Pura Vida is the most spoken phrase in Costa Rica. Strictly translated, Pura Vida is “Pure Life.” The Google translator will say the two-word phrase means “Awesome.” A bilingual person may tell you it means “The Good Life.” None of those interpretations comes close to really defining exactly what “Pura Vida” is. The closest I can come to explaining the phrase is to say that it represents a way of living together in a kind of harmony that transcends words.

If you have explored my website at all, you know that Carmen and I have become official residents of the Central American nation of Costa Rica. (If you haven’t explored the site, do it now. It’s okay, I’ll wait with the rest of the story until you come back.)

Now, the reasons for this move are many and varied. Actually, it all began on the very first date we ever had. Carmen, a Chilean ballerina, had been living in The United States for over three decades at the time. As we chatted about life, she said to me that someday she wanted to retire to “Someplace Spanish” but not Chile. Having spent my life traveling all over the world in pursuit of whichever documentary I was working on at the moment, the notion of living somewhere other than the U.S. was something I had often considered.

We decided to explore “Spanish” places, and ended up picking Costa Rica first, essentially by accident. Most books about relocating to another country (including my own, Plan A Never Happens), will tell you to explore, go back many times, look around and make sure it is where you want to be. These advisors caution that many people relocate to their “dream country” only to find that they hate it six months later. I completely agree with that very sage advice. I did not follow it.

Within hours of arriving in Costa Rica, watching the sun set over a horizon defined by the clear blue waters of the Pacific Ocean as we sat happily on a pink-sand beach, we knew there was magic in this country. That first ten-day trip was glorious. Every day, as we traveled around to other towns and beaches, we fell more and more in love with the place. Monkeys sleeping lazily in the trees, Iguanas hanging onto the trunks, anteaters walking across the road, wild peacocks walking down the sidewalk. What’s not to love?

But the most notable experience we brought back with us was our interactions with the people of Costa Rica. Happy, friendly, courteous, and sincere. When someone asked us “Como estas?” or as often as not they asked in English “How are You?”, it wasn’t just a pleasantry to be dismissed without an answer. It was, and still is, a genuine question and they really care about the answer. If you say you are not happy about something, they will do whatever they can to rectify the situation.

Which brings me to this story, more than seven years after that first encounter with Costa Rica. Just this week, we were heading to the large town (about 50,000 people) of Liberia to do some shopping. Lest you think of Costa Rica as some kind of “shit-hole country” as one recent moron put it, let me point out that Liberia has a number of “Big Box” and “Warehouse” type stores where we can buy anything you can buy, and even a lot of brands that you can’t in the U.S. Also know that the vast majority of medical equipment in your doctors office and local hospital was made here, as was every single baseball used in the Major League parks of the U.S. A huge percentage of the country is national parks and preserved wild lands, but we also produce more than 99.9% of our electricity from green souces like solar, geothermal, wind and water. The U.S. should follow our lead. But, I digress…

Anyway, we had barely driven out of our home town when our Toyota Fortuner (also a highly capable SUV model not available in the U.S.) decided to chug to a stop on the side of the road. Even though the gas gauge read a quarter tank, there was little doubt in my mind that it was mistaken. So, there we were. Stopped on a hill in a vehicle that wouldn’t restart, and half the vehicle sticking out into the roadway. We broke out our cellphones and began searching for a friend that could help, or a tow-truck that could rescue us.

Within a few minutes, a flatbed work truck lumbers up the hill past us, and pulls off the road. The three occupants clamber out of the truck to investigate our situation. They happily produce a good length of heavy-duty chain, hook their vehicle to ours, and tow us the five kilometers or so to the closest gas station. Then, they insist on waiting while our truck is filled with diesel fuel, to make sure it will start.  If it wouldn’t, they were prepared to tow us to a repair shop even further down the road.

The attendants at the gas station (there is no such thing as self-serve gas pumps here) were eager to check the engine over for us, clean the windows, check the oil, check the tire pressure, and help us get the stubborn diesel running again. It did, with help from these fine gentlemen and they were all genuinely happy that they had been able to help solve our predicament. When I tried to give the owner of the truck that had towed us 20,000 Colones (about $31 U.S) for his trouble and nearly 45 minutes of his time as well as the two men he had with him, he refused, wanting absolutely nothing for his efforts. I literally had to insist, whereupon he finally, and sheepishly, agreed to take no more than half of it.

The simple fact that he had helped someone was enough to make his day. That is my translation of “Pura Vida.”