Kiss. Kiss. Kiss. The strange noise wakes and frightens me. Something
has invaded the sleeping area of our large safari tent. A frog? A large beetle?
A snake? All kinds of creatures inhabit this Costa Rican jungle. It could be anything. Kiss-kiss-kiss. My husband
sleeps peacefully beside me, so it’s not him. I sit up in bed and shine my
headlamp over the canvas walls and high ceiling where a large fan revolves.
Nothing. But the noise continues. Finally sleep overcomes my fear.
Costa Rica has between 200,000 and 250,000
species of insects. This doesn’t surprise me. At least a third of them must
dwell in this forest. As I ascend the trail from our tent, perspiration streaming
down my face, the air vibrates with the deafening, incessant buzz of cicadas. Ahead
of me two black beetles with yellow stripes scurry under a log. Tiny insects flutter
past. I stop to observe a moving trail of green triangles, just the
hard-working leaf ants bearing their cargo to their underground nest. Lizards
scamper away as I approach. This air, this soil pulsates with activity.
At breakfast in the main tent, I’m
taking in the panoramic view of the blue-green water of the Pacific when I hear
the kissing noise again.
“Did you hear that?” I say to the
others. “That’s what was in our tent last night.”
“It’s a gecko,” says my son, who,
along with his girlfriend, is managing this eco-lodge.
What relief. I can live with the
tiny salamander-like geckos which creep about on walls and ceilings. They eat
insects. So do some birds, like the flycatcher we spot and the colorful
squirrel cuckoo which dines on cicadas, wasps and caterpillars. The white-nosed
coati that passed by our tent was no doubt foraging for tasty beetles and
spiders. Insects are not even safe at night. Sitting at a small bar lit by a
string of tiny lights along its base, we discover a nocturnal visitor, a large
warty toad whom we name Kermit, or Rana
René, as they say in Costa Rica. I watch his tongue flick out in a
flash to devour bugs drawn to the light. He makes quick work of a very large
grasshopper. Later we meet several of Kermit’s cousins further along the
walkway.
Other jungle inhabitants prefer
hanging out in trees, like the howling monkeys pigging out on the mangoes
dangling over our heads. The ceibo trees are in full brilliant bloom, their red
flowers attracting a multitude of yellow butterflies.
We descend from our hilltop lodgings
to an uninhabited white beach. Well, not exactly uninhabited. Hermit crabs hide
in tiny shells while the larger ghost crabs speed to their burrows or into the
sea as we approach. I follow uniquely patterned prints in the sand to
depressions covering the eggs deposited the night before by two sea turtles. How
many will survive? Then I notice wiggly prints in the sand. “A snake!” I call
to the others. It’s a yellow-bellied sea snake struggling to return to the
water.
My son points out a drama unfolding
in the shallows – hundreds of tiny fish fleeing over the surface in leaps and
bounds to escape a large dark shadow visible just behind them. Fish face danger
from overhead as well, where pelicans glide and frigate birds soar watching for
a catch.
The word to describe this landscape is
intense. Intense heat. Intense rains. Flamboyant oranges, yellows and vibrant
greens. Countless varieties of unique species, all working members of a complex,
wondrous living network. I know that I
have only glimpsed an infinitesimal part of this jungle world.
