The Ocean Course at Peninsula Papagayo is a seaside spectacle. Right: a heckling howler monkey.
Hidden in the canopy above me, the loudest mammals on the planet were holding forth in full-throated violation of golf etiquette: primates with bad manners and a misleading name. Never mind the moniker. Howler monkeys don't howl so much as bark and growl at a volume disproportionate to their size. Most stand shorter than your putter, but their guttural calls can be heard for miles. Think mini Chewbaccas with megaphones.
In another setting, a racket in my backswing might have been a bother. But this was what I'd hoped for when I booked a tee time in Costa Rica -- a chance to play the game in close contact with nature and all its accompanying sights and sounds.
Beyond that, I wasn't sure what to expect, because pretty much everything I knew of Costa Rica had absolutely nothing to do with golf. I doubt I was alone. For those who have never set foot in Costa Rica, the country tends to register as a Wikipedia page, replete with rain forests and reefs, waterfalls and waves, friendly locals, and an affordable outdoor lifestyle. All of it true. Little of it related to fairways and greens.
Those same features have also made the country a magnet for expats. In the mountainous inland areas and along the coast, roadside sodas -- the humble, family-run cafés that serve up casado plates and fresh fruit juice -- stand astride yoga studios, surf schools, and espresso bars of the kind you might stumble on in Santa Monica. That medley of the local and the imported fuels an economy that was once powered by agriculture and now runs largely on eco-tourism.
Conservationism doesn't just help put food on Costa Rican tables. It's also a source of national pride, supported by public policy. At roughly the size of South Carolina, the country covers about 0.03 percent of the planet's land mass yet contains close to 5 percent of its biodiversity. Hunting for sport is not allowed. Roughly a quarter of Costa Rica has been set aside as national parks or wildlife refuges.
Golf exists, too, but in small slivers, which makes sense given the numbers. There are only about 2,000 registered golfers in a population of 5 million, and roughly a dozen courses, some of which are little more than makeshift backyard layouts. The oldest clubs, such as Costa Rica Country Club, are clustered around the capital city of San José. But for most visitors, the game unfolds on the northwest coast, around Peninsula Papagayo, where the fairways share space with jungle and ocean.
The peninsula, which overlooks a gulf of the same name, is a mosaic of steep headlands and hidden coves, with resorts stitched into the slopes. The Ocean Course at the Four Seasons snakes along coastal bluffs, its holes necklaced to showcase the views at every turn. You drive from green to tee, popping out in clearings with stunning panoramas.
The scenery comes with a cast of local characters. By the time I made the turn, the howlers' morning chorus had died down. Near the clubhouse, though, I saw another type of monkey -- a white-faced capuchin -- conducting a snack raid on someone's unattended cart. Moving through the back side, I watched two bucks, antlers locked, battling for the attention of a doe that looked on with what I could swear was slight embarrassment. An anteater scurried across a railing by the cart path -- a blink-and-you'll-miss-it apparition.