The Real Tamarindo: What Instagram Won't Show You

By Diego Reyes

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I'm going to piss some people off with this one. Good.

Every week someone messages me: "Diego, thinking about moving to Tamarindo, what should I know?" And every week I have the same internal debate: do I tell them the truth, or do I protect their feelings?

Today I'm telling the truth. If you're planning to move here based on Instagram reels of sunset yoga and "laptop lifestyle" content, close this tab now. Go live your fantasy. But if you actually want to know what you're signing up for, keep reading.

The Influencer-to-Reality Pipeline

Here's what brought me here in 2022: I was burned out, recently divorced, and I saw a TikTok of some 28-year-old doing "morning routine in Costa Rica" with a beachfront view and a $6 smoothie. I thought: that could be me.

Four years later, I can tell you exactly what that TikTok didn't show: - The guy was staying in a $350/night Airbnb for a 2-week trip - That smoothie was at a tourist cafe he'll never go to again - He went home to his parents' house in Connecticut a week later

The Tamarindo those people show you doesn't exist. What exists is a mid-tier beach town with serious infrastructure problems, increasing crime, and a cost of living that'll make your savings disappear faster than you planned.

And I say that as someone who's staying.

The Money Reality Check

What Rent Actually Costs (January 2026)

I'm going to give you real numbers because the travel blogs won't:

• Studio: $1,050/month minimum. That's for something dark, inland, probably with loud neighbors.
• 1BR apartment: $1,450/month average. Want AC that works? Add $100-200 to electric.
• 2BR anything decent: $2,300/month. Closer to beach = closer to $3,000.
• House with a pool: $4,000-6,000/month. This is what the influencers are staying in for their "content trips."

And here's the kicker: rents went up 4% this year in USD. While Costa Rica's inflation was basically zero. The Tamarindo tax is real.

The Expenses Nobody Budgets For

• Electricity: Up to $300/month with AC. You WILL use AC. You're from Minnesota, you have no idea what actual humidity feels like.
• The "gringo premium": Add 20-40% to every service. Plumber, electrician, taxi, anything. They see your face, they raise the price.
• Transportation trap: No Uber. Taxis charge what they want. Buying a car? Import taxes double the cost. Renting long-term? $800-1,200/month.
• The replacement cycle: Salt air destroys everything. Your electronics, your clothes, your furniture. Budget for constant replacement.

My hot take: If you don't have $5,000/month minimum and 2 years of savings, you have no business moving here. I've watched too many people go home broke.

What I Wish Someone Had Told Me

The Safety Situation Got Real

I'm not going to sugarcoat this because the real estate agents and tourism boards will.

In July 2025, a Canadian tourist got shot and killed during a home invasion at his Airbnb. He was 40, here on vacation with his girlfriend, staying in a normal residential area near Tamarindo. Someone broke in at night, he went to check what was happening, and they shot him. Fled with cash and a phone.

This wasn't in "the bad part" of town. There is no bad part. It's all the same. Google it if you don't believe me.

Then in November 2025, the U.S. Embassy put out a security alert specifically mentioning vacation rentals. Armed robberies. ATM scams. Property crimes.

My opinion: Tamarindo isn't dangerous like a Central American capital. But it's also not the safe beach paradise the tourism marketing sells you. I lock my doors. I don't walk the beach at night. I don't stay in ground-floor Airbnbs with sliding glass doors. You shouldn't either.

The Beach Is Kind of Gross

I'm sorry. I know this ruins the fantasy. But:

• Horse crap everywhere. Those sunset horseback rides you see on Instagram? The horses don't have designated bathroom areas. It's on the beach. It's in the water.
• Sewage situation. When it rains hard, the sewage system... doesn't work. It goes to the beach. I'm not exaggerating.
• Drug dealers on the main strip. "Smoke? Blow?" Every single night. At first it's sketchy, then it's annoying, then you just stop noticing.
• Crocodiles in the estuary. During rainy season, they enter the ocean. I've seen them. Don't swim near the river mouth.

The beach is still beautiful at sunrise before the horses show up. Time your visits.

The Noise Will Break Type-A People

Costa Rican dogs bark 24/7. This is not an exaggeration. Nobody here trains their dogs, and if you complain, YOU'RE the weird one.

Add to that: - Leaf blowers at 6am (why???) - Construction that never ends - Motorbikes with no mufflers - Roosters (yes, in the middle of town) - Your neighbor's party on a Tuesday

Controversial opinion: If you're sensitive to noise, don't move here. I'm serious. I've watched people have genuine mental health crises over this. Buy earplugs or stay in the US where you can call code enforcement.

The Healthcare Will Terrify You

Closest real hospital: Liberia, 45 minutes away on a good day. For serious emergencies? They helicopter you to San José.

A family I know moved away specifically because: "With young kids, the drive to Liberia for essential healthcare was unsustainable. Anything serious requires an emergency helicopter."

If you have chronic conditions, or kids, or are over 50 with health concerns—seriously think about this. The beach lifestyle is nice until you need a cardiologist.

My take: I'm 41, healthy, no dependents. The risk is acceptable to me. If your situation is different, maybe pick somewhere closer to a city.

The People Situation (Hot Takes Ahead)

Who Actually Lives Here

I'm going to be honest about the demographics because nobody else will:

The 60+ American Retirees (40% of expats) Cashed out, sold the house, living on social security + savings. Nice people, generally. But they go to bed at 9pm, and the restaurant/social scene reflects that. If you're 35 and single, you're going to struggle to find your tribe.

The Young Party Crowd (seasonal) Early 20s, here for 2 weeks to 2 months, drunk by noon, Instagramming their "gap year." They're the ones making noise at 3am and driving up Airbnb prices. You'll hate them.

The "Digital Nomads" (25% of expats) I'm including myself here. Laptop people working from cafes, talking about "passive income" and "location independence." Some are legitimate. Some are running out of savings while pretending they have a business. You'll learn to tell the difference.

The Long-Term Expats (10%) The ones who made it past 2 years. We're cynical, we're skeptical of new arrivals, and we've seen hundreds of people come and go. If you earn our trust, you've got ride-or-die friends. But you have to earn it.

My Controversial Take on the Expat Community

Most people who move here shouldn't.

That's it. That's the take.

I've watched probably 50+ people arrive, full of optimism, ready to "start a new chapter." Within 18 months, 40 of them were gone. Either ran out of money, couldn't handle the chaos, got lonely, or realized the fantasy didn't match reality.

The ones who stayed? They all had: - Real income that didn't depend on "figuring it out" - Flexibility about literally everything - Genuine reasons to leave their old life (not just running from problems) - Realistic expectations about what "paradise" actually means

If you're moving here to escape something—a job you hate, a relationship that ended, a city that bored you—you're going to bring those problems with you. Tamarindo doesn't fix your life. It just relocates your life to a place with worse infrastructure.

What's Actually Good (I'm Not Completely Cynical)

Look, I've been here 4 years. I'm staying. So clearly something works:

The surf is accessible and consistent. I'm not good, but I can paddle out most days and catch something. Try that in most of the US.

The weather is predictable. Hot dry season, hot rainy season. Pick your struggle. But no winter depression, no seasonal clothes, no heating bills.

The community (when you find it) is real. Past the transient layer, there are solid people. Potlucks, surf sessions, people who'll help you move or drive you to the hospital.

The pace is slower. This drives Type-A people crazy. But after agency life in Miami, it's exactly what I needed.

The escape hatch is close. Liberia airport is an hour away. If you need to get to the US fast, you can.

Bottom Line: Should You Do It?

Come if: - You have 2+ years of savings and real income - You can handle chaos, noise, and uncertainty - You're not running FROM something, you're running TO something - You've spent at least a month here already (not 2 weeks) - You're okay with limited healthcare access - You can live without constant convenience

Don't come if: - You have young kids (healthcare, schools, it's tough) - You need everything to work reliably - You're on a tight budget - You want "authentic Costa Rica" (this is a tourist town) - You can't tolerate risk

My final take:

Rent first. At least 3-6 months. Don't buy anything, don't sign anything long-term. Come during green season when it rains every day and half the restaurants close—see what it's REALLY like.

If after all that you still want to be here, you might actually make it.

I'm still not sure if I'm staying forever. But I'm still not leaving either. Figure that out.

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Diego Reyes moved to Costa Rica in 2022 after his divorce and agency burnout in Miami. He runs a small property management business, has lost money on bad deals, trusted the wrong people, and learned everything the hard way. He writes the guides he wished existed when he moved—because nobody protected him.

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More uncomfortable truths: Why Most Expats Go Home | Scams Every New Gringo Falls For | The Real Cost (Not Instagram Version)