Close Call in Costa Rica

Lately, my posts have leaned a little heavy, so I figured it’s time for something lighter—like the one time my best friend and I were nearly kidnapped in Costa Rica.

For starters, perhaps some context: I’d been traveling for a few months in Central America when one of my best friends, Breana, suggested we meet up in Costa Rica. I was thrilled, especially since this would be her first international trip arriving solo. This considered, I wanted her to feel safe and secure, keeping in mind that my tolerance for danger, or neglect for concern rather, may differ from hers.

My own arrival to this Costa Rican destination was a bit rocky as outlined in my previous post: Missed stop in the Jungle. Needless to say, when Bre was getting ready to arrive, I tracked her location as though my life depended on it. She arrived safely to welcoming, loving arms (mine).

On her very first day, we crossed paths with a man in the street who had a calm, easygoing vibe. We got to talking and agreed to a humble trade– a few beers on me for some herb. Nothing more than a friendly transaction.

It was the rainy season, with frequent jungle showers during the late-afternoon. She and I had just wrapped up our meal and set back to our hostel when it began to down pour. Only being a mile from home, this wasn’t too large a concern for us – an afternoon walk surrounded by jungle, just a ways past a tree-hidden shoreline is not the worst place to be. We ambled down the rocky, unpaved and puddled two lane road, as Tuk Tuk’s (small, golf-cart-adjacent vehicles) passed us by every so often. We continued on, gradually becoming drenched by the rain, when the tradesman from the previous day spotted us and slowed down, motioning my friend and I inside the car as he made his way.

She and I explained that we didn’t have cash for the ride, but appreciated the offer. The man quickly assured us that the ride was free to us, as recent friends. My actual friend and I looked at each other for reassurance, then decided to get in. I pointed in the direction of our hostel and told him we stayed a rough distance of two kilometers away (Southeast of town center, following the coastline). He happily agreed to transport us.

*Our lodging was in between Punta Uva and Puerto Viejo, and we were being driven outside of Puerto Viejo in the opposite direction (Northwest) towards Parque Nacional Cahuita*

Worth mentioning: Our Spanish was barely functional, and his English wasn’t exactly winning any awards either.

In the car we began to catch up, exchanging Spanglish and a few laughs. He quickly mentioned that before taking us home, he needed to fill up with gas because he was about to run out. He claimed the station to be very close, just a quick loop around and we will be heading in the right direction. Initially, we saw no issue with this, as we weren’t in any particular hurry, and didn’t mind the free ride. He began to drive the opposite direction of our hostel towards the alleged gas station (Northwest of town center, following the coastline).

We had been driving down the two lane road for nearly a mile, no infrastructure, just jungle on either side, when Bre nudged me in discomfort, in a hush she said to me that we felt a bit far from town center. I agreed with her concern, and asked the driver how much further it would be to the station. Again, he assured us that the gas station was very close – not to worry. She and I looked at each other again, willing to give him a chance. Time seemed to move in slow motion.

Time dragged on until she finally shot me a wide-eyed glance, her jaw clenched. In a whisper sharp as a scream, “Look at his gas tank, I’m going to jump out of this fucking car!”. I looked at the needle of the gas meter and my heart dropped. The tank was just over a quarter full—more than enough to get us home from where we were originally picked up.

At this moment we were a rough three miles from our original pickup point, and four miles from the hostel. I firmly agreed on her readiness to jump out of the moving vehicle, but first threw out a hail mary pass by screaming at him in the best Spanglish I could muster. I hit him with a mirror stare and death grip on the shoulder, then dropped the line—something like, “NO ME SIENTO SEGURA, pull over AHORA!”, and the energy hastily shifted.

At first he was startled, then quickly, he began to argue with me in Spanish. My patience had run out. With a firmer grip on his shoulder and a string of frantic words spilling out of my mouth, he eased the car to the side of the road. The sun had disappeared by then, and we found ourselves alone– just the two of us and this strange man on a still jungle highway in Costa Rica, dense foliage from both sides and not a vehicle in sight.

My friend and I hurried out of the car. I stood near the driver's side and she was quick to join me. I couldn’t tell you the phrasing, but at some point in this moment I was pounding my own fist into my other hand and shoving it in his face like some kind of vague threat to…throw down?

Who knows what I was thinking, but he suddenly became wounded and dramatic afterwards – protesting that he really was ‘just a good guy’, that he was angry with us for not trusting him, and insisting that we get back in the car with him. He mockingly declared that he would come back to pick us up after getting gas since we were so afraid.

Neither Bre nor myself were about to step foot back in his car, regardless of the temper tantrum, and the interaction ended harshly with him speeding off, leaving us to the dark jungle road four miles from home.

We felt relieved to be out of that godforsaken tuk tuk, but back on edge in the presence of the humbling, mysterious darkness of the jungle surrounding us. We paced in the direction of our hostel once again, knowing a few miles of this dark trek were ahead.

For a visual — the same highway during the daytime

Minutes later, a beam of headlights appeared in the distance, traveling our direction. We waved it down, hoping for a ride back to town. Luckily, Bre dug up some forgotten cash from the bottom of her purse—just enough to catch a ride back with what we hoped was a more dependable driver.

Needless to say, we made it back safely that night, and now look back on the experience with both humor and great concern. Was he really going to the gas station that night? I guess we will never know.

Thank you for reading. This story is dedicated to my best friend Breana who I love dearly — so grateful to adventure with you.

Calles de Cartagena