Hiking in Gandoca-Manzanillo National Park, Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica
We followed the main road out of Puerto Viejo when, just on the edge of town, traffic suddenly slowed. A quad bike had stopped in the road, just in front of us. A motorbike pulled up alongside, and a couple of locals jumped off to chat to the quadders.
In the UK, this would almost certainly have resulted in angry toots, and hand gestures. But here… well… Pura Vida!
It was a genuinely joyous moment. Not just because we’d seen our first sloth, but because of the patience and care shown by everyone involved. No stress, no rushing, no annoyance. Just people quietly doing the right thing.
Unfortunately, trying to take a photo while also driving past proved tricky, so all I managed was a fuzzy shot of the furry chap. OK, it’s terrible, and you’re just going to have to take our word for it. That strange blurry thing is a sloth. Pinky promise!
Not long after, the heavens opened. Our first proper Costa Rican downpour. The kind that would make even the rainiest English day feel a bit embarrassed.
We were smug. Very smug. Not only had we packed our largely under utilised hiking boots, but also our completely un-utilised Regatta raincoats!
Naturally, five minutes before we arrived, the rain disappointingly stopped.
Parking at the national park was a little confusing. We pulled into the first car park we were directed towards, which cost us ₡3000 (~£5 ~$7), only to later realise that parking along the left-hand side of the road was completely free.
To be fair, it was quite busy, so finding a free space would have required a bit of luck. The paid “car park” we ended up in was essentially a makeshift patch of land next to someone’s house (a clear bit of entrepreneurial spirit at work) but it felt safe enough, it was close to the entrance and the car was still there when we got back, so we couldn’t really complain.
Off we set into the national park. Entry is technically “free”, but it’s made fairly clear that a “donation” is very much “appreciated” before you go in. Being British, polite, and utterly incapable of making a fuss, we happily paid the suggested donation of $5 each and crossed into the park via a lovely little wooden bridge.
Once inside, we felt a little self-conscious about our seemingly unnecessary Regatta trekking boots, having realised that almost everyone else was wearing sliders, flip flops, or trainers. Nevertheless, we trekked on along the neat, well maintained path.
There were a few obvious man-made structures, including a viewpoint perfectly positioned for selfies overlooking waves crashing into a small rocky sea stack. For the most part, though, the path stayed within the jungle, with side trails leading to stunning, secluded beaches.
One in particular stood out; a beautiful beach with a simple swing hanging from a tree. If I hadn’t taken this photo myself, I’d have assumed it was AI-generated.
On we trekked. And then, to my slightly twisted delight, the path began to get steeper, muddier, and just a bit more challenging. Flip flop wearers and trainer-clad walkers struggled down mildly steep descents, slipping over tree roots and sliding around on muddy paths. Pristine Nikes and Adidas were now thoroughly caked in mud.
Ha... Oh, er... I mean Pura Vida!
We strode past confidently in our ultra practical, aggressively grippy boots as they clung to handrails, and branches searching for any feeling of stabliity.
HA!… Shit. Am I an awful person?
Anyway, moving on (which we did very easily and comfortably), we stopped at several other stunning little beach areas before the path became less obvious. Ahead, the trail looked a bit overgrown. To our right (away from the beach and into the jungle) was a path that appeared more trodden.
At this point, we had a little family disagreement.
Archer (9) suggested we carry on ahead and follow the sea path. Steph and I (much older, therefore obviously wiser) decided the correct route was the one heading right, where everyone else had clearly gone.
Naturally, we ignored the nine year old. What do they know?
You may already be guessing how this ends, but stick with me.
We continued into the jungle. It became thicker and denser, still amazing, still beautiful, and still technically passable. The only issue was that the path kept getting thinner and less defined. And we hadn’t seen any other hikers for about ten minutes.
We soon realised the trail had become so vague that we weren’t entirely sure it was an actual path anymore, and more worryingly, we weren’t confident we could retrace our steps if we turned back.
Archer and I were happy to press on (limited intellect). Steph, understandably, was becoming increasingly frustrated at our complete lack of concern.
It’s probably worth mentioning here that despite having the perfect boots and raincoats, we had AGAIN, failed to pack adequate water. We weren’t even halfway through the hike and were down to a very warm dribble at the bottom of our one water bottle.
Eventually, the path split into several thin, unclear
directions. Steph pulled rank and said we we're going back. I reluctantly agreed. Archer fearlessly, but unsuccessfully, disagreed.
On our way back towards the main path, we passed a family of five. The mum asked, “Have you seen any animals?”
“No,” we replied. “Just some spiders and a frog or two. No monkeys or sloths.”
They nodded and continued up the narrow, muddy hill.
A minute or two later a couple approached.
“Is this a path?” they asked.
“We don’t know,” I replied. “We lost confidence about ten minutes up there and turned back.”
“Oh gosh,” the woman said, showing us her hands and left side, both completely caked in mud. “I’ve already fallen over.”
“Oh no!” we all said in synchronised sympathy. “You poor thing.”
They carried on past us, and I couldn’t help noticing her flip-flops as I internally fist bumped myself.
We eventually made it back to the point where the path had become unclear and followed the route with the beach on our left; exactly as Archer had suggested in the first place.
And, of course, it turned out to be the main path.
We did our best not to let Archer know.
But we all knew.
And more importantly… He knew.
We carried on, stopping at the occasional beautiful beach, pointing out interesting plants, spiders, birds, and frogs. After a while, the paths that once led down to the sandy beaches started to become increasingly impassable. There was a familiar, nagging feeling that we might be heading the wrong way again, but we pressed on regardless.
Then, we spotted a weathered sign written in spanish vaguely suggesting there was a rest area. No detail. No explanation. Just a sign.
Naturally, we followed it, passing through a gate that may or may not have been open to the public and into a small clearing. In front of us stood a ramshackle wooden building. As we got closer, a dog wandered over to greet us with complete disinterest before trotting off again.
The building turned out to be a very small hostel called Casa Azul, with no more than four bedrooms.
As we approached, a guy leapt out of a hammock and wandered over to greet us.
“Tres coconut?” he offered.
“Sí, por favor.”
“Bueno.”
He disappeared around the back of the building, returned with a long stick, and casually went over to a tree. A few practiced jabs later, he strolled back, picked up a huge machete, and with impressive ease, chopped the top off each coconut, leaving just a small drinking hole.
He handed us each a coconut filled with beautifully cool, fresh coconut water and told us to chill. So we did.
We sat on chairs and hammocks, drinking, resting, and quietly appreciating the moment. Then Archer noticed a Hermit Crab crawling across the floor. Then another. And another. There were loads of them. And no one cared.
Once we’d finished our drinks, our host happily crafted each of us a spoon from the coconut shell, chopped the tops off, and invited us to eat the inside. Cool, fresh, and delicious, and quite possibly the thing that saved us from death by dehydration. We paid ₡6000 (~£10 ~$13) for the coconuts, but accidentally stumbling accross this chilled out, random place in the middle of the jungle was priceless.
Eventually, feeling refreshed, rehydrated, and happy, we decided it was time to head back to the car.
Sometimes the wrong path, an ignored child, and the prospect of having to drink warm dribble can lead you exactly where you’re supposed to be.
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