Meet the Indigenous community who helped shape Costa Rica's environmental awakening

I hesitate before stepping aboard. The canoe looks improbably old — nine metres of flaking green paint — and sits low in the river. One boatman stands at the prow with a bamboo pole, ready to lever us over shallow rapids; the other coaxes the outboard motor into life. Within moments, the tin roofs of civilisation vanish and the jungle closes in.

We take one fork, then another. Wild bananas bow towards the current. Birds skim the surface before dissolving into vine-snagged walls of rock. “Panama,” the ferryman shouts, gesturing towards an invisible border. We’re heading into the Talamanca Mountains in southeastern Costa Rica to spend the day with the Bribri — one of the largest Indigenous groups and guardians of cacao cultivation.

When the boat slows, the forest offers no clue that 350 people live beyond the riverbank. But up a muddy path, Yorkín reveals itself: wooden houses on stilts, palm-thatched roofs, heliconias blazing amid the greenery. “We’re one of 33 Bribri communities here,” says my guide, Prudencio Piterson, as we walk. “Officially, there are 17,000 Bribri people in all Costa Rica. But there are more, uncounted.”

Before the Spanish arrived in the 16th century, Costa Rica was sparsely populated by small Indigenous communities — Boruca, Bribri, Cabécar, Chorotega and Térraba. There are no monumental ruins; their legacy is subtler. Agricultural techniques, reverence for biodiversity and a sophisticated understanding of forest ecosystems have instead filtered into the national psyche.

At the heart of Yorkín stands an open-sided wooden lodge. This is the headquarters of Stibrawpa, a women-led association founded in 1992 after fungal disease devastated the country’s cacao crop. With men leaving to work on pesticide-heavy banana plantations, a group of Bribri women formalised community tourism to stabilise village life.

Inside, toddlers pad between tables strewn with ledgers. The current president, Deysi Pitterson, explains their objectives. “Protect biodiversity. Boost our economy. Strengthen our independence.” Today, around 70% of what Yorkín consumes is grown here — bananas, beans and, crucially, cacao.

Cacao thrives in Costa Rica’s lowlands. Before coffee eclipsed it in the 19th century, it was the country’s leading export and, long before that, a sacred crop for Indigenous communities. We walk to the edge of the forest where cacao trees cluster. Prudencio splits a ripe yellow pod and hands me a bean slick with white pulp. It tastes lychee-sweet. “No machines,” he says. “We do everything by hand.”

The beans are fermented for five days in wooden boxes, then dried in the sun before roasting. Back in the long house, a shy man named Noé Morales demonstrates the final stages. He crushes roasted beans with a stone pestle, winnows away the husks, then feeds the nibs into a hand-cranked press. Thick ribbons of cacao paste emerge, glossy and aromatic. I taste a spoonful. It’s deeper than any chocolate I’ve tried — earthy, smoky. “It’s medicine,” Noé says, listing its qualities: anti-inflammatory, antioxidant, anti-carcinogenic. “To consume it is a gift from the land.”

When I climb back into the canoe, the jungle closes ranks once more. Costa Rica’s environmental revival in the late 20th century is often attributed to visionary policy and eco-tourism strategy — and rightly so. But long before, communities like Yorkín were living in tune with the land. I look back to the village. You would never know it was there, unless invited in.