At the crest of the Continental Divide in Monteverde, I stood between two worlds. On one side, the Pacific Ocean. On the other, the Caribbean Sea. The mist was so thick we couldn’t see either, but that didn’t matter. The moment still carried weight. The divide wasn’t just physical—it was symbolic. This week felt like straddling thresholds: between ecosystems, between cultures, between experience and memory. And like the clouds that drifted between coasts, boundaries became fluid. Things didn’t separate so much as blend.
Monteverde itself is a tangle of contrasts. It’s a tropical region, yet cool. The wind carries moisture in ways that feel almost ethereal, cloaking the canopy in cloud and feeding one of the most biodiverse ecosystems on Earth. That biodiversity isn’t random—it’s structured, layered. In class, we talked about niches: how each species carves out space for itself in a complex system of light, temperature, and competition. The forest is full of these interactions, from leafcutter ants farming fungus to epiphytes living off air and mist. Everything is in relation to something else.
And so were we. At Life Monteverde, a family-run coffee farm focused on sustainability and education, we got a glimpse of how human systems can work with nature—though not always effortlessly. Our group helped bag compost for the farm, part of a closed-loop system that reduces waste and replenishes the soil. Even that small task connected us to the longer ecological cycle—organic material returning to the earth, feeding the next generation of plants.
Life Monteverde doesn’t grow coffee under dense shade, but in open fields dotted with occasional trees that support biological corridors. These help connect habitats and preserve wildlife movement, allowing conservation to function across fragmented landscapes. It’s a living example of the tension and balance between agriculture and biodiversity—a relationship central to both Costa Rica’s land use policies and global climate solutions.
In class, we’ve talked about seasonality and temperature variation—how they shape ecosystems, influence species’ survival, and have even driven past mass extinctions. Today, rising greenhouse gas (GHG) emissions are destabilizing those cycles. Scientists like James Hansen warned us early on, but the path from awareness to action has been complicated. The Kyoto Protocol and Paris Agreement represent international attempts to commit to action, though political leadership has shaped how—and whether—those promises are kept.
We saw those tensions play out in our Mock UN Climate Summit, where each group represented a different country. I spoke on behalf of Thailand, highlighting its dual challenge: it’s a low-lying, flood-prone nation vulnerable to climate impacts, yet also striving to expand renewable energy and adapt economically. Other groups presented for Finland, Mexico, France, Brazil, Vanuatu, the DRC, and New Zealand. Together, we proposed resolutions, negotiated priorities, and voted on global strategies. Though the stakes were imaginary, the disagreements and dilemmas felt very real. There were echoes of the real-world struggle to find unity amid unequal burdens and divergent capabilities.
That theme of connection—and sometimes disconnection—continued into our homestay experience. I lived with a Costa Rican family for several days, and while my Spanish was limited, I had a friend in the same home who helped translate and bridge the gaps. Language wasn’t the only layer—there were cultural rhythms, foods, values, and routines that all required slowing down and observing. We didn’t have to speak the same way to share a meal or a laugh. That experience reminded me that relationships don’t require sameness—they just require effort and openness.
As the week drew to a close, we spent time simply being together: chatting with friends, watching sunsets, reflecting on what we’d experienced. No planned games or structured bonding—just conversation. And those informal moments, too, revealed layers. The way people drifted into and out of different groups, the kinds of topics that emerged, the vulnerability that surfaced as we all began to feel the end approaching.
Now that I’m home, the stillness is a bit jarring. But it’s given me space to reflect.
In these three weeks, I’ve walked through primary rainforest and secondary growth, stood on volcanic rock and fertile farm soil, spoken in classrooms and kitchens, and moved between ecosystems and ideologies. Each experience added another layer to my understanding—not just of Costa Rica, but of Earth itself.
Maybe that’s the greatest lesson the tropics teach: no layer stands alone. Complexity isn’t something to be solved—it’s something to be embraced. Whether it’s fungi decomposing a fallen log, a coffee farmer balancing yields with biodiversity, or a student representing Thailand at a climate summit, the story is the same. The world runs on relationships.
And if we want to protect this world, we must do the same.
Leave a Reply