How to Fix an Air Conditioner in Costa Rica

I’d like to tell you this story begins with some wild tropical escapade—say, an adventure through the jungle with exotic animals, or a series of thrilling adventures with the locals. But no, it starts, as so many of our more memorable tales do, with something simple. This time it was a puddle of water.

It was an afternoon, humid as usual, and the air was still, heavy with the scent of mangrove and faintly, if you strained, a whiff of the sea. We lived near the beach—well, not on the beach. More precisely, we were set back by a mangrove marsh that constantly hummed with animal sounds: tink frogs tinking, cicadas buzzing, the occasional splashes, and sometimes a surprising commotion that suggests there’s something quite large in that mangrove that we’d just as soon not see up close.

But that afternoon, Kathy was at her desk, not thinking about the mangrove at all. She was diligently working on a project, oblivious to the cool trickle of water beginning to seep across the floor beneath her feet. By the time she noticed the puddle, her toes were soaked, and she sat in disbelief for a moment before sighing.

“Scott,” she called, in the voice she uses when something has gone slightly, but definitely, wrong. The voice that usually involves either a creature of some kind that needs relocating or a small household disaster that might require a run to the hardware store.

She pointed under her desk when I came in. A small lake was forming. The air conditioner, perched high on the wall, was dripping, sending water down the wall in thin rivulets. It had been a reasonably faithful machine up to this point, providing just enough cold air to make the Costa Rica humidity tolerable. But clearly, something had gone amiss. Likely, I thought, the drain tube for condensation was clogged.

So, as with most problems here, it took a bit of coordinated diplomacy. I messaged our landlord in Canada, a friendly fellow named Cyrille. Cyrille promptly contacted Mario, the building manager in Italy. Several minutes later Mario texted me to ask for a photo of the offending air conditioner.

I obliged, taking both photos and a video, just to provide a full cinematic experience. After Mario reviewed the evidence, he sent the report back down the line, requesting Randall to check things out. Randall, at that very moment, was right outside, whacking coconuts out of trees.

For those unfamiliar, knocking coconuts out of trees is a real job here. It’s the only way to prevent these spherical missiles from clobbering unsuspecting tourists who stroll under palm trees. Falling coconuts can really ruin your day. Randall was armed with his long stick and his Tico ingenuity, ready to tackle whatever crisis awaited.

But now, a crisis more important than his coconut duties had arisen, and Randall was now on the case. He arrived with an air of stoic determination, as if to say, “I have dealt with leaky air conditioners before, and I shall deal with them again.” He examined the machine, tapping here and there, squinting thoughtfully at the puddle on the floor as if expecting it to reveal its secrets.

Randall’s conclusion, however, was not especially encouraging. After a pause, he looked at me, shrugged and shook his head, making it clear in the most subtle, wordless way that this situation was beyond his expertise. No, this was a job for a professional.

The thing about the air conditioning technician—like most “specialists” in Costa Rica—is that he isn’t quite on call in the way you might expect in a place like, say, New York or Vancouver. In Costa Rica, things happen when they happen. And in this case, the technician was away visiting family on the other side of the country. He’d be available by next Wednesday, Mario informed us, using a casual tone that suggested next Wednesday could very well mean Thursday, Friday, or even Sunday.

And so, with no other option but to accept our new reality, we prepared for a week without air conditioning. We found ourselves rediscovering old tricks to stay cool: cold showers, strategically placed fans, even soaking our feet in cold water, trying not to long for our now-silent, slightly leaky air conditioner. It was, we convinced ourselves, a rustic experience.

By the following Friday—about as close to Wednesday as we’d expected— Randall finally arrived with Jorge, the air conditioning tech in tow. Jorge brought with him a screwdriver and a short ladder, and Randall brought, well, himself.

Now, Jorge wasn’t what you might picture when you think of a classic technician—no polished tool-belt, no shiny truck with fancy logos. Nope, this guy rode in on a motorcycle straight from the heart of Costa Rican ingenuity, where craftsmanship is learned in a way that resembles a family recipe passed down through generations. You see, in this corner of the world, boys don’t just enrol in trade schools; they shadow their fathers and uncles, soaking up wisdom like a sponge, learning the art of repair through trial and error and using whatever materials they have on hand. So, while he might not have a diploma hanging on the wall, what he did have was a knack for solving problems in a way that was both impressive and, at times, bewilderingly creative.

Randall and Jorge disappeared into the bedroom, and Kathy and I settled down in the living room, waiting with bated breath for the hopeful sounds of successful repairs.

I looked over at Kathy, who raised an eyebrow. “Do you think…?”

“No,” I said, and yet I did.

I got up to investigate. Peeking into the bedroom, I saw our air conditioning tech with his lips wrapped around the drain tube, cheeks puffed out, blowing into it like he was trying to hit a high C. This, apparently, was his strategy to clear the blockage.

After several valiant attempts and several lungfuls of air, Jorge finally set the drain tube down and inspected his handiwork with pride. “Listo,” he said with satisfaction. “It’s ready.”

And just like that, Randall and Jorge were gone, having assured us with a smile that all was well.

That evening, with cautious optimism, we ventured into the bedroom, hoping the ordeal was behind us. And for a few hours, it seemed it was. But, inevitably, we heard a faint dripping sound, followed by the distinct sensation of moisture underfoot. The puddle was back, and now it seemed even more determined than before.

With a sigh, we realized it was time to once again engage the international communication chain. The next day, the building manager in Italy received another photo, and Randall was dispatched once more, this time bringing Jorge along for round two.

Randall and Jorge arrived the next morning armed with a ladder, a screwdriver, and a couple new additions to their toolkit: a formidable concrete hammer drill and a length of thick, clear plastic tubing. It was a bit like watching a surgeon march into an operating room with a chainsaw. They marched confidently through the front door, nodding at Kathy and me like a pair of seasoned pros, and disappeared once more into the bedroom where the beleaguered air conditioner awaited its fate.

Unable to curb my curiosity this time, I followed them into the bedroom, where they were already inspecting the wall with that distinctive look of two men about to embark on an ambitious project. As Randall positioned the ladder under the air conditioner, I ventured my question, trying to sound helpful, if not a little hopeful.

“So, you’ll be routing the hose through the outside wall?” I asked in broken Spanish, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the open window and imagining a modestly discreet tube trailing down the building’s exterior, far from view.

Jorge looked up from his tools, his brow furrowing as he considered my suggestion with what might have been a flash of disdain—although it was hard to tell. He shifted awkwardly, his expression a mix of embarrassment and sheepish honesty. “No, no,” he replied, waving his hand toward the open window. “No es posible.”

“Ah,” I said, trying to process this unexpected setback. “¿Por qué no es posible…?”

It was then that he leaned forward, lowering his voice as though he was sharing a state secret, and murmured, “Tengo miedo a las alturas - I’m afraid of heights” He looked from me to Randall, who nodded solemnly, as if confirming the gravity of this particular limitation.

Not good with heights? This was a revelation. We were, after all, on the third floor, and I’d perhaps assumed that an air conditioner repair technician had made his peace with altitude. But I simply nodded, sympathetic to his plight. “Ah. Right.”

Jorge shrugged, patting his short, steadfast ladder with a look of camaraderie, as if it were an old friend. He tapped his temple with a wink, as if to say, But don’t worry—I’ve got this.

I glanced at Kathy, who was standing in the hallway, her curiosity piqued and her mouth set in a slightly bemused smile. I suspected she could already envision the series of events that were about to unfold.

“Okay then…” I managed, feeling somewhat at a loss. “So, what’s the plan?”

Jorge’s face lit up with a newfound enthusiasm as he explained in Spanish. “Simple! We’ll drill through here”—he tapped a spot on the wall dividing the bedroom from the kitchen—“and take the tube into the kitchen drain. Easier this way, sí?”

The next thing we heard was the thunderous, teeth-rattling roar of the drill biting into the solid concrete bedroom wall, dust swirling as the apartment shook with the force of it. Kathy and I sat nervously in the living room, exchanging a look that said, this is going to get interesting.

Several minutes passed, punctuated by the sporadic whine of the drill and snippets of murmured Spanish. Just as we began to relax again, a loud crash sounded from the kitchen, sending us leaping to our feet. We rushed to the kitchen, where a chunk of concrete the size of a baseball had fallen from the wall, landing directly on the ceramic cooktop with an ominous clatter. Above it, protruding triumphantly from the wall, was the gleaming tip of a drill bit, exactly at eye level, with a dusting of concrete and crumbled plaster scattered around it.

Kathy raised an eyebrow. “Not exactly what I pictured,” she murmured.

I coughed, waving away the dust. “I’d assumed…maybe they’d try to keep the hose path a bit less…prominent.”

But before I could say anything more, Jorge and Randall popped out of the bedroom, looking at us with expressions caught somewhere between embarrassment and sheepish pride, as if they had just revealed a grand, albeit slightly flawed, masterpiece.

“Don’t worry!” Jorge assured us, his grin wide and his eyes gleaming. “Almost done!”

Kathy and I nodded, resigning ourselves to the unfolding reality of our new interior design addition: a clear plastic tube that emerged boldly from the wall above our stove. We watched as Jorge—intent and undeterred—methodically drilled holes through the side of the kitchen cabinets beside the stove, threading the hose through each hole he made. It was almost a ceremony, this delicate process of fishing the hose through the cabinets, where it now coiled gracefully around our pots, wound through a stack of frying pans, and jostled some of the Tupperware along its path.

Jorge gave a pleased nod at his work, his eyes squinting in concentration, as he drilled the final hole just beneath the sink. With a gusto, he maneuvered the last length of the tube through this opening and set about attaching it to the drainpipe under the sink. This part required some finesse, and so he pulled out a tube of silicone and proceeded to glue it to the drain in a thick, enthusiastic glob, stepping back afterward as if he’d just performed a minor miracle.

Kathy and I exchanged a look, taking in the new addition with a mixture of disbelief and a strange sense of wonder. Our once-typical kitchen now had an unexpected guest—a transparent tube that seemed to boast its own personality, winding around corners and snaking through cabinets like some sort of house-trained garden hose.

Jorge cast a furtive glance at Kathy, noting her concern about the state of her domain. It was as if he wanted to reassure her that her beloved kitchen had remained unscathed amidst this make-shift plumbing escapade.

With a flourish that was entirely unrelated to the clear tube’s function, he turned on the kitchen faucet, sending a stream of water gushing down the drain. “See?” he said, with a nervous smile, nodding toward the stream of water pouring out of the faucet.“Your kitchen still works!”

Perhaps he thought that by drawing attention to the running water, he could distract her from the absurdity of a clear plastic hose snaking its way through her kitchen. “Look at the fully functioning faucet!” he seemed to say, “Not at the curious tube emerging from the wall just above your stove!”

But there it was, the tube sitting defiantly, a reminder that our kitchen now had a rather unconventional addition.

Jorge and Randall, clearly pleased with their handiwork, bid us farewell. As they left, we found ourselves standing in the kitchen, looking at the new addition with a mixture of fascination and grudging acceptance. This, it seemed, was going to be part of our home now, a fixture that would become as much a part of our lives as the stove or the fridge.

Later that day, there was a gentle knock at the door. Randall stood there, holding two freshly cut coconuts with straws poking out of them. He handed them to us with a shy smile, a unique peace offering of Costa Rica. We accepted, sipping our coconuts as he looked on, and we nodded our gratitude. No words were needed—sometimes, a fresh coconut speaks louder than words, a small reassuring gesture to say, “we’re still good, right?”

In the weeks that followed, we settled into life with our unexpected kitchen guest. The plastic tube became something of a silent companion, a fixture we’d notice from time to time with a reluctant kind of fondness. Occasionally, I’d wander into the kitchen, catch sight of it dangling there, and feel a mix of amusement and resignation as I watched a thin trickle of water make its way down its clear interior. It had wormed its way into the rhythm of our daily routine, and before long, we found ourselves calling it by a name that stuck: the Kitchen Catheter.

And so, we came to embrace the Kitchen Catheter as one of those little reminders that life, especially in Costa Rica, rarely follows a straight line. It meanders, it surprises, it teaches you to roll with the punches. We stopped noticing the odd placement of the tube above the stove, and after a while, it became a kind of fixture, like an eccentric friend whose peculiar habits you’ve long since stopped questioning.

Costa Rica had once again gifted us a memory, as it always seems to. Life here is an ongoing, unpredictable adventure, and while it might test your patience, it rewards you tenfold in stories, laughs, and little quirks that remind you what it means to truly live in a place.