The ¡Pura Vida! Realities

“You want?” The clerk held up plastic. It was a bag, like any other, commonly seen blowing down a street or swept to the side, submerged in the gutters.

“No thanks. I have my own here. Reusable.” I lifted the backpack to the checkout counter.

“¡Pura Vida!” he said.

¡Pura Vida! Costa Rica’s signature of an eco-friendly consciousness. Heard everywhere, ¡Pura Vida! expresses the pure life, a worry-free contentment, a cure within society. Within the two mountainous settlements of Santa Elena and Monteverde, ¡Pura Vida! is practiced and contained like an abecedarian lesson, honored as an idolatry of the human Soul. From organic produce, to conservation efforts and eco-tourism, the small-town communities present a choice; the ¡Pura Vida! reality representing Life’s diverse beauty.

“¡Pura Vida!” I replied, placing the fresh mangoes, mushrooms, eggplant, ginger, limes, and tomatoes inside my weathered pack. Four ripe avocados crowned its top.

Stepping outside the mercado, I found the air to be cool. In the sky, large cumulous clouds blew like thick sails, flying full spinnakers. They caught a lithesome draft as the bulk of their hulls sunk, swollen with expected rains.

It was the end of the season, and summer approached. It was March—a transition period. It was the cloud forest, and the Tico settlement of Santa Elena, the Quaker’s Monteverde, and the people of Costa Rica awaited this change.

With expectation, the preparations passed unconsciously. For the citizens, change and its recognition existed within the patterns created by repetition. Their traditions and way of life, their beliefs, were ingrained within their habits, and when any notice of change occurred, when any pattern lost its sequence, people bit bottom lips, shocked from the rise of inconsistency. Less rain fell, temperatures began to rise, and the humidity declined—people took notice.

This isn’t right, they reasoned. What happened to the patterns? The routines? What’s happening, why this change? Some phenomenon manifested, which brought into question the past and its solidarity. Call it evolution. Call it impermanency. Call it the space created for growth. Or maybe, call it simplicity, simplicity among Nature’s cycles, which revolve contrary to people’s minds and their attachment to habit.

As I stood outside, my mind wandered through the sky. I gazed at the clouds in a reserved stillness and suddenly found myself seeking escape. I wanted to run. I wanted some place to perch on a distant branch or hide in a lost cave veiled by long, creeping vines. An escape became possible.

A breeze blew, gusting around bare legs. It pushed me onward, toward my destination. But which one? The mountains? I questioned. To the bed I know? I thought. Which one?

Coming to Costa Rica for travel, relaxation and adventure, for life’s reflection, I spent three and a half weeks on the Pacific Coast. The Nicoya Peninsula of the northwest was home as I explored the rural settings in search of waves and empty spaces. I came upon a beach, isolated and desolate, where a full fourteen days passed camping and surfing, surfing and reading, then surfing and writing, until some evening surf before finding time to sleep. Heaven. Peace. I had escaped.

In this air and sea, I watched gray whales migrating north, silhouetted before a sunset of flaming tangerines, papayas, and bananas. They leapt from their comfort, spinning and dancing in vivacious minuets. In awe, I sat within their element rolling over the oncoming swells. Once more, overcome with love, peace, with the joy that life can be upon Mother Earth, I reflected on my dreams manifested, the pure life lived. ¡Pura Vida!

With three and a half weeks of beach, sun, and surf, I was soon ready for change. Packing up and taking off, I discovered the quiet Quaker settlement of Monteverde, where I stayed in a friend’s house for three and a half weeks. The retreat was tucked deep within the rainforest, away from signs of civilization. There were trees, soothed in the metallic songs of three-wattled bellbirds, the vibrant colors of the keel-billed toucan, and the famous sapphire and emerald hues of the resplendent quetzal. Life, and its reflection, could not have been better. ¡Pura Vida!

It was the pure life, and sure, I came to see the birds, as well as the white-faced monkeys swinging from their branches outside the windows, but mainly I came to just be, to be here, in Nature, in my Self, within this peace. I thought my escape to be permanent, but reflections soon deepened when a new turn of Nature’s energy rippled through my experience.


Two and a half weeks gone by. I was familiar with Sta. Elena and its patterns after spending the late afternoons in town, picking up provisions or checking e-mail. After, I would always, and I mean always, make a visit to Jimenez Bakery.

Yes, admittedly, I have a sweet tooth, and damn is it sweet. It’s at its sweetest while traveling, where my culinary tooth takes off to depths of sugars and honeys that make me wild. In each city, in every town, through all lazed villages, it’s a must for me to seek out that grocer, that hidden bakery, that wheeling cart bouncing down the dirt road. I have a sweet tooth and I seek its fulfillment, whether in the form of exotic fruits, or by the oven’s secrets found within sweetbreads, cakes, pastries, and candies. At twenty years of age, I am certain, with pure delight, this tooth shall never decay.

“So… to the bakery?” I asked. The sign advertising the mercado loomed overhead.

Yeah. To the bakery! I agreed. My mind craved habit, but my body stood rooted, unmoved. In a way, I felt no matter how hard I tried, how hard I desired, I would be unable to sail down the street to the intended destination.

To the bakery! Jimenez, here we come! I tried to persuade my stubbornness, but no. For some reason I didn’t want it. Today was not the day.

Why? You want it! My mind was desperate. It surged and seized like waves. Yes, you want it!

No! Time to break the cycle. And what’s wrong with that? I mean come on. ¡Pura Vida!

I thought about the choices—I could go; I could not go. I thought about going despite my feelings, those reaching deep to an inner channel of awareness. I thought, resilient in examination, and discovered when ignoring this sense of intuition, an uneasy sensation fell upon me like a brick within the stomach, sinking deep, becoming empty. What was this? Why not the bakery? It’s just the bakery… The brick grew heavier, and ironically, I was full.

Fine. No bakery. It’s done! With this decision, my mind sulked, but the nausea lifted. I felt the brick rise from my stomach and dissolve, and I was comforted, but felt a strange lingering of the cloud forest. It awaited change. It was grateful for change. I accepted mine, but little did I know how life depended upon it.

I walked, and then stammered, not sure, no… for sure. Placing my feet firmly on the ground before me, the main thoroughfare of Sta. Elena slowly receded behind. Tourists with backpacks wandered crowded streets and locals went about their business. Budget hotels, restaurants, attractions—they were filled with the start of the West’s spring break, as the arrival of buses deposited hoards of travelers, and rented Isuzu Sidekicks downshifted into a crawl up the hills. Today, after two and a half weeks of familiarization, Sta. Elena was unusually busy.

One minute. The outskirts of town. I walked down into a gully and then climbed out, following the road to the Serpentarium. Perched upon a hill, the exhibit was a lime green building displaying forty different species of snakes. The parking lot was full.

Two minutes. It faded away. Then crack! -distant noise sent across an expanse of air.

Crack, crack!

Another—more—pausing as did my feet. I stopped. There came an awareness with the echoing cries. Something was happening as a succession of faster more rapid cracks, then pops, outraced the first. Examining, I cocked my head and listened.

Firecrackers. Were they firecrackers? But what’s the celebration? It’s March. No festivals that I’m aware of. Must be kids.

Crack, crack, crack!

I honed in on their bursts and realized the distance; somewhere near the center of town.

Tut, tut, tut, CRACK!

Suddenly, with rocketing echoes ringing off the hills, I was infused with the same nausea, that same queasy sensation felt outside the market. Fear crept up as tears began to well. The possibilities… It can’t be! No, not here!

A man skirted out of his small office located just above the Serpentarium “¡El banco! ¡El banco!” he stressed, his face fearful, his hands pulling at black hair. Attentions turned.


I followed the crowds and found myself back near the snakes where ¡Pura Vida! and its blissful reality instantly bit with a poisonous fang. My worldview, and the community’s pacifist consciousness, cracked to the hissing of gunpowder as something out of the ordinary interrupted this peaceful, eco-friendly town. Nothing would seem likely to go wrong, right? Wasn’t it the farthest thought from reality? The organic produce at the market was fresh this morning, and the ice cream at Monteverde Cheese Factory was damn good yesterday. Wasn’t it? All was perfect, right? Wrong.

From my perch, I saw policia in black uniforms in the center of town. They scurried around El Banco Nacional, hollering, shooting their weapons. They positioned themselves around buildings as a body feebly flopped outside the bank’s steps. From my distance, with binoculars borrowed from a touring Scotsman, I saw Jimenez Bakery directly in the background. Bullet holes scarred large glass windows. Pockmarks stung concrete frames. Nobody stood behind the counters. I looked back at the body, now no more than a corpse.

Jimenez, I thought. That body, this body, this “me”—I could have been.

Chills as I stood silent, full of grief. I shook in a mix of sadness, disgust, and gratitude; an appreciation for my past awareness. This life spared. I still have mine to live.

To the touch, my flesh was warm, while that single life, and others unknown inside the bank, grew cold, leaving behind their realities. The change and the question continued to arise: Why not me?


Twenty-eight hours later, nine dead and seventeen injured. AK-47s, pump guns, pistols, rifles; the weaponry produced the destruction, going hand-in-hand with anger and greed.
¡Pura Vida!

Five bank robbers altogether. They were Nicaraguan nationals, suspected in a series of bank robberies just months prior. When stepping out from their truck, armed and loaded with the seeds of violence, their egos amassed. They entered their own clustered garden of darkness and showered bullets of negativity, designing an impossible scheme of escape.

El Banco Nacional of Sta. Elena had been held up three times previous. All attempts failed. Situated on a small hilltop within the verdant mountains, the town had a total of three exits, only three roads leading to the outside world, all of which were narrow earthen paths. The ongoing effort to preserve the land and its wildlife helped in the resistance to pave the roads; therefore, traffic was usually slow. At high speeds, the likelihood of swerving out of control was great.

In one of the past robberies, the assailants attained a get-away vehicle, but knowing the small-town layout and the scope of the mountains in which they must descend, some might wonder what they were thinking. What were the possibilities of escape? Further, why this bank, this location? Mountainous terrain, dirt roads, steep descents… where did they expect to go and what did they expect to find at the bottom of the hill?

Due to these roads, the chase was brought to an inevitable end. It was only too soon for the assailants that the pickup truck failed, losing control as the brakes caught fire. Two survived the wreck and fled, seeking shelter in the woods. A few days later, they were apprehended, one emerging unscathed, while the other was dragged by Federales, leaving a trail of blood for the jaguar’s scent.

But on this occasion, March 9, 2005, the bank robbers, as well as the town, were not so fortunate to escape harm or casualty. War seemed to have erupted as I stood, watching motionlessly across the gully. I closed my eyes and prayed.


The hold-up was over. Again, nine dead and seventeen injured. It was finished, but the recent experience and its emotions were still fresh.

Home in the cloud rainforest of Monteverde, settled in a falling twilight. I was cooking a dinner of Costa Rica’s classic gallo pinto (black beans and rice spiced with aromatic onions, jalapenos, cilantro, chili pepper, lime, and salsa Lizano) when a knock sounded on the hollow wooden door. I went to turn down Manuel Obregon’s piano on the CD player, and slowly stepped across the flooring. Opening the door, Jampόn stood within the dark, flaccid of the energy I met only two days before.

Jampόn was the caretaker of the house. He stayed there fulltime when no one was visiting; sleeping, cooking, and leaving for work to return in the evening. But the whole time I was there, he was down on the Nicoya Peninsula working in a restaurant in the beach-community of San Juanillo. Five days ago, he took the weekend off to visit family and friends.

With black curly hair, shining as though lathered in wax, Jampόn stepped in under the entryway’s light. He was thin, youthfully alive at a fresh age of twenty-four. Tonight, his eyes were black, burning with pain.

“Jampόn, how are you?” I welcomed him into his own home.

He was disarrayed, tattered in jerky movements resembling a pumped-up drug user. “Could be better, my friend. Could be better.”

At first I wondered why he was here, backpack on his shoulders, preparing to settle in. I did not want to intrude, so I left it as it was. “What’s up? Is everything all right?”

Jampόn looked at me. His face was pale, his hands shaking as he struggled to take off his shoes. “No, man. Bad. My father.” He paused. “He was killed.” The sentence rippled from his mouth like a bullet piercing flesh.

The words did not register. Never in my life had I been confronted by such a situation. My question arose unconsciously, “What?”

“My father,” he said, standing up on his bare feet. “He was killed in the bank. He was in the bank. Those f@#king robbers killed him.”

Next thing I knew was an encircling of arms. I moved toward him, and he reciprocated, moving toward me. Embracing in silence, I poured a release of comfort and peace into his heart. Then, the next thing he said astounded me.

“¡Pura Vida!” It was smooth and graceful, devoid of all previous pain and fear. His country’s signature healed anger with words.

Four days passed, filled with Jampόn frantically dealing with the process of police reports, papers, identification, burial, family and friends. He underwent the tedious work and all the moments of mourning in a daze, as if a nightmare descended upon his reality. All was done mechanically; out of duty, out of This has to be done, hiding his emotions in the rolled joints coming one after another. More and more, Jampόn’s face drooped with death. I was there for him. I offered my support, and he was grateful. I wondered if he had forgotten ¡Pura Vida! Then, he disappeared.

For the remainder of my stay, I did not see Jampόn again, nor did I hear from him. There was not another “¡Pura Vida!”, only the first ringing in my ears. The only connection received from his presence was through the papers, which reported the tragedy:


“We were waiting in line to do a transaction and I looked at the door. A guy was saying ‘alarma, alarma,’ and the door guard looked scared. There was lots and lots of gunfire.” Dorothy, a U.S. tourist.

“It was the scariest thing in my life. I was thinking, ‘I don’t want to die.’” Beth, a U.S. tourist.

“We saw people running, then there were about 75-80 gunshots and we dove under the desk… Stray bullets shot out the glass in the hotel…. It was a nightmare…” Zoe Koulouris, a tourist from Australia, put it well.


I was back in Santa Elena. It was sunny, warm, slightly humid. Outside Jimenez Bakery, the pages of my newspaper flailed in a breeze and before me the town resurrected. Television crews covered the prompt reopening of the bank; glass replaced, carpets cleaned of bloodstain, and bullet holes plastered over. I thought of Jampόn. Where was he?

Where was he? Where was his father, and the lives that passed? And that peace, where did it go? Where was the ¡Pura Vida! Reality? And what Reality was this? I thought of the memories, the words and the images, but suddenly I didn’t want to. “It was a nightmare…”


Costa Rica, a country without any established military operations. Costa Rica, an ecologically sensitive nation striving toward equality. Costa Rica and ¡Pura Vida!—the phrase depicting a lifestyle. Within the country, traveling upon the shores and in the mountains, life subsisted in a dream-state, lived in harmony. Paths led toward an awakening of the heart where a vast source of Love and acceptance was released, where peace became the manifested reality. It became my reality, through choice, as the seeds of compassion were watered beneath full sails in the sky. There was love, there was peace, and our home of Mother Earth thrived as the Garden of Eden. But then, reality.

In the real world, there is suffering and there is freedom. There is darkness and there is light; the pure life waiting for the traveler—the participant—to choose, to honor, and to live accordingly. Life moves. Realities change. And lying beneath it all is the choice of which perspective to embrace. ¡Pura Vida!

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