10 April 2025
Walk down the streets of Puerto Viejo today and you’ll find boutique hotels, yoga studios, art galleries, and a mix of languages swirling in the sea breeze. But just 25 years ago, the Caribbean coast of Costa Rica was a very different place; quieter, more isolated, and deeply rooted in local rhythms.
In the late 1990s, the region was still considered “off the beaten path” for most travelers. Infrastructure was minimal: roads were mostly dirt, phone lines unreliable, and electricity outages common. Most visitors were backpackers or surfers who came for the waves and stayed for the culture. Small wooden houses and sodas (mom and pop restaurants) dotted the coastline. Life moved slowly. There were no big resorts, and tourism felt personal.
I grew up in Costa Rica—in San José, to be precise—and for most of my life, the Caribbean coast was just a chapter in my high school Social Studies book. There was this unspoken belief among many ticos that the Caribbean was somehow unsafe or distant. I never questioned it much at the time, and I regret that now. I had to wait until just six years ago to finally visit, and when I did, it felt like uncovering a hidden part of my own country—a part bursting with soul, history, music, flavor, and warmth.
I still remember visiting that first time in Puerto Viejo, greeted by the scent of coconut rice in the air and the sound of waves crashing nearby. There was a rhythm to life here that I had never felt before, something magnetic and healing. I felt welcome, even though I was new. And with each visit since, I’ve deepened my appreciation for this region—not just for its beauty, but for the resilience and richness of its people.
The growth of eco-tourism and digital nomadism helped put the South Caribbean on the map. As Costa Rica became known worldwide as a green and safe destination, more travelers began to explore beyond the Central Valley and Pacific coast. Puerto Viejo, Cahuita, Manzanillo, and the surrounding areas saw an increase in foreign investment, boutique accommodations, and tour companies.
Infrastructure improved too: roads were paved, internet became more reliable, and services expanded. With easier access came more development. What was once a sleepy fishing village became a multicultural hub, attracting visitors and settlers from all over the world.
Along with growth came transformation. The blend of Afro-Caribbean, Indigenous Bribri and Cabécar, and European-influenced cultures became even more dynamic. You can hear calypso next to reggaeton, eat coconut rice next to gluten-free pancakes, and find artisan chocolate sold beside imported wine.
However, this fusion also brought challenges. Rising real estate prices pushed some locals out of the housing market. The informal, tight-knit community vibe began to shift as tourism brought more short-term rentals and seasonal visitors. Still, many long-time residents have adapted, opening businesses, running tours, and participating in a growing economy.
With development came the need for conservation. Organizations and locals alike have worked to preserve the region’s biodiversity and cultural heritage. Projects focused on reforestation, wildlife rescue, sustainable tourism, and Indigenous rights have become more visible and more vital.
The tension between preservation and progress continues. Each new hotel or restaurant brings jobs and opportunity but also questions about water use, waste management, and cultural authenticity. It’s a delicate balance.
The next 25 years will likely bring more change but also more awareness. The Caribbean coast is no longer a forgotten corner of Costa Rica. It’s a sought-after destination, a creative hub, and a place where tradition meets innovation. The challenge now is how to grow without losing the spirit that made this coast so special in the first place.
If you’ve been here before, you’ll notice the changes. If it’s your first time, welcome. This is the new Caribbean of Costa Rica: evolving, vibrant, and still full of soul.
