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THE citizens of Providencia don't see too many tourists.
Tucked out of the way at the bottom of a tarmac road in a green valley, the blink-and-you'll-miss-it hamlet is surrounded on all sides by pristine jungle-covered mountains in the heart of a country that regularly features in top 10 lists of the world's favourite destinations.
But the gringos who flock to Costa Rica tend not to stray far enough from the tourist trail to end up in places like Providencia.
Which is a shame really. Because the locals here are no strangers to the concept of hospitality. Far from it. As we roll into the village on dust-caked mountain bikes, scratched, smelly and hungry after a day of epic jungle descents, we are given the sort of welcome the five-star resorts over on the coast charge serious dollar for.
A dozen grinning, jabbering farmer kids - every one of them wearing shorts and wellies - crowd around us, relieving us of our bikes, like over-enthusiastic valets.
The difference is that they want the bikes to go and play on a makeshift jump they've built. Before we've had a chance to admire their skills (considerable, especially given the footwear), we are being gently ushered into the Flor del Campo bar, handed bottles of ice-cold Imperial beer and sat down in front of heaving plateloads of locally caught trout, refried beans and salad.
The aching in my arms, neck, back, legs, everywhere, fades into a fuzzy glow. More Imperials flow and the sun moves lazily across the sky. If we didn't have to load up the trucks and make it over a high-mountain pass before dark, it would be impossible to tear ourselves away.
This is the other Costa Rica, hidden among the volcanic peaks that run down the centre of this skinny sliver of paradise like an exposed spine.
Rural and isolated, it is a world away from the canopy tours, turtles and tropical reserves that have made the country the international poster child of ecotourism. And if it wasn't for the fact that these mountains are home to a secret network of world-class biking trails, we would have missed it entirely.
It was the promise of singletrack treasure that brought our 11-strong group of riders to Central America.
We are a diverse bunch - nine Canadians, an Aussie and me - with ages ranging from early 20s to late 50s, and an impressive array of day jobs, among them a lawyer, a tugboat captain, two engineers for Canada's second largest crisp manufacturer and an air stewardess who used to be a world windsurfing champion.
But we are united by a serious passion for mountain biking - we all bear the battle scars and stories of horrible crashes to prove it - and we are all here for one thing: the downhill trip of a lifetime.
No uphill slogs, just mile after uncompromising mile of steep, brake- searing descents from 3,000m-plus summits in 35-degree heat through dense jungle, tropical cloudforest and volcanic dust.
The trails are lovingly built and maintained by our lead guide, Paulo Valle, a former national cross-country and downhill champion.
Best of all, their existence is known only to a blessed few. Hidden away on private land, they are only accessible because Paulo has secured access rights from the landowners. The only people who get to ride them, apart from Paulo and his friends, are the clients on this trip.
The highlight of the early rides comes on our third day, when we head out of the sprawling capital San Jose towards Irazu, the highest active volcano in Costa Rica at more than 3,430m.
Its fertile lower slopes are a checkerboard of ripening crops. The top, however, is otherwordly - a wide, flat plain of grey volcanic ash dropping into a crater more than 300m deep and a kilometre across.
The sulphur lake at the bottom is pea green. Our attention, however, is elsewhere.
After a tricky bit of manoeuvring, we find the top of the trail on a nearby peak and drop in. Enclosed and dusty, it cuts through spiky thick bushes before opening on to fast, loose dust like snow.
Blasting down and down and down towards the clouds beneath us in the valley, digging tyres into the turns, struggling to control the drift, I drop into a short gully, wheels going shumpf through the powder. Suddenly, we are racing into another hamlet.
Kids hang over barbed wire fences, yelling 'hola!'. The other guide, Wade Simmons - a pro rider and mountain bike superstar from Vancouver - takes a small detour to ride past and give them high fives.
Over the past eight days, we have seen the real Costa Rica up close, the calm pace of village life, the sense of community and the friendliness that never falters, no matter how dishevelled we roll up.
They have a name for it here: pura vida, the pure life. And they know how to live it.
