Samuel Rojas Fernández is a law school student at the University of Costa Rica.
Costa Rica is often presented as a global model of environmental success. Almost all of its electricity comes from renewable sources, more than one-quarter of its territory is protected, and its international reputation is based on conservation and sustainability. But in many coastal towns and rural communities, this success has had an unforeseen consequence: the gradual displacement of people from places they have long called home.
This process is commonly described as gentrification. Rising property values and new investment transform a location, altering who can afford to live there as daily life becomes increasingly expensive. Only in Costa Rica the dynamic differs from what is typically an urban narrative. Instead of developing primarily in city neighborhoods, the displacement is more visible along the coastline, in forests and in rural areas.
Tourism, conservation and real estate converge in ways that remake communities. While eco-lodges, sustainable resorts and green residential projects attract foreign investment and remote workers earning in dollars, local wages remain tied to a much weaker currency. Over time, housing prices rise, services adapt to the newcomers with higher incomes, and the social fabric that once sustained these areas begins to unravel.
Nowhere is this more evident than in Guanacaste. One-quarter of all new housing construction in Costa Rica in recent years has been in the sparsely populated northwestern province. Between 2020 and 2023, the value of coastal properties increased by as much as 400 percent. Rental markets have followed the same pattern. In towns such as Nosara, apartments of just 200 square feet rent for around $800 a month, while larger units can reach $1,500 — prices far beyond the reach of most local incomes. Vacancy rates have increased, even as local residents face growing difficulties finding affordable housing.
Although there is no official count of how many people across the country have relocated due to the rising cost of housing, surveys conducted by the National University of Costa Rica show widespread concern about the impact of foreign settlement and real estate investment on coastal communities.
This displacement pressure is not due to malice or deliberate exclusion; many of those drawn to Costa Rica are attracted by its environmental values, quality of life and the idea of ethical consumption. Rather, the forces at play are structural. When sustainability is primarily driven by market dynamics, it tends to favor mobility and capital over rootedness. Environmental protection increases land scarcity, scarcity increases value, and increased value attracts wealth.
The upsides are well understood: Foreign investment, especially through large luxury hotel chains, has injected dynamism that is reflected in Costa Rica’s 7.2 percent gross domestic product growth per capita over the past five years. This flow of capital has not only helped the government modernize infrastructure, leading to better roads and services and a revitalized construction industry, but has also served as a showcase for local culture. For many Costa Ricans, this opening has been an economic lifeline; 25 percent of workers are now connected to tourism, and the new residential areas create demand for technical jobs and domestic services. But many of these jobs come with poor working conditions or salaries that don’t match the rising cost of living.
The challenge is in translating macroeconomic success into shared social welfare, and Costa Rica is far from the only country to face it. A broader global shift, often described as planetary gentrification, has placed many once-local real estate markets under similar pressure from financial flows and remote work that outpace national regulation. Across much of Latin America, this transformation has unfolded alongside decades of privatization and deregulation, leaving states with limited tools to manage the social effects.
Without policies that actively protect local access to housing and land, displacement becomes a predictable outcome. But in Costa Rica, governance decisions have reinforced these trends. Environmental regulations are comparatively strong, but housing and land-use policies have lagged. Incentives such as investor residency programs and flexible visa regimes have facilitated extended stays for high-income foreigners, while local residents face rising prices and limited protection against speculation. Conservation is actively enforced, but social inclusion is largely left to market outcomes.
For American readers, this is not a distant or abstract issue. Capital from the United States, the rise of remote work and patterns of sustainable tourism are part of a global system reshaping housing markets. What feels like a responsible lifestyle choice at home can contribute to exclusion elsewhere. Costa Rica highlights this tension precisely because it is widely viewed as a sustainability success story.
The argument here is not that environmental protection is misguided, or that tourism or migration should be curtailed. The answer lies in balance. Sustainability that advances without housing policy, land regulation and meaningful community participation becomes fragile. It safeguards ecosystems while placing strain on the societies that depend on them.
Costa Rica offers a warning rather than an exception. As countries pursue green transitions, they face a choice. Sustainability can be treated as a market opportunity with the expectation that social outcomes will eventually adjust. Or it can be anchored in policies that ensure that environmental gains do not come at the expense of local communities. Without that foundation, sustainability risks becoming a gated garden, carefully preserved, widely admired and increasingly inaccessible to those who once lived within it.
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