Planting Roots in the Green Season: Starting a Sustainable Tourism Project in Costa Rica

When the first heavy May rain finally broke the heat over the Golfo Dulce, the tin roof of my rented cabina rattled like a snare drum. The forest exhaled, frogs started their chorus, and I realized this was going to be home. Back in Ecuador, spring meant jacarandas and city breezes. Here on the Osa Peninsula, “spring” is the start of the green season—afternoons that darken in minutes, and a thousand shades of fresh green by morning. It felt like the right time to plant new roots.

Why I Came—and What I Carried with Me

I spent a decade managing hotels in Quito and the coast, learning how to keep a property running and a team motivated through good seasons and bad ones. But I always felt pulled toward projects that gave more back than they took—community training programs, plastic-free kitchens, animal corridors. After visiting Costa Rica to scope out eco-lodges in late 2023, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to build something here—small, local, careful. By early 2025, I came back with a plan: a low-impact nature retreat near Puerto Jiménez, focused on guided forest walks, community-led cooking classes, and volunteer reforestation days.

I also came with doubts. I’d heard the jokes about Costa Rican bureaucracy (“pura vida… y pura fila”) and I was nervous about investing my savings in a new country. But I wanted to try.

The Visa Maze (and How I Found My Way)

Everyone’s path is different. Mine was the Inversionista (Investor) residency. I set up a small company (an SRL) with a local notary, then put my savings into a piece of secondary forest and a simple build-out—raised-platform cabins, a composting system, solar, a small dock for kayaking. The investment threshold for this category was within reach when I counted land plus the improvements. Pro tip: document everything—purchase contracts, invoices, architectural plans—because you’ll need to show exactly where the money goes.

I hired a Costa Rican immigration lawyer in San José who charged a flat fee and helped organize the stack of papers: apostilled police record from Ecuador, birth certificate, bank statements, and letters about the project’s economic impact. Once we filed, I received a case number that let me stay legally while the application processed. From start to approval took about nine months for friends; mine moved faster—just under seven—but it still felt long. When it came through, I registered with the national health system (Caja), paid my monthly contributions based on declared income, and got my DIMEX card (the residency ID).

Two practical notes:

• While waiting, leaving the country is possible, but coordinate with your lawyer so you don’t trip up your application.
• Opening a personal bank account was difficult before residency. The workaround was a corporate account under the SRL with me as the legal representative. WhatsApp and SINPE Móvil are life here—get set up early.

Finding Home in the Green Season

Puerto Jiménez isn’t big, but it’s lively. In May, mornings start with clear skies and howler monkeys, and by afternoon the clouds roll in with that metallic scent of rain. I rented a one-bedroom cabina for $700/month—simple kitchen, mosquito screens, decent Wi-Fi. A 4x4 isn’t strictly required in town, but once the rains start, dirt roads develop surprise rivers. I bought a used Hilux (pricey, yes) because reliability is cheaper than getting stuck on a muddy hill with guests in the back.

If you’re budgeting, my personal monthly costs look like this:

• Rent: $700 (you can do $500 farther out, $1,000+ for something fancy)
• Groceries and ferias: $350
• Eating out (sodas and the occasional splurge): $150
• Fuel and maintenance: $200–$300
• Phone/Internet: $40–$80
• Caja: varies with income; mine fluctuates between $120–$180

The Permits and the “Why” Behind Them

I used to think permits were barriers. In Costa Rica, many of them make sense when you’re walking a trail in the rain.

• Municipal License: I applied for the patente municipal at the Municipalidad de Golfito, which required my corporate documents, a basic risk plan, and proof of tax registration with Tributación.
• Health Permit: The Ministerio de Salud inspected my kitchen layout and water system and issued the Permiso Sanitario de Funcionamiento. Paper towels, covered bins, separated prep surfaces—details that matter when you’re serving visitors after a muddy hike.
• Fire and Safety: The Bomberos review was straightforward, but I had to add more extinguishers and improve evacuation signage for the cabins.
• Tourism: I’m working toward the ICT’s Certificate for Sustainable Tourism (CST). It’s not mandatory, but the framework has been a compass—measuring water use, hiring local, protecting habitat, and proving it on paper.
• Protected Areas: For any tours into Corcovado National Park, a licensed guide is mandatory, and permits are limited. I partnered with a local guide cooperative instead of trying to do it alone. They know the park by smell and birdsong; I know enough to get out of their way.

Building Something That Belongs

I thought I would build a lodge; what I’m actually building is a set of relationships. My first week, I visited the Cámara de Turismo meeting at the salon comunal. I listened more than I spoke. People remember that. I asked the fishermen what happens to plastic line after storms. I asked the school principal what field trips would make science feel less like a textbook. I asked the elders which plants not to touch after rain.

Two of my best decisions: 1) Hiring a local project manager. He translated “construction” into “culture,” explaining that “ahorita” can mean “in five minutes” or “in a month,” and that if you bring coffee and pan dulce to a meeting, you’ll get twice as far with half the emails. 2) Profit-sharing with a women’s cooking collective that runs our farm-to-table dinners. Guests love it, and the grandmothers love teaching city folks how to make patacones that don’t fall apart.

Sustainability That Doesn’t Stop at the Marketing Brochure

The easy wins were obvious: solar panels, low-flow fixtures, rainwater harvesting, and a composting toilet for the staff area. The hard part was designing for the green season. We elevated the cabins to allow wildlife to pass underneath and used native plants to restore a buffer by the stream. For wastewater, we built a gravel and reed-bed system rather than relying on a basic septic that would overflow in heavy rains. We banned single-use plastics and switched to refill stations, then tracked actual waste produced per guest night. The first month, we averaged 0.8 kg per guest; now we’re down to 0.3.

We set group sizes based on the narrowest trail section to avoid trampling. Guests plant native saplings during our reforestation afternoons, but we cap that too—more holes than maintenance capacity is performative, not helpful. The CST audit criteria pushed me to document all this, not just feel good about it.

The Emotional Weather

May has its tempests and so did I. The day the first big order of materials got delayed by a washed-out bridge, I sat in the truck with rain pounding like a judgment and wondered if I’d made an expensive mistake. There were days I missed my mother’s caldo de pollo and Guayaquil’s noisy traffic. And there was the bank clerk, patient but immovable, asking for the one more signed, stamped, apostilled paper I thought I’d already provided.

But then came the small wins: a staff training where our youngest guide confidently interpreted a troop of spider monkeys for a family from Denmark; the first time an EBAIS nurse recognized me by name when I came for a routine check; a guest who told me she’d never heard the forest “speak” until we stood still in the drizzle and listened for glass frogs. The green season’s evening fireflies felt like the forest’s version of confetti.

Day-to-Day: The Rhythm of Work and Life

Most mornings start before sunrise. I sweep the veranda while the coatis argue in the trees, then walk the trails to check for fallen branches. After breakfast—gallo pinto if I’m lucky—we review the day’s plan: tide times for kayaking, a cooking class at Doña Marta’s home, a beach cleanup if the rain holds. Transportation is a mix of our truck and colectivos; when the road to Carate becomes a river, we adjust. Flexibility isn’t a trait here; it’s an infrastructure requirement.

On Thursdays, I shop at the feria for pineapples, cilantro, and something new to learn—this month it was pejibaye, which suddenly became the star of our vegetarian casado. Saturday afternoons are for fútbol by the airstrip. Even if you don’t play, you cheer. Even if it rains, you finish the match.

Language helps. My Spanish from Ecuador fits just fine, but I’ve learned to soften with “usted,” to love “tuanis,” and to understand that “pura vida” can mean hello, goodbye, thank you, and “we’ll figure it out.”

Healthcare, Safety, and the Boring-but-Important Stuff

Registering with Caja felt symbolic—I’m contributing to the same system my neighbors use. For anything more specialized, I’ve used private clinics in Golfito and, once, a trip to San José to Clínica Bíblica for a shoulder check after an ambitious surf lesson. Tetanus shot? Get it. Boots? Wear them. As for safety, common sense goes a long way: don’t leave gear in cars, carry copies of documents, and respect riptides more than you respect yourself.

What I’d Tell You If We Shared a Coffee Under the Rain

• Build a runway. The green season is lush and beautiful, but bookings can be lighter at first. Keep six months of operating costs in reserve.
• Hire local early. They’ll save you from beginner mistakes and introduce you to the people who actually make things move.
• Start your paperwork before you arrive. Apostilles take longer than you think.
• Design for water. Where it comes from, where it goes, how fast it rises, and how to use less of it. This is the difference between a sustainable lodge and a muddy dream.
• Join the community spaces: Cámara de Turismo, beach cleanups, school fairs. You’ll learn what matters here and be seen not just as a business, but as a neighbor.
• Take the CST seriously. Even if you’re small, the framework keeps you honest.
• Accept the pace. The forest teaches patience. Bureaucracy teaches humility. Both are part of living here.

Closing Thoughts from a Damp, Happy Porch

This May, the rain taps its steady message on the roof: everything grows when it’s ready. The person who arrived months ago thought he needed to build fast; the person writing now is learning to build well. I still send money home and call my parents on Sundays. I still miss ceviche from back in Ecuador. And yet, today I stood with a group of guests under a purple-flowering guarumo while a sudden shower cooled the dust and a scarlet macaw cackled at us like it knew we didn’t belong—and maybe that’s the point. We’re all visitors here, even when we live here, and the best we can do is tread lightly, pay fairly, and listen more than we speak.

If you’re considering this path, I hope the green season finds you too—ready to plant, ready to learn, and ready to get a little muddy.

Best wishes from Puerto Jiménez,