Costa Rica. Just saying the name conjures up images of lush, tropical forest, of pristine, palm-lined beaches, of cheeky monkeys and big, blue butterflies. Ever since the first time I visited Costa Rica over nine years ago, I’ve loved every inch of its natural beauty. There was only one place in the entire country that I avoided like the plague, a tiny black spot on its map of greens and blues. This place was Jacó. In 2004, halfway through my first stroll in downtown Jacó, I could already feel an overwhelming contempt creeping into my system. What I saw disgusted me. I saw an Americanized, hedonistic cesspool; a place for college spring-breakers to get f**ked up without fear of the law; a place for perverted pensioners to find cheap sex, a place of feces-filled waterways, robber-filled
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