Nomadic Narrative

“I’ve *never* taken this train before,” said a tall man in his late forties wearing dark jeans and shiny loafers leaning toward two, elderly women dressed in bright, floral blouses and mid-calf length skirts. “I bet you’ve taken it a few times in your life,” he continued. “Oof, a number of times years ago,” said one woman turning a pensive gaze to the tracks.

Costa Rica’s train system has a history stretching back to the late nineteenth century. The first set of tracks linked Alajuela, a city just outside of the capital, to the Atlantic port town of Limón. The Atlantic railroad turned bananas into a main export by quickly moving the perishable fruit from plantations to the coast for export. Twenty years later, in 1910, a Pacific route was built. Train service eventually also traversed the capital of San José.

A legendary workhorse of the transit system, the train moved local agricultural produce (bananas, pineapple, coffee) to export markets and harbors until 1991 when a major earthquake laid the already decaying tracks to rest. Service continued in some parts until 1995. Now, fifteen years later, the tracks are being dusted off and the locomotives set in motion.
There’s something nostalgic about train travel. It’s not the most common mode of transportation these days, and if anything, it always feels like a special treat when you hop aboard ― for all ages.

I waited in line with couples, families, and groups of friends ranging in age from seventeen to seventy for the weekend tourist train to Heredia. The La Nación newspaper announced on Saturday that the train would depart at 10:30 a.m. on Sunday. (Commuter service runs hourly throughout the weekdays.)

When I arrived at the Estación del Ferrocarril al Atlántico, en Barrio La California, there was a white sheet of paper taped to the wall of the station that read: one departure, 11:00 a.m., capacity 250 persons. At least I was early enough to get a seat.

INCOFER (El Instituto Costarricense de Ferrocarriles) staff shuttled passengers to the ticket window and then to a single line. Like most, I bought the round-trip ticket for 1.000 colones. Boarding the train was very orderly even though it was at full capacity. Hard, yellow benches seating two people lined each side of the cabin in opposite directions. Since I was traveling round trip, I would have to travel backwards one way or another, so I grabbed the closest seat.
The horn blows. Ten seconds later the train makes a clumsy lurch forward. A collective “ooh” fills the cabin followed immediately by screeches and screams as the train picks up speed. The horn blows again. Bicyclists and pedestrians stop to wave. Children stand on the seats and wrap their fingers over the open window’s ledge.

I hear people shouting “un puente,” a bridge. I turn my head and see a white steel bridge traversing a deep gulch. When it I was our cabin’s turn to dangle over the river below, screams erupted. “Aye, lindo!” cried the woman next to me.

We passed stretches of farmland and verdant canyons mixed with razor-wire-protected residential and commercial areas. Thirty minutes after the first horn sounded, we arrived at the Heredia train station. Stopping just long enough to let off a handful of people, the train returned with a slightly more subdued enthusiasm to the city center.
Getting there: From the National Museum in downtown San José, follow the pedestrian walkway two blocks to the National Park. Cross the park and follow another pedestrian walkway leading to the train station.