In Costa Rica, golfers encounter the wildest sights (and sounds!)

Quiet on the tee? The howler monkeys weren’t having it.

Hidden in the canopy above me, the world’s loudest mammals held their ground, in direct violation of golf etiquette: primates with bad manners and a misleading name. Don’t mind the name. Howler monkeys do not so much howl as bark and growl at a volume disproportionate to their size. Most stand shorter than your putter, but their guttural sounds can be heard for miles. Think mini Chewbaccas with megaphones.

In another setting, a racket in my backswing might have been a nuisance. But this was what I had 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 sights and sounds.

Furthermore, I didn’t really know what to expect, because almost everything I knew about Costa Rica had absolutely nothing to do with golf. I doubt I was alone. For those who’ve never set foot in Costa Rica, the country tends to register like a Wikipedia page, full of rainforests and reefs, waterfalls and waves, friendly locals and an affordable outdoor lifestyle. It’s all true. Little of it involved fairways and greens.

These same characteristics have also made the country a magnet for expats. In the mountainous interior and along the coast, along the road soft drinks – the modest, family-run cafes that serve married plates and fresh juice – straddle yoga studios, surf schools and espresso bars of the kind you might find in Santa Monica. That mix of local and imported foods fuels an economy once powered by agriculture and now largely reliant on ecotourism.

Conservationism doesn’t just help put food on Costa Rican tables. It is also a source of national pride, supported by public policy. The country is about the size of South Carolina and covers about 0.03 percent of the planet’s landmass, yet contains almost 5 percent of its biodiversity. Hunting for sport is not permitted. About a quarter of Costa Rica is set aside as national parks or nature reserves.

Golf also exists, but in small pieces, which makes sense given the numbers. There are only about 2,000 registered golfers out of a population of 5 million, and about a dozen golf courses, some of which are little more than a makeshift backyard. The oldest clubs, such as the Costa Rica Country Club, are clustered around the capital San José. But for most visitors, the game takes place on the northwest coast, around the Papagayo Peninsula, where the fairways share space with the jungle and the ocean.

The peninsula, which overlooks a gulf of the same name, is a mosaic of steep headlands and hidden coves, with resorts sewn into the slopes. The Ocean Course at the Four Seasons winds along coastal cliffs, with chain holes to showcase the views at every turn. You drive from green to tee and arrive at open spaces with breathtaking panoramas.

When I wasn’t on the course, I did what golfers do best between rounds: I lounged, but only long enough to restart for other activities. The Andaz, where I stayed, offers snorkeling, paddle boarding and an eco-zip line through a nature reserve: a trapeze act for wannabe Tarzans. (More to come. Next month, Peninsula Papagayo will cut the ribbon on Papagayo Park, a lifestyle hub equipped with a pump track, pickleball, lap pool, fitness platform and more, all available to guests and residents of the Andaz, the Four Seasons and Nekajui, a Ritz-Carlton Reserve). Another way to tour the treetops is via a treetop walk along wobbly planks and rope ladders. From one of those lofty vantage points, I was finally able to view one of the cacophonous culprits I’d heard on the trail: a howler monkey, lying on a branch. My guide told me that they nibble on fermented fruit most of the day, which relaxes them into a mild perma-buzz, but not so engrossed that they remain mum.

“So they’re loud and lazy, just like my kids,” I said.

But deep inside I felt jealous, not judgmental.

That evening I enjoyed a few cocktails myself. But by morning I was ready to pin it again. A short drive along the coast took me to Reserva Conchal, designed by Robert Trent Jones Jr. that started its life as Lion’s Paw and has retained a beautiful wildness. The trail winds through trees, skirts lakes and borders a mangrove forest that also serves as a wildlife corridor. Iguanas roamed the fairways. Toucans flashed overhead.

My playing partner was the resort’s golf director, Carlos Rojas, who took up golf as a child near the capital and never looked back. Bursting with energy – a vibrancy he attributed to his all-carnivore diet (“No sugar, no carbs,” he said. “I’m never tired”) – he struck me as the joyful embodiment of pure lifepure life, a phrase that serves both as a salutation and as a kind of national slogan. While he eats almost nothing but red meat, Rojas oversees a course that is as green as it seems: reclaimed water, 100 percent organic fertilizer, composting and even T-shirts and ball markers made from recycled coffee grounds.

Golfing in Costa Rica is not widespread, but what does exist fits perfectly with the country’s ethos: small-scale, sustainable, in harmony with nature.

Back at the Andaz that evening, the jungle was full of noise again. From the terrace I listened to the roaring sounds across the canopy – a racket, yes, but strangely soothing nonetheless. They were still chatting at dawn as I strolled back to the Ocean Course for a quick lap before my departure. As I found the fairway on my opening drive, I imagined the sound coming from the trees was jubilant.

I’ll take it over Baba-booey any day.