew me as the American runner. I had become a part of the community.

My body was ready, but I wasn’t sure when I would undertake my challenge. I was within a couple of weeks of having to return to America, and as I sat at my computer in the morning, I made a spur of the moment decision. Today would be the day. I had scouted the park three times and knew where to cross each river. I was physically fit and hopeful. The only thing missing was confidence in the 11-mile push across the sandy trails of the park. Before I thought further, I got up from my computer, downed the rest of my coffee, and set off toward the entrance.

I put down my name and passport number and stepped into the protected lands. With only a deep breath, I picked up my foot and took off. The first quarter-mile was on a boardwalk above the marshy ground. It was perfect for loosening up my stiff morning muscles. A ramp off the wooden slabs led to sand, and the actual trail began. My shoes dug in with each step, but as I gazed out over the cloudless Caribbean, I knew I had made the right decision.

The national park had just opened, and the route was clear of tourists. I was able to hold a fast pace through the corridor of vines, palm trees, and ocean views. I waded through the waist-deep Rio Perezosa and rounded Punta Cahuita. I was ¼ of the way. I was ecstatic to be attempting the challenge I had made for myself. After Punta Diron, a dry bed of coral took the place of sand. Hermit crabs scampered across the ground, and Capuchin monkeys swung alongside me in the trees. I picked up the pace. The final boardwalk began, and I accelerated to the Punta Vargas entrance. I reached out and touched the sign before turning around. I was halfway. 

The return run became a personal challenge to be even faster than the first half. The day was growing hot, and my skin glistened with sweat as I thundered through the jungle of my local national park. Rounding both points, I could feel the impending success of my challenge. The howler monkeys screamed as if cheering me on. I splashed through the river again and began passing tourists on the thin pathway. My breathing grew heavy as I started the final mile. The boardwalk began, and in a dramatic push, I arrived once again at where it had all started.

I sat down at a picnic table and collected myself while the other visitors stared at me, wondering why I was out of breath and sweating profusely. It didn’t matter. It was my challenge, and I had successfully run across the national park. A national park I had spent a month living next to. 

I bought a cold mango juice and slowly sauntered back to my home. It was time for the mid morning coffee. But it was also a friday. Friday was the night everyone in town went to the Reggae Bar and danced. 

Contrary to the American bar scene, alcohol was only a small part of a night out. People may have one beer or none at all, but they all came to dance. Old and young people moved in whatever ways they wanted, to the live reggae music. The bar was small and open air, but it was perfect, complete with a view of the stars and the resonating sound of crashing waves. It was my last Friday in town. I celebrated the month I spent in the small town on the Caribbean and the achievement of my own personal goal.