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Expat in Costa Rica: Wildlife paradise in a rockers' retreat - Telegraph:

Costa Rica is paradise unbound. Wild orchids cling to the faces of towering rainforest trees, Scarlet Macaws vocally battle it out with screeching parakeets; everywhere you turn on this tiny strip of land bridging Nicaragua, to the north, and Panama, to the south, you have "a moment". But even royal jewellery collections have the pièce de résistance and without doubt the Osa peninsula, nestled in the southern zone, is Costa Rica's jewel in the crown. However, such exotic treasures often involve a gruelling journey to discover them. Slamming into unavoidable potholes on the unforgiving road, my husband Chris sticks his upper body through the open window in an attempt to place his head under the moving car, and returns with hair like Einstein to report the source of another new rattle. Reaching the Osa is no walk in the park. It is a gruelling nine-hour drive away from the main airport in San Jose. The third member of the party, Mike, is not only our good friend, but also a chiropractor. His skills may come in handy! Turning off the Inter-American Highway, you enter the peninsula and the jungle closes in on you. Gone are the real estate signs, the advertising billboards, in fact gone is civilisation. The scale of the trees around you is indescribable; the tallest British oaks look like saplings in comparison. Wild country: Scarlet Macaws vocally battle it out with screeching parakeets The jungle noise is deafening. Cicadas screech at the top of their voices, multi-coloured birds launch screaming from perches high above our heads and swoop down like flying rainbows. Behind us the tree limbs crash wildly, accompanied by a booming unidentified baritone; looking round, we see a troop of Howler Monkeys. Other highlights of the local wildlife are White-Faced, or Capuchin Monkeys, and the Jesus Christ Lizard, so called because it can skim across water when fleeing from predators. The town of Puerto Jimenez offers the last chance to stock up on fresh fruit and vegetables; it is also the last town with electricity on the peninsula, so buying block ice here is vital if you want to keep food fresh. A quick drive around the village reveals a small fishing community situated on the water's edge. Slowly it is awakening to the benefits that tourists can bring, and day trips through the surrounding forest are on offer. However, we are venturing further south. The area we are heading for is aptly named "Little Germany", purchased about 15 years ago by the German rock band, Die Schlechten Onkel ("The Bad Uncles" in English). The former cattle farm now provides a private haven for these road-weary rockers, their closest associates and friends. Their manager has a house on the land, as does their favourite journalist (whose garden we have commandeered as the site for putting up our tent). Many of the band's groupies followed them here and stayed. The only bar for miles is owned by a flamboyant friend of the Onkels, called Martina. Stepping out of my tent the following morning, I know I have arrived in heaven. If all this had been depicted in a film, you would feel that Hollywood had somehow overdone it. The abundance of animals, plants, beauty and wildness is hard to absorb. Wandering to the beach through a discreetly cut track, we end up running to avoid smelly missiles dropped from overhead monkeys, and find ourselves on a deserted beach with great waves. Chris and Mike paddle out, completely alone - until a towering white Rastafarian emerges from the trees and paddles towards them. Having been warned about the "localism" of surfers in Costa Rica (a jealous guarding of their "territory", and, I can attest, just as acute in Cornwall) the boys keep a respectful distance. But then he shouts: "Get over here, it's nice to have some company!" He is Stevie Smith, a relative newcomer. Having relocated his family from Colorado two years ago, he not only understands the value in the tourist trade, but the importance of protecting this delicate environment. "People are coming, and if we are to preserve the last lowland tropical Pacific rainforest, we must show visitors and new property owners how we live here," he says. Many hope "the Osa" will be declared a protectorate and avoid the unregulated development that has been an issue in many other parts of the country. Expats here have made a sterling effort to keep the area unknown and undeveloped, and owning a large amount of the land means they can exercise control. A fellow camper, who is very "Californian", decided over a bottle of Malbec wine that it was high time she embarked on a life of adventure. "I'm going to stay for two months, and just rough it!" She was confused to find that all these empty houses and tent spots were suddenly booked for the foreseeable future. The message is clear; come here, enjoy - and leave again. I understand how they feel, but can't help thinking that this is just another form of taking all the sun loungers; surely to keep this place secret is to deny the true locals a chance to benefit from it. Stevie says: "Tourists bring money and possibly a better way of life; we are in this together and need to make sure the locals can be part of the abundance." Yet some believe the locals, or ticos, are the people they must guard against. "Costa Ricans just want the money; they will split up the land and sell it to the highest bidder," one long-term resident says. The ticos, who earn an average of just over $1.50 an hour, can be forgiven for wanting to sell up, but it would be a disaster. There is a dire need for the government to step in and declare the Osa a national park. The locals could then benefit in a positive way from the eco tourists. However, the overall feeling at the moment is that the future is in the balance. Like our return journey from here, the road ahead for the Osa is likely to be a rocky one.