Eduardo exudes nearly as much glee imparting these facts as I do in learning them. Every guide I meet, and you really do need guides here for permits and arcane bat trivia, is passionate about their work and environment. Professional twitchers, pilots, boat captains who explore this landscape day after day, all taking as many pictures as the tourists, delighting in the discovery of a transparent glass frog or the mimosa pudica’s bashful leaves closing up at a touch.

Costa Rica’s top ranking in the Happiness Index is as widely reported as its lack of military. “We have an army of teachers instead” I’m told by one local. When the military was abolished funds were re-directed into public welfare and education which goes some way to explain the enormous success of sustainability here. The people take care of nature and nature returns the favour – eco-tourism is a crucial part the economy.

My search for pura vida has drawn me to the laid back Caribbean Coast which has smaller resorts more popular with Europeans than the Pacific Coast which is broadly favoured by Americans and bigger chain hotels. On the short flight to Tortuguero from San Jose we catch glimpses of broccoli-topped trees and gleaming tributaries through the cloud. Irazu volcano smoulders away moodily on the horizon. We land on a narrow strip of land between Caribbean waves and the ‘Little Amazon of Costa Rica’. It is blissfully informal. More bus stop than airport. A horse grazes indifferently on the runway. A man collects our luggage in a wheelbarrow and deposits it on the river dock. It’s a breezy five-minute boat transfer to Mawamba Lodge – you can't get there by road. Everything seems so easy. We keep our eyes peeled for manatees but a sighting is “like winning the lottery” according to Eduardo. “Pura vida” he smiles signalling the by now familiar what-will-be-will-be philosophy. 

Bull sharks and barracuda make swimming in the sea ill-advised but the dark sandy beaches are a striking backdrop for a caipirinha or two. I seek solace from the heat in the Lodge’s small bisected swimming pool instead. It is a tepid kids’ pee soup with insect croutons but still some relief from the swelter. Stout stripey-tailed lizards prowl the grounds like wizened old punks. Their lazier compadres sunbathe in the treetops, scaly sentries from another time. 

As dusk approaches a small group gathers on the dock. We’re on our way to one of the abundant turtle nesting grounds in Tortugeuro’s National Park. Strict instructions on conduct are issued along the way. No cameras, no lights and no wandering off. An intricate system of spotters and scouts lead us through the dark dunes where we wait for an immense green turtle to start laying her eggs. It’s companionable and surreal, we’re sightless Beckett characters in waiting. Suddenly a dim red light and urgent whispers. The guide leads us to a grand old dame stoically dropping her eggs into a deep oval pit. 

I am in equal measure uneasy and awe-struck by what we are witnessing. The new mother seems unflappable but I’m sure she sure she could do without an audience of odd shell-less bipeds. On the other hand income generated from this program helps protect the turtles from far more intrusive tourism and poachers. Four out of the seven sea turtle species come to Tortuguero to nest and three of these are in high danger of extinction. Either way, watching her propel her stately heft down the beach is a sight that will never leave me. A regal breaststroke across the sand, pausing to rest but anxious to leave, soon she’s tumbling into the waves, swallowed up by the black sea. 

I think my vida has got as pura as it’s going to get but I have to reassess the next day as we travel to Pacuare Eco-Lodge. The journey there is elaborate but unpromising, my chassis is battered by the slow-mo slamming around a 4x4. The rain pounds down so heavily it sets off a car alarm. We pass dozens of stalls displaying mounds of hirsute rambutan and giant green banana hands. What seems like hours of twisted mud track are followed by a rudimentary funicular then a golf cart, I half expect to transplant our luggage to a shopping trolley next. I wish I had known before that you could arrive by horse.

But Pacuare Lodge is oh-so worth the toil. An elegant wooden edifice in Limon's emerald Talamanca Mountains. It is not the place for evening gowns or good hair, the design is luxurious but the pleasures simple, another key tenet of the pure life. I take an outdoor shower in the forest gloam as the river bellows a wild lullaby below. Each villa is furnished with an old-fashioned candle-snuffer. There is no electricity – the lodge takes sustainability very seriously – so everything is candlelit and before bed I tiptoe about snuffing out gluey wicks. Not the stuff of bucket lists granted but deeply satisfying nonetheless.

I spend the next morning daydreaming high up in the trees, floating in my mini infinity pool, lost in a cathedral of green. Reluctant to leave my sanctuary I'm due to ascend further still for breakfast on the Birds Nest Platform. A rectus femoris-testing clamber into the canopy, then I'm clipped onto a zipwire to swing across to our lofty dining table in the foliage of an ancient Ceiba. Our food is pulleyed up in a basket. Drowsy brown honey bees languish in the guava jam. All around the rainforest's citizens chatter and trill. It's starting to seem like the normal order of things to rapel 60 feet down a tree to go in search of Pygmy kingfishers and long-tailed tyrants. We learn about the evolution of hummingbird beaks in different species to partner precisely with different flowers and delight over distant furry grey lumps that may or may not be sloths.

Our exit is as excellent as the arrival was arduous. Using the river's power to propel our rafts is not only the friendliest of eco, it is also the most fun I've had since, well, swinging through the trees for breakfast. A broad-shouldered giant calmly navigates the stage 4 rapids with our luggage. Perched high above the dry bags he expertly pivots between his raft between colossal rocks. Our boat bounces behind, the passengers all thrilled and grinning wildly. Between fierce bursts of paddling through rapids and idly drifting we slide out of our rubber raft into the water. Flat out on our backs we float silently downriver, buoyed up by life vests, pulled gently by the current through through idyllic canyons, baptised by the clear green river.

Our driver collects Eduardo and I from the river bank soggy, exhilarated and nursing the kind of implacable appetite that only a vigorous day outdoors can inspire. We head south for Puerto Viejo and soon settle into a sleepy seaside cafe to plough through bowl after bowl of delicious citrusy ceviche and local beer. There's an easy Caribbean flavour to the town and it's tempting to hug the beach for a while but I'm keen to get to The Jaguar Rescue Sanctuary, a highly respected rehabilitation centre for wildlife. Founder Encar welcomes us and I'm soon introduced to an ancient ocelot named Roy. He has a machete wound in his head and bad cataracts so he's unable to fend for himself. A cheeky boar called Chachi trots round adoringly after Encar. Wide-eyed raccoons and anxious owls follow our every move. Dozing two-toed sloths smile secretively. They are pretty biddable in this state but Encar shows us their vampire fangs and explains that many of her injuries have come from rescuing belligerent sloths from power lines. Cheery volunteers pass by plastered in howler monkeys and we stop into the serpentarium to visit the yellow eyelash pit viper. I'm utterly disarmed by the passion and charm of Encar and her acolytes. It is very clear that the animals come first and are not just props for Instagramming tourists. While clearly not everyone in Costa Rica is committed in exactly the same way to conservation, all the people I meet see themselves as lucky custodians of their environment.

There was one last test of pura vida. It’s easy to philosophise when being pampered in a luxury treehouse but what about the harder reality of urban Costa Rica. I’d found the capital city San Jose daunting when I first arrived and was eager to escape the deafening trains and perilous rubble-strewn gutters but I was back for the last few days of the trip. Affectionately known locally as Chepe the city is not unlike the rainforest in that it rewards patience. A closer inspection revealed undercover markets festooned with delicate wooden humming birds, vibrant street art and a man playing trumpet at the traffic lights bowing between greens. A visit to the National Museum offers cornflower blue morpho butterflies drunk on fermenting watermelon. They hang dangerously askew, probiscuses buried deep in the rotting fruit. One was just flat out drunk, lying on its back legs waving half-heartedly.

Taking my queue from the inebriated insects I join a craft beer walking tour with Carpe Chepe on my last night. They are a young company run by locals keen to show off their beloved city. My guide Sergio speaks with touching passion about the local neighbourhoods and history of the city. He leads us through a series of increasingly cool bars waxing lyrical about local brews as he goes. As Sergio heads to the sixth bar to fill our glasses I have to ask what pura vida means to him. “There are countless crappy memes of what it’s supposed to mean but to me its just about making the best of life you know? If the winds aren’t blowing your way you can choose to take it laid back, look for the good in everything. Ticos tend not to worry too much, that’s what I think it stands for.” I think I’ll have what he’s having.

Words: Jenni Doggett
Photography: Wynn Ruji