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morning to the resort. The streets of San Jose were narrow and rutted, puddled by the daily rain that falls this time of year. Pedestrians and mopeds, dogs and pick-ups squeezed between humble huts, bars, restaurants and shops. It had a third world feel, yet the people seemed healthy, happy and busy. And there was an absence of litter. For some reason, the quality of sanitation seems to say a lot about the quality of a culture. T he rainy Monday morning came early and we were soon in the air heading west. After touching down on the smoothly paved tarmac at the Osa Peninsula, Rick, an American member of the Osa staff, met us, loaded our gear into his SUV and guided us through the town. Once a simple fishing village, Puerto Jimenez has grown quickly due to foreign land purchases and burgeoning tourism. Rick explained that the fishing village had only 400 residents ten years ago but has grown to more than 10,000 now. The Osa Peninsula lies hidden on the Southern Pacific coast of Costa Rica just north of Panama. It's more representative of the primitive picture envisioned when most people conjure up a mental picture of Costa Rica. In fact, Osa Peninsula was named by National Geographic magazine as "one of the most biologically intense places on earth." the streets chatting, watching, working or whiling away the time until November. That's when the billfishermen come. To the Ticos, that means "fishermen who pay a lot of bills." Shortly after our quick tour of the peninsula, we settled into our cabana. Then it was over to the outside bar where we had some frosty mangosas with our hosts, before we grabbed an umbrella and walked through a warm, steady drizzle into downtown Puerto Jimenez. Very much the stereotypical Central American village, the homes and businesses were packed like sardines. The most prevalent retail business was shoes. Lots of shoes. Apparently they do a lot of walking and wish to do it in style. There were also plenty of bars and restaurants, though none were particularly busy. Most of the locals, or Ticos, as they call themselves, were simply hanging out on After strolling along the main thoroughfare, we turned onto a side street where we came upon a small crowd that had stopped to honor a passing funeral procession. Friends and relatives dressed in street clothes marched solemnly past, while others rode in the beds of pickup trucks. Six pallbearers carried the dark wood coffin upon their shoulders. Leading the way was a Mr. Chicken delivery truck, blaring solemn music from a pair of loudspeakers. It is indeed a different world in Costa Rica. After some souvenir shopping, we walked back to the quiet waterfront and sat down for dinner at an open-air restaurant across the brick street from the water. The drizzle had given way to scattered purple clouds, and the orange light of the setting sun painted the fishing boats moored off the SPOR TIN G CL ASSICS 196