Friends in Wild Places: A Taxi Ride Through Samara

There’s something about Costa Rica that makes you forget about the separation between humans and nature. In most places I’ve lived, there are distinct boundaries—fences, walls, windows that we look out of as if to say, “You stay there. We’ll stay here.” But not in the rural village of Samara. Here, nature and people exist in a constant dance, moving together in a rhythm that feels ancient, like something passed down for generations. It’s a place where animals don’t just live near you—they live with you. And the locals, or Ticos as they call themselves, wouldn’t have it any other way.

We learned this firsthand shortly after arriving. There was this crocodile that had claimed a shallow river as his territory, right under the bridge that crossed the road along the beach. This river meandered its way from the jungle, across the sand, and emptied itself into the Pacific. It was a perfect spot for a crocodile, I suppose. There were always fish to snap up, and if the ocean got too rough, the river was a quiet sanctuary.

Locals would mention the croc in passing, usually after telling us where to get the best coffee or which Frutería had the freshest mangos. “Oh, and watch out for the croc under the bridge,” they’d say, as if it was an afterthought.

You’d think having a prehistoric predator lurking nearby would put a damper on things, but no. In fact, the local parents didn’t seem particularly bothered by it. Kids would play in the shallow pools of water that gathered in the river, just a few meters from the bridge where the crocodile made his home. These weren’t teenagers who could sprint to safety either—these were toddlers, ankle-deep, splashing and giggling while their parents sat nearby, chatting as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

Kathy and I, meanwhile, would watch from a distance, cringing as we imagined the croc’s eyes just barely breaking the water’s surface, eyeing the scene like it was some sort of buffet. But the parents never seemed to worry. Perhaps they knew something we didn’t. Maybe it was that same sense of peace with nature that ran through the veins of every Tico we met. I’d like to think it was some kind of unspoken agreement between the crocodile and the community: I’ll stick to my pools if you stick to yours.

But the most remarkable part of living in Samara wasn’t just the casual coexistence with wildlife—it was the stories the locals told about their relationships with these animals. None more so than Alex, a local taxi driver who quickly became one of my favourite characters during our time in Samara.

I met Alex on one of those hot humid mornings that make you question why you ever leave the house. Our car was in the mechanic’s shop again, for what felt like the hundredth time. I’d gone out to buy groceries and, having walked what felt like a mile too far, I decided that carrying my bags home through the heat was a level of self-torture I wasn’t quite prepared for. That’s when I saw Alex.

He was parked at the curb, leaning on the driver’s side door of his weathered ancient Toyota, casually sipping a soda. His taxi was one of a handful parked near the crossroads in town—a spot unofficially reserved for cabs. It was a lineup of dented, sun-faded cars, each with a story of their own. I approached Alex, more out of desperation than confidence.

“Cuánto hasta Playa Carrillo?” I asked, waving toward the far end of Playa Samara, where Kathy and I had rented an apartment. Alex squinted up at me, the way people do when they’re weighing your desperation against how much they think you might pay.

We haggled lazily for a moment before agreeing on 5000 colones—about $7 US, which seemed fair enough considering I was about to melt into the sidewalk. I loaded my groceries into the trunk, opened the passenger door, and waited a beat while Alex swiped a few empty soda bottles off the seat and onto the floor. Once I managed to wedge myself in, I noticed that the seatbelt was hopelessly rusted in place. I gave it a couple of tugs before deciding that Costa Rica was the kind of place where you took your chances, seatbelt or no seatbelt.

But then, just as I was settling into the hum of the old car and the warm breeze from the open window, Alex started talking about his friends. Not his human friends, mind you—his animal friends. And the tales that followed were something out of a jungle fable.

“I have two crocodiles that I feed,” Alex said casually, as if we were talking about a couple of stray cats. “Lucho and Lola. They live down by the river.” He waved a hand toward the beach, as if to show me their general direction.

I raised an eyebrow, half-expecting him to laugh and admit he was joking, but Alex wasn’t done. “I feed them chickens. They come when I call their names,” he said, glancing over to check if I was still following.

“Of course they do,” I muttered under my breath, doing my best not to sound too skeptical.

“And then there’s Pepe,” Alex continued, completely unfazed by my lack of belief. “Pepe is a coati,” he explained.

Coatis are these mischievous little creatures that look like raccoons who’ve decided to become bandits. They’ve got long snouts and tails that stick straight up in the air, and they’re always on the hunt for something to get into. They’re clever, curious, and have a knack for finding trouble.

I couldn’t help but laugh. It was too ridiculous, too charming, not to enjoy. But Alex must have sensed my disbelief because, like a proud parent eager to prove his kid’s latest achievement, he pulled out his phone and showed me a photo. And there was Pepe, sitting right where I was now, in the very front seat of Alex’s cab, his little snout poking out the window, eyes half-closed in pure, undeniable bliss. The look on Alex’s face was that of someone who’d just been told they were the king of the jungle—utterly content and utterly smug.

I didn’t have time to fully process Pepe before Alex hit me with his grand finale. “Then, there’s the black panther.”

At this point, I just sat back and let it wash over me.

Alex leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper, as if we were swapping campfire stories in the dead of night. “Every night, at midnight, the panther comes to my door,” he said, with just the right pause to let the words sink in. My mind immediately conjured a shadowy figure pacing through the jungle, eyes gleaming in the dark, gliding through the trees like some nocturnal ghost. “I feed him a little something,” he continued, drawing out the sentence as if the next part was a secret only a few were privileged to know. I half-expected him to glance around to make sure no one else was listening. “And sometimes, if he’s in a good mood, I let him into the house.”

He let that statement hang in the air, and I felt my grip on the armrest tighten just a little. “But only if he’s in a good mood,” Alex added, with a shrug so casual it almost felt dangerous. “Panthers can be moody, you know.”

Of course, they can.

I wasn’t sure what was more alarming—the idea that a wild panther showed up for a midnight snack like a regular visitor, or the fact that Alex seemed to know the feline’s mood swings well enough to decide whether or not it could enter his home. Either way, I was now picturing this full-grown predator lounging on Alex’s couch, watching late-night TV while Alex decided whether it was a “panther’s in a good mood” kind of evening.

As we pulled up to the condo, Alex finished his story with a satisfied grin, like a fisherman who knows he’s got his catch on the line. I sat there, shuffling my feet amongst empty soda bottles, wondering if I’d just been treated to the Costa Rican version of “Tourist Tales for Tips”. Maybe there’s a whole underground taxi driver economy based on how many wild animal friends you can convince tourists you have. Extra 2,000 colones if you throw in a panther, right?

Still, whether or not Alex was a master storyteller or Costa Rica’s version of Doctor Doolittle, I found myself handing over a generous tip. It wasn’t just for the ride; it was for the entertainment, the sheer audacity of it all. I waved him off, part of me half-expecting to see Pepe the coati pop up in the passenger seat. Alex had earned his tip.

Was any of it true? I’ll never know. But here in Samara, it almost doesn’t matter. In a place where people and nature live side by side, maybe the line between reality and fantasy is a little more flexible than we’re used to.

And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.

It’s the truth if you want to believe it.