Insect-Inside

Despite the fact that they are the dominant life form on this planet, most of us are not particularly fond of insects. They have too many eyes, too many legs and are generally unpleasant to look at. Buzzing bugs zipping past our ears tend to elicit a duck-and-cover response. An unhealthy fear of insects, known as entomophobia, is an extremely common trait. "Entomophobia" is derived from the Greek entomos, meaning "insect", and phobos, meaning, "Get it the hell off of me!" Many of us have experienced this sort of instinctive response at least once in our lives. For others, it is a lifelong obsession. My sister, for example, has an arachnophobia so intense that she is completely unable to enter a room with a spider in it until someone has smashed it into a bloody pulp with a full 32 volume set of Encyclopedia Britannica. This happens to be somewhat endearing, though difficult to clean up. If the thought of creepy crawlies underfoot, overhead or in your bed is of general concern, I don't know that I can recommend Costa Rica as a travel destination. Of the estimated 505,000 species of insect that call this country home, I think I found about 493,000 of them in my bedroom.

I spent the remainder of my time in-county hiking solo around the rainforest that surrounded Luna Lodge. The howler monkeys would wake me around 5:00AM, whereupon I would lay reading in a hammock until breakfast, then lace up my boots and trudge off into the wild. I encountered many fascinating sights. At one point I stood dumbfounded and watched a group of leaves, wobbling and waving, walk vertically down the side of a tree. This seemed impossible, but then again, I have seen the Magical Goat Trees of Morocco, so all bets were off. I rubbed my eyes until I saw twice as many leaves doing the Fantasia Dance down the side of the tree, but they weren't imaginary. I have seen many leaves in my time, but never one with the safety-conscious motivation to carefully see itself down to the forest floor. On closer inspection the mystery was solved. Columns of barbarous leaf-cutter ants were victoriously hauling their plunder back to their nest.

Ants have always fascinated me. As a child I would lovingly torch the little buggers to death with a lighter and a can of hairspray. After dropping the pyromania in my early teens, I began to appreciate their more subtle qualities. The organizational skills they instinctively possess are admirable, and their colony structure reveals an impressive social hierarchy. More advanced species are often found performing incredible feats, such as building bridges and ladders from their own bodies, or eliciting real emotion from the audience during a midsummer production of Mac Beth. I was lucky enough to encounter several battalions of army ants during my visit. Army ants are vicious. In addition to raiding other ant colonies for slaves, they are carnivorous. Up to four hundred thousand at a time raid en masse, an inky river of death that devours everything in its path. I managed to avoid the carnage by pulling my socks up over the cuff of my pants, though I still got bit a few times. In retrospect maybe I shouldn't have tried swimming in that particular river.

On my final night at Luna Lodge, I was enjoying dinner with a few of the other guests when one of the women let out a little shriek and jumped back from the table. Our attention was quickly diverted to a most unexpected guest. At the far end of the table slithered a young boa constrictor. Since boas are not particularly dangerous snakes to begin with, and this one was rather small, we left him there while we finished our meal. He eventually constricted, then ate, a delicious baked potato before slithering off into the night. Fare thee well Costa Rica, I shall return.

Here (and there, and there!) There Be Monsters

National Geographic once called Corcovado National Park "the most biologically intense place on Earth". When assessing the competition, its marvelous array of flora and fauna managed to edge out the Galapagos, the Amazon basin and a particularly seedy Detroit health clinic. Corcovado is home to over 500 different species of trees, 140 species of mammals, 400 species of birds, 116 reptile and amphibian species, 40 species of fish, and, for a little while, at least one Wandering Jew. This high level of biological diversity can easily be attributed to the thirteen major ecosystems that exist within the park, including montane forest, cloud forest, jolillo forest, prairie forest, alluvial plains forest, swamp forest and Forest Whitaker. Not surprisingly, Corcovado is widely considered the crown jewel in Costa Rica's extensive national park system.

Though tourism has ramped up over the last few years, the remoteness of the park still keeps day-trekkers at bay. I had already survived a puddle-jumper flight and braved remote roads, but I still had not made it to the park entrance. The most dangerous challenge was yet to come. Walking down a hot and humid beach. Scary, I know. It gives me sunburn just thinking about it. No roads lead into this particular park and no buses crammed with sunburnt tourists ply its shores. In fact, Corcovado is only accessible by hiking a few kilometers down the shore at low tide. Misjudge the timing and you will end up swimming there. Since I was unfamiliar with the tide schedule, I thought it best to allow a guide to show me the way. This was bit of an ego deflator since I prefer to do these things by myself, but the lodge had someone available. Thankfully it ended up being a very small group, just me and two other people. Unfortunately they were honeymooners, so I landed the plum role of the third wheel.

Hiking through the park was beyond spectacular. I saw more wildlife in a single hike then I have seen in the previous five years of hiking combined. It was like hiking through a zoo, only the animals were not in cages and you had a much higher chance of getting mauled by a hungry cougar. There was still cotton candy though. It turned out that hiking with a guide was incredibly informative. For example, I learned that there is not one, not two, but three different species of monkey that will throw poo at you. The variety and abundance of wildlife was shocking. Every time I took a step, the ground literally jumped to life. Lizards dashed, frogs hopped, insects took flight. We spotted anteaters, coatis, hermit crabs, land crabs, tiny frogs, giant spiders, hawks, macaws, pelicans, toucans, howler monkeys, spider monkeys, capuchin monkeys, bats, iguanas, salamanders, skinks, and lots and lots of coconuts. My favorite was the Jesus Lizard, which can literally walk on water and presumably tastes better than a communion wafer.

There are several trails that wind their way through the park, mostly through dense jungle. We took a coastal track where several rivers needed to be forded. We eventually stopped at the Rio Sirena, the largest and most dangerous of the river crossings. At high tide it is not only full of crocodiles, but sharks and stingrays swim upstream through the estuary. The full hike, which I am sorry to say I did not do, takes four full days and covers about 60 kilometers. I would love to head back and give it a go, so if anyone would like to join me for that particular adventure, please let me know. Despite all the threats--sharks, crocks, poisonous snakes, jaguars, peccaries, ocelots, and poo-flinging monkeys--the most dangerous of all is an unexpectedly stealthy killer, the dastardly coconut. As it turns out, falling coconuts kill more people in the park every year than wildlife does. They drop silently from the trees, splitting heads and spilling innocent blood. Damn you coconuts, damn you.

Say Hello to My Little Fiend

I hesitate to use the word airport to describe a lone gravel runway with a windsock for a control tower and a cemetery for a terminal, but there I was, at the Puerto Jimenez Airport. Despite my displeasure with this obvious non-de plume, I had little chance of arguing the point given my limited Spanish vocabulary and the fact that the security guard was a howler monkey. Sorry...I know I should avoid meaningless hyperbole like that. There were no security guards. Besides, given the proximity of the cemetery, I had a feeling I knew how they might deal with complaints. Satisfied with having survived the flight intact, I left the airfield by vaulting over a chain link fence and caught the first cab out of town.

Ominous clouds gathered on the horizon as we began the two-hour journey to Luna Lodge, my base camp while I explored the surrounding jungle. Late May is the start of the rainy season in Costa Rica and it looked like Nature was not about to disappoint. After an hour of quiet introspection I grew tired of my own oppressive thoughts and decided to strike up a conversation with the driver:

Me: "¿Que es su nombre?" Translation

Guy: "¿Usted habla español?" Translation

Me: "Una poco, sí" Translation

Guy: "Excelente. Mi nombre es José. ¿De dónde es usted?" Translation

Me: "Colorado" Translation

Guy: "Ah, Colorado! Eso es una coincidencia. El dueño de la casa de campo es de Colorado. Ahora he estado ayudando a clientes de la impulsión a la casa de campo por varios años. Consigo satisfacer a muchos de gente interesante. ¿Usted ha estado a Costa Rica antes?" Translation

Me: "Uhhhh..." Translation

Guy: "¿Usted no tiene absolutamente ninguna idea qué estoy diciendo, usted?" Translation

Me: "Ummm...¿Desee sentir mi burrito?" What I Thought I Said
What I Actually Said

Guy: "Pare el hablar con mí, por favor." Translation

We continued the drive in silence, pausing on occasion to observe a number of interesting birds. About halfway through our ride the sad sky split open and let loose a torrent of tears. Costa Rican rain is a completely different breed. It does not leisurely fall in drops, as one might expect. Instead it hurtles, speeding through the air like liquid bullets. Sheets of it rush towards the ground as if shot from a cannon. Tilt your head towards the sky with an open mouth during a daily storm and you are liable to drown in it. I would have issued a sarcastic quip to the driver along these lines but it appeared we were no longer on speaking terms.

The tires of the old Land Rover sprayed mud across the rutted dirt road as we trundled through axel swallowing potholes and deepening streams. Water coursed down the windshield, only to be smeared by torn and battered wipers. The foliage got progressively dense and began to encroach on the road. The rainforest was certainly living up to its namesake. Despite the downpour the verdant jungle was all around us, vibrant with life. I smiled inwardly. Outwardly I belched, just for good measure. As we got closer to our destination the rain began to ease, then stopped completely.

Luna Lodge was a lot nicer than my typical choice of accommodation but it was the last stop on the road before Corcovado. In fact, it was the last stop on the road altogether. There were no towns nearby, nor shops or fruit stands. Just long stretches of empty beach bordering a dense and bewildering jungle. We were on the edge of nowhere. The lodge was truly spectacular though, and nestled perfectly into its surroundings. A massive wooden deck rested high up in the canopy, where simple but elegant meals were served. My room was spacious and comfortable, with large screened windows to keep the bugs in. There was even a flushable toilet, though you were asked to place your soiled paper in a wastebasket so as not to plug up the pipes. To be safe, I just balled it all up and put it under my pillow, confident that the Fecal Fairy would do her thing. I cannot even begin to express the utter disappointment and loss of innocence I experienced when I learned it was the cleaning staff that picked up after me.

As I settled in for my first night, I spied some movement out of the corner of my eye. Sitting there, precariously balanced on the edge of a Bird of Paradise in a vase next to my bed, was a tiny lizard. Curious about my discovery, I plucked a winged termite off an opposing wall and placed it on the wall closest the vase. In a blur of movement the lizard leaped from the plant, dashed forward and nabbed the termite from behind. A few bites later the satisfied lizard hopped back onto his perch. It was an amazing sight.

In the middle of the night I awoke with a start, feeling the pressure in my bladder. Blindly reaching for the headlamp I had left on the nightstand, I accidentally knocked over a glass of water. The glass tumbled into the nearby vase, knocking it over and startling me with a splash. I grumbled at my misfortune, groped for my headlamp and flipped the switch. There was water everywhere but luckily nothing had broken. I took a step and then froze. The lizard, which I had completely forgotten about at this point, was right next to my foot, frozen in the beam of my headlamp. Careful not to step on him, I picked up the vase and fixed the flowers. Since I have lost a bit of my sanity over the preceding year, I carefully described what I was doing so the lizard wouldn't be frightened. While comforting a tiny lizard in the middle of the night may sound strange to some of you, this sort of random occurrence has become commonplace in my world. "Okay buddy, time to get back on your plant," I said, and lowered a palm to the floor. Now most of you will begin to doubt the veracity of the story at this point, but I promise it is true.

I swear to Christ, Buddha, Vishnu, Zeus, C-3PO, or whatever other deity you bow before that the lizard hopped onto my palm. I was so shocked, that when he scurried up my arm onto my shoulder and around to my back, that my body instinctively jerked and I accidentally sent him sailing towards the floor. He was thankfully unhurt. Once again I bent down and extended my hand. This time he hopped into my palm and stayed there. I slowly stood back up and walked over to the vase. He was light as a feather but I could still feel the pads of his tiny feet on my skin. Holding my hand towards the Bird of Paradise, he skillfully jumped back onto his perch. I stood amazed for several minutes before remembering how badly I needed to pee. After relieving myself I lay back in bed and spent a few more minutes looking at my new friend before turning off my light. I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings.

Cry The Friendly Skies

The Osa peninsula of Costa Rica contains one of the last stretches of primary lowland rainforest on earth. By definition, a primary rainforest has never been cut down and reforested. This lends itself to an absurd level of biological diversity, not unlike the contents of my refrigerator. In contrast, secondary rainforests grow where the primary rainforest has been destroyed either by man or natural disaster. While still biologically diverse, secondary rainforests typically have a greater representation of non-native species. This devolution continues until most of the primary and secondary rainforest has been completely displaced by a Rainforest Cafe. On the plus side, they make delicious coconut prawns and there is plenty of level parking.

I decided to explore this bastion of unspoiled wilderness before it was gone for good. My specific destination: Corcovado National Park. As is often the case, the journey is half the trip. Getting to the Osa from Denver takes two full days of travel, and I was going it alone. After landing in San Jose the passengers deplaned directly onto the tarmac. The humidity hit me in the face like a wet mop, and my clothes were soon drenched in sweat. My pores opened up so wide that a small bird flew out of my beard. God knows how long he had been in there, but at least now I know why I always wake up with the taste of eggs in my mouth. I spent the night in an unremarkable pension in a small town on the outskirts of the city.

Those who know me best are aware that I have a slight phobia when it comes to flying. I get anxious, my palms get sweaty, and my stomach knots up. It is not so much a fear of flying as a fear of plummeting into the ground and exploding in a ball of fire. This is second only to my fear of demonically possessed sock puppets stealing my soul. Common phobias, both. My aviation fear developed during a particularly harrowing flight through a thunderstorm in Florida, and was subsequently reinforced by inadvisable viewings of Castaway, Alive and Fearless. I've tried drugs but they don't really work. Then again, maybe I should actually try them on days when I travel. I share all of this because when I awoke the next morning I had to head back to the airport to confront my nemesis: the small, ten-seat prop plane that was going to deliver me either to the Osa Peninsula or the Gates of Hell (editor's note: the temperature is roughly the same).

I examined the Cessna for defects as I walked along the tarmac towards my destiny. Fate silently whispered in my ear that there were approximately 1,436 fixed-wing aviation accidents last year. I punched fate in the face and got on the plane, crouching low to get to my seat. The co-pilot sealed the door as the captain started the engines. The propeller loudly whirled to life, and the cabin shuddered along with my spine. A large moth fluttered around the pilot's head. He batted at it with a free hand while simultaneously twisting the dials, pushing the buttons and tightening the knobs that presumably prevent the plane from falling apart after take-off. Call it Costa Rican multitasking. Soon everyone on the plane was taking a whack at the moth as it fluttered its way around the cabin. The little bugger eventually alighted on the windshield, where the co-pilot smashed him with his flight log. Great. Now I had to worry that a crushed moth leg, perfectly mimicking the number seven, would inadvertently alter our proposed trajectory. Naturally, this would send us plummeting in a ball of flame directly into the Pacific. The pilot gunned the engine and we started rolling forward, quickly picking up speed as we raced down the runway. The gravity generator failed. We met the clouds head on.

An amazing thing happened once we took to the skies. I don't know whether it was the fact that you could easily peer out of both sides of the airplane, or that I could clearly see that the pilots weren't panicking and screaming Maydayat the control tower, but I actually enjoyed the flight. It was smooth and the view was to die for. This turned out to be an ironic thought. As we closed in on our destination I spied a curious sight that I was sure I was imagining. The plane gently glided in before crunching loudly on the gravel runway. We rumbled along the gravel past tall green grass, the cabin rattling madly, before coming to a stop in front of my unlikely vision. The landing strip at Puerto Jimenez borders a large cemetery. Creepy. Maybe punching Fate in the face wasn't the best idea after all.

You Shall Know My Velocity

Is it a vain undertaking then, or is the time misspent, which we employ in traveling about the world, not in quest of its delights, but its adversities, by which good men ascend the throne of immortality?"


-Don Quixote

In Dave Eggers brilliant debut novel, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, he prefaces his story with a single pointed statement: This Was Uncalled For. I couldn't agree more. But no matter how tempting it might be, you can never stop the roller coaster at the top of the loop--unless you have a really good lawyer (and an even better mop). We have unfinished business here. Things got cut short, like a pair of hot pants. But let's not be too hasty. It has been awhile, after all. In a few days we'll enter the humid jungle of Costa Rica together. If we survive the trip, perhaps we will finish what we started in Africa. So stay tuned for more thrills, chills, spills and ills as the Tales of the Wandering Jew continue!