When discussing gentrification on social media, comments pointing fingers at those responsible for this phenomenon on Guanacaste’s coasts often emerge almost simultaneously. One of the “accused” parties is the local population, who are blamed with arguments such as “no one is forced to sell” or “foreigners buy because ticos sell to them.”
How much of this phrase is true, and what nuances does it overlook? We spoke with professionals in sociology and urban planning and took a walk through Sámara beach to understand it.
This property is not for sale
Along a gravel road that looks war-torn, there are newly built luxury homes and others nearing completion. In some areas, the potholes in the road have been patched with debris from the very same constructions.
The neighborhood is called El Canto de los Gavilanes (The Sound of The Hawks), and at the end of the road, a wire gate separates it from a property with forest and pasture where cows and horses graze. We are just one kilometer from downtown Sámara—a prime spot for real estate development.
The sport doesn’t require previous experience
Under the shade of a tree, Javier Armijo, a Nicoyan from a Samareño family who makes a living from tourism in this community, says that he and his cousins have a plan so that the farm does not suffer the same fate as other land in the community: it is sold completely and in a short period of time the families no longer have the money.
Javier Armijo and his cousins proposed a plan to their family that would allow them to develop infrastructure on a quarter of the land and generate profits without having to sell the entire property.Photo: César Arroyo Castro
For this reason, they have come up with the idea of developing a housing project on a quarter of the farm that will generate profits without having to sell it all. The rest of the farm will remain in the hands of the family and some hectares will be used for forest protection.
“Some foreigners had already come offering to buy the entire property. It sounds like a lot of money, but when you do the math based on the amount of land, it’s incredibly cheap. Just 25% of the property would generate about 1,000% of what they had offered for the whole thing,” he explains.
Javier knows this effort is a family revolution—one that is far from the norm in the community or in Guanacaste.
An unequal bargain
The architect and professor at the University of Costa Rica, Pablo Acuña, believes that the phrase “those who sell do so because they want to” is unfair when there is a power imbalance between someone facing underemployment, informality, and limited access to basic services and another person who—taking advantage of Costa Rica’s lack of land value regulations—manipulates the situation to increase its worth.
Repeating that phrase assumes that both parties are on equal footing, but they’re not,” Acuña explains.
Javier has seen this pressure among his neighbors in Sámara—the feeling that they have no choice but to sell, especially when local properties become surrounded by large new developments. They are persuaded to sell with the argument that “it’s going to happen anyway.”
Beyond the pasture, a three-story house stands out among the trees. In that same neighborhood, Javier’s mother sold a piece of land that quickly tripled in value, he says.
“Land prices are very arbitrary. My family has sold certain lots and now these gringos are selling among themselves at incredibly higher prices,” he says.
Sociologist Wendy Molina refers to this phenomenon as the rent gap, which occurs when a developer reaps an inflated profit compared to what the original seller receives.
“What happens is that in contexts where gentrification is already advanced, this rent gap becomes enormous because it plays into speculation. The land is never paid for [to the local seller] at its real value, including its full appreciation,” Molina explains.
Javier has also noticed how property prices change depending on whether the owner is a local or a foreigner.
“I’ve seen that they have different prices, even in how they offer land to a Costa Rican versus a foreigner. They usually try to buy from locals at the lowest possible price because they know they are in need,” says the Nicoyan.
“If a family wants to develop [infrastructure], they should at least have the opportunity to be partners in that development on their own land, rather than their only option being to sell everything and have their children work as bartenders and waiters in a restaurant,” says Javier Armijo.
You’re enslaved to whatever they come to offer you. A Costa Rican could very well say no, but if it’s their only option, that’s where the problem lies,” he points out.
A tourism monoculture
Javier works offering different types of tours in Samara, such as kayaking to Chora Island or sailing on the Ora River in Hojancha. He is grateful for the opportunity that tourism has given him to have a better quality of life, but at the same time he worries that the whole town depends on the same sector.
“The problem is not having decided on tourism. The problem is—why is it the only option? These are hyper-specialized towns that survive solely on tourism. Everything sold here comes from elsewhere; practically nothing is produced locally,” he explains.
On this land, Javier’s grandfather used to grow rice and corn, but the family abandoned agriculture many years ago—a trend that has been replicated across the province and the country.
Lenín Corrales, a specialist at the Climate Action Unit of the Tropical Agricultural Research and Higher Education Center (spanish acronym: CATIE), analyzed data from the Ministry of Agriculture and Livestock (spanish acronym: MAG) and found that between 2016 and 2023, the production of staple grains in Costa Rica dropped by 45%.
“What we’ve seen is that in Guanacaste, for example, rice production has been declining mainly due to public policies,” Corrales explains.
Sociologist Wendy Molina adds that the defunding of the agricultural sector, pressure from the real estate industry, and a family’s economic hardship can all lead to the decision to sell their land.
The limited presence of the state in Sámara is another factor Javier has noticed, and he believes it leaves many families without alternatives.
“If a family wants to stay true to their roots by raising cattle or growing corn, institutions should step in with real support. If a family wants to develop their land, they should at least have the chance to be partners in that development, rather than their only option being to sell everything and put their children to work as bartenders and waiters in a restaurant. That’s what shouldn’t be happening,” he argues.
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