Eco-Tourism Leaves Print in Costa Rica
By Alex Hutchinson, CanWest News Service

On my first day in Costa Rica, a woman in San José explained to me why bus rides in outlying areas can sometimes take four hours to cover 40 kilometres.

"The geography is so hilly here that the only way to build roads is to dynamite the hills, but now we are all doing eco-tourism," she explained shrugging expressively. "So we're not allowed to dynamite the hills anymore."

It's a national sacrifice that has paid off: Costa Rica is the original eco-tourism success story, the home of innovations like zip-line tours through the rainforest canopy, and a world leader with 25 per cent of its land protected from development.

About 1.7 million tourists visited the tiny country (population four million) in 2006, generating an estimated $1.6 billion US in revenue, more than twice what exports of coffee and bananas bring to the country.

These days, everything from eating lunch to screaming through the woods on an all-terrain vehicle is branded as an eco-experience. But the balance between success and sustainability is a delicate one, and some of the country's most popular attractions now risk being overrun by tourists tripping over each other in their search for solitude and unspoiled natural beauty.

"Costa Rica is known as being the father of eco-tourism, as far as countries go," says Brian Mullis, the president of Sustainable Travel International, a Colorado-based advocacy group. "But since that time, they've lost market share to neighbouring countries like Nicaragua, where there are far fewer tourists, and where it could be argued that the environment at some of the major sites is much more pristine."

My girlfriend and I went to Costa Rica for two weeks in early December, at the tail-end of the rainy season. Even though that's a bit before the tourist high season, which spans the dry months from mid-December to April, we found that some of the "must-see" destinations were disappointingly crowded.

But we also found plenty of places protected by remoteness, bad roads, or arduous hikes, where the wildlife and the landscape were every bit as stunning as at the big destinations. You don't have to veer too far off the beaten tourist track to recapture the original spirit of eco-tourism -- and with a bit of extra planning you can help ensure that your presence doesn't make things worse.

The signs posted at the entrance and along the trails of Manuel Antonio National Park are clear and multilingual: "Do not feed the monkeys!" The problem is bad enough that the authorities have even begun publishing the names and photos of people caught breaking the rule in the local paper.

So perhaps we shouldn't have been surprised when, as we hiked along the park's main trail, an enterprising capuchin monkey jumped on my girlfriend's back and started tugging at the zipper of her backpack. Or when, a few minutes later, a coati (a raccoon-like animal) dashed out of the undergrowth and snatched a packet of cookies literally from my hands.

That was a low point: aside from the negative ecological impact, I was pretty hungry at the time.

Manuel Antonio is the most visited park in Costa Rica. Along with monkeys, there are sloths, iguanas, toucans and more than 350 other species of birds in the rainforest and along the rocky coastline. But the word we heard most often to describe it from travellers and locals in other parts of the country was Disneyland. The narrow trails are so congested that regular traffic jams occur whenever someone stops to contemplate the sadly tame animals.

To its credit, the Costa Rican government is trying to save the park from the perils of its own success. It has capped the number of daily visitors at 600 (800 on weekends and holidays), and the park is closed on Mondays to give the animals a breather.

In contrast, just 40 kilometres south along the coast from Manuel Antonio, we went to a wildlife refuge called Hacienda Baru where the monkeys actually seemed surprised to see us. The difference: a bone-jarring unpaved road that took more than three hours by bus.

We spent about five hours at Hacienda Baru, which is just outside the laid-back surfer town of Dominical, hiking the trails and taking a guided zip-line tour through the rainforest canopy. We saw far more animals than people -- just one group. And our guide showed us how to poke a stick into a termite nest to get a snack (termites have a nutty, almost peanut-butter taste if you crunch them with your teeth, we discovered), and how to use live leaf-cutter ants to suture a cut. It was everything we had hoped Manuel Antonio would be.

We had stumbled on an important fact of Costa Rican travel: the farther south you go, the more unspoiled the surroundings are. In the northern part of the country, heavily developed beach resorts dot both the Pacific and Caribbean coasts. While most airline flights still head to San Jose, in the middle of the country, the airport in Liberia started accepting international flights in 2003, providing even more direct access to the northern resorts.

Instead of going south, you can also go up. We climbed Mount Chirripo, the highest point in the country at more than 3,800 metres, spending the night in a refuge built into the rock two hours below the summit. At the top, on a clear day, you can see both the Pacific Ocean to the west and the Caribbean Sea to the east. Located about three hours southeast of San Jose, it's not too remote -- but the hike to the refuge, advertised in guidebooks as about eight hours one-way (it took us considerably less), keeps the crowds down.

It's not that having other people around is, in itself, bad. In fact, we shared the mountain refuge with about 40 other hikers, mostly Costa Ricans and Germans. Perhaps because it was a self-selected group willing to tackle the long trail, but we found them to be a very friendly bunch, appreciative of their surroundings and respectful of the trails, which were free of garbage and tame wildlife.

The presence of tourists, paradoxically, is often crucial to preserving rainforest and other wilderness. Both Manuel Antonio, in 1972, and Corcovado, in 1975, were declared parks at the last possible moment, with bulldozers and loggers waiting at the threshold. With a little foresight, says Mullis of Sustainable Travel International, it's possible to use your tourist status as a force for good to preserve more wilderness is preserved and to spread the economic benefits among the local community.

Mullis suggests calling ahead to potential lodgings to ask about their sustainability policies. For instance, the Inn at Coyote Mountain uses wind energy, grows its own organic fruits and vegetables and hires all its staff locally.

The prices at upscale eco-lodges might make a sparkling conscience seem like a luxury. But many of the same steps are being taken by less expensive lodges, Mullis says.

And another option is to try community-based tourism: "You can stay with local people for a fraction of the cost of a four-star lodge, and you know that you're contributing to the local economy and keeping money in the country."

After two weeks there, my own advice can be distilled to two basic points.

First: go, if you get the chance. It's beautiful. Second: put in the extra effort to visit places off the usual tourist routes. It may be the only way to keep the Cheeto-starved monkey off your back.