Down in the Place

The Costa Rican jungle holds many mysteries, but many others reside in those that venture into it. The first few days I stayed in a cabin, which was about 100 yards from the ocean, I learned quickly that this experience would be unlike any other I had had in my life: I knew I better take advantage of it.

My class of a dozen other students and one professor were in Costa Rica to study primate behavior for a summer psychology course. The month long adventure created tight friendships and made all of the students at least consider how another culture lived. More importantly, it taught us how another species lived someplace most of us had never been.
We were told the first day in the Curu Wildlife Refuge that we should not wander alone; we should, at least, be with one other person. This seemed to be a protective measure and most times I followed it.
But, never one to follow the rules, I often woke up with the sunrise, because it hit me square in the eyes each morning from my top bunk in the cabin. And each morning, I would grab my mother's camera she had loaned me for the trip and take a picture of the sunrise.

After each picture, I would quietly get up, dress, get my gear, and take off to find the white faced capuchin monkeys--my study subjects.

Capuchins are timid but occasionally bold small to medium sized primates that are active mostly in the morning. I know this well because my study provided me data on what activity they did and when. But I often went beyond the scope of my "scientific" study and attempted to communicate with them; I wanted them to understand that I only wanted to understand them better. In my hubris, I wanted them to become more like pets than study subjects.
Part of the thrill of waking up was figuring out where the group might be. Most often, they were held up in a grove of mangoes resting, eating, grooming, or, even on rare occasions, playing.

My experience in the jungle is that a jungle is not much of a jungle. Not the steamy, romanticized one most people think about. More, it was a forest with very different animals: monkeys, cougars (puma or mountain lion, if you prefer), iguanas, red-stripe squirrels, snakes, anteaters, insects of all kinds (most exotic), even crocodiles.

More still, the plant and tree life was distinctly unique from my Midwest beginnings: bigger in leaf structure, deeper and richer green colors, and a more enclosing feeling.

Several times on the first few days in Curu, we were given the basic rules (don't go anywhere by yourself--a rule I broke often and on purpose; be aware of your surroundings (they could change incredibly quickly: weather, animals, etc); treat the animals with respect. Beyond these rules, we were told to enjoy ourselves and what the jungle had to offer.

For many of us, it was our first experience outside the United States and the closest we had come to wild (more or less) animals. In fact, the refuge family (Dona, Adalina, Jose, and Frederico) was careful to remind us of home with their questions about the USA.

On the first day, after we settled into our cabins (we used two of the three available), we gathered by the main house to walk up to the spider monkeys. Spider monkeys, to me, seemed to be the most fascinating primate we studied because of their hands--they have no thumb, but long spider-like fingers. (all pics are mine, except the first of this post and the logo below)

Long and lanky creatures, they have a very strong tail that can acts like a extra hand and can bear their weight. In fact, the inside of their tail (the part that would wrap around something) was so soft, it reminded me of the nose of a horse--velvety and peach fuzzy. I was amazed at how much dexterity they had with their tails and the level of awareness they had of its location in space.

Adalina, the daughter of the Dona and head of the refuge to the outside world, brought along mangos to feed the spider monkeys (pictured at right).
Most of us fed them by tossing it to them (at first), but as our fear died down, we would hand it to them. These spiders were, for the most part, domesticated to humans in the sense that many visitors would feed them and socialize with them, but only for limited times controlled by the staff and Adalina. 
Acutely intelligent and playful, the spiders delighted us for a few hours that first day. I thought I might run out of film (I brought 18 roles of 35mm film and used every role during my stay.) This playfulness carried over into their teasing of the largest, and by far the strongest, spider monkey, Bolivar. Bolivar was caged because, well, he was crazy. Although he had mated with several females, the staff was careful to keep him caged because he was known to have fits of rage that frightened the other monkeys and also the staff to such a degree they would dart him just to get him back in the cage.  The problem with Bolivar was that he was intelligent enough to occasionally escape from his small cage.

I would think that he was the troop leader and alpha male of the group, even when he was caged. But on occasion, the other, more daring, males in the group would tease him. In fact, here is one part of my favorite pictures that I've ever taken:

(Even though Bolivar looks small in his cage, he was easily a third bigger than any of the other spiders. We can see from the picture, he's fully aware there is nothing he can do except vocalize his disapproval. I just keep saying to myself each time I see this pic, "C'mon! Do something now!")

After our two or three hours with the spider monkeys, we went along the grove line in search for the white faced capuchins.  We found them and, once again, I took dozens of pictures; frightened I might not be able to take this shot ever again, I was liberal with my mother's camera.

That day was slowly dying down and the sun began to set. We headed back to the cabins, dropped our gear, and went for dinner.
Most meals were built around two components: rice and red beans. Anything extra, such as eggs or meat, was a luxury we had maybe every other day.
After that first meal, many of us turned in to rest up and get ready to collect research on our primate activity the next day.

And Away We Go
About half way through the month of our stay, we took a "vacation" to Montezuma. To get there, we had to board a bus and ride for several hours. As we were getting onto the bus, the spider monkeys were curious as to what this large wheeled contraption was that all these similar creatures were getting into was. Our group was in line to get onto the bus, and a spider monkey cut in front of me and was about to get onto the bus. Knowing full well that the locals had some fear of spider monkeys, I, out of instinct, grabbed its tail and yanked it back. As I pulled, it let out a shriek that made me pause, but not enough to let go, and I kept pulling. Then, I stepped onto the bus and took a seat--thinking nothing of it. My colleagues, however, thought I was nuts for grabbing hold of him and even being somewhat aggressive to him. My efforts proved futile though because as soon as I sat down, no one else had the gumption to grab the tail again, and the spider climbed onto the bus. Most of the people on the bus freaked out and exited out the rear door of the bus, running for their lives. I sat quietly and laughed to myself. One of the (armed) guards for the refuge had to finally come corral the rascal before we could be on our way.
Someone asked why I grabbed him. I didn't really think about it until it let out the shriek, then for a moment I thought, "That was a bad idea." Nothing happened to me or anyone else. Perhaps I thought with my 210 pound heavily-muscled frame (I was a Phys Ed major and bodybuilder at the time), the primate would be slightly weaker or my equal in strength. I never tested my strength with one of them, and to be fair, I'm glad.

The Ants
About every week, the ants would come. A colony of black ants would apparently be raided by a smaller group of red ants--the red ants were twice the size of the black. Once the black ants caught onto the raid, they would chase after the reds. The reds always carried away small, white sacs of something as they hightailed it back to the home; I'm not precisely sure what those sacs were; I assume they were egg sacs or food. Nevertheless, the first week this happened, many of us were out in the jungle collecting data; I was not since I had collected for several hours that morning. The ants formed what I would consider a searching line that swept across the entire cabin's surface. The were on and over everything: our shoes, our clothes, our floor, everything.
At first, I thought this was some sort of invasion, but as I watched them they didn't even take anything that one would think they would. They didn't want our processed foods or sweaty clothes, but they did clean the cabin of any dead (or dying) bugs. In fact, the cabin looked cleaner each time they came through and I came to figuring out the day and time to expect them. Nevertheless, they still always chased the red ants who were, in my view, the evil ones--the thieves.

As the black ants began each time, they always arrived on the front porch, like respectful guests. Then would work their way in and out the back. I watched intently as they followed predetermined (and what seemed to be consistent weekly) trails across the cabin floor. One time a fellow student stepped in that trail, and the ants scattered and attacked anything they found--including a nice juicy spot between my toes. The bite was painful and lasted several minutes; needless to say, my colleague was bit too, but she deserved it; I did not.
After a few minutes they realized the threat was gone and resumed their duties of collection. Each passing minute they were "cleaning" the cabin, I became more fascinated by them; how they created the chemical trails, why they chased the red ants, why they didn't mess with "our" stuff, and why were they so consistent are questions I continued to ponder.
The third time they came, however, the relationship between humans and ants changed--horribly. Since each day it was humid, our toilet built up a reasonable about of condensation on the pipe feeding the water tank. The ants concluded they liked a free source of water, and moved in.

As you can tell from the picture, this would make it difficult to sit comfortably on the commode and do any sort of business. In response, most of my cabin mates moved to the third cabin, but I chose to wait. I lasted two days.
The second day, Frederico came to the cabin with some super-ant spray and sprayed the hell out of them. By then, the entire colony must have moved to the toilet area and the pic is only probably a third of the actual size at the end of the ant "brick" as I called it.
With the smell of insecticide and dead ants all over the cabin in what looked like an ant nuclear explosion, I moved to the cabin a few doors down with a heavy heart.







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Snake v. Iguana
One day, I heard someone racing to our cabin telling, "You gotta check this out!" It was Pat, our local biology expert and probably the most excitable person, ever. But Pat was a good guy with a happy heart who energized just about everybody, even me. So I got up and followed him to his find.
A snake had wrapped around an iguana's lower half and a struggle to survive was on.

To see this life and death struggle click here!

Solo Adventurer (with a little bit of bravado)
One afternoon I decided to go out on my own, again. I went to my typical and worn entry way into the jungle--a path meandering around to the lagoon and a rope bridge that came back around to the side of the refuge where we ate our meals. There was a well-placed bench about one hundred yards into the path; I sat there on many occasions just listening.

As was custom, I carried my University of Michigan backpack where ever I went. Other common gear included a pair of soccer shorts, a wicking-moisture T-Shirt, my ever-present sunglasses, and, the most important piece of apparel--my Chilly Willy baseball cap.

Other material I always carried included a notebook for field notes, my mom's trusty camera, a pocket knife, a jacket (the temperature could drop incredibly fast), and sun tan lotion. As I sat on the bench, I contemplated my existence and how unique the opportunity to study capuchins in Costa Rica was. I looked up and stared at the sun breaking through the foliage. After a few moments of this quiet reflection, I started to play with a twig and the dirt at my feet. There was a noise off in the distance, but I realized it was coming closer. The capuchins tended to travel this time of day back to there night time hideouts, which no one else knew about because they tended to play cards instead of being in the bush this time of day.
A small troop of capuchins made their way by me and one came down to about five feet of the ground and just looked at me--and on occasion, he would bear his teeth or shake the branches ferocity. I took this picture and just watched.

After our staring matched lasted about five minutes and I ran through a roll of film, he lost interest and climbed away into the depths of the forest. I noticed, however, he kept looking off to his right (my left), which seemed to speed up his departure. At the time, though, I thought nothing of it.

I continued to sit and thought about getting up and making my way to the rope bridge and the alleged croc that was recently seen there. Suddenly I heard a rustle of the leaves on the forest floor and a flicker of a palm branch about twenty yards away. I still had my camera ready to shot, but I didn't see anything--I could just hear it.
I waited.
Another rustle of leaves.
I waited.
Whatever it was moved a little closer; I turned on my camera.
The camera's mechanical whirl made enough noise in the now dead silent jungle to make me look down at it in disgust. As I looked back up, I saw it.
A cougar was crouched down about fifteen yards away just watching me.

My instinct screamed, "GET THE PICTURE!" I wanted the picture of a lifetime. I moved the camera up to my eye to get the large cat in the frame; it straightened its back. It glanced to my right, and I took the picture. The shutter noise caused it to bolt to my right, parallel to the trail, and on up onto the mountain. I took off after it in pure joy at this treat of tempting picture stardom. I barreled through the dense jungle snapping shots at what I thought was the cougar. I followed the trail of moving branches, but just as suddenly as it arrived--the cougar, and its trail, were gone.
I stood there huffing and puffing in the hot, humid air. Pausing every other breath in hope I could hear something and race after it. Nothing. Dammit.

Suffice it to say, every last picture was a blur, but that first one has a patch of brown that is not plant based. (I swear it's there.)

After several minutes of waiting and looking around, I gave up and went back to the trail. As I made my way to the rope bridge, my little walk in the jungle became interesting again; the rope bridge was dangling in the lagoon, right where the croc was supposed to be lurking.

I had to decide to turn back or take the shorter route across the bridge--and take my chances. The bridge was a typical rope bridge with a V-shape where the person walked across the lower, center rope and held onto the two higher ropes for balance. Although I never thought to take a picture (oddly enough) of the actual bridge, I was more afraid of the croc than the cougar.
The tide had come in and the marsh area was underwater. That darn bridge bobbed in the water like a lure on a line, waiting for a unlucky fish. I wondered if the sneaky croc waited for me.
I decided to go for it and remembered that if I got into trouble run in zig zags to confuse the large reptile--mind you, I had no idea if this actually worked, but I hoped it would if it came to it.
I stepped onto the rope bridge and carefully scanned every bubble, ripple, and bump along the surface of the lagoon. I scanned quickly, but with precision; no mistakes could be made. I was not taking any chances and my camera was put away. If I had to run, I didn't want to be messing with a picture--but I admit it crossed my mind.
As the bottom of my shoes tickled the water, I increased my pace and continued my scanning, ready to run at any moment. I stopped at one point--smack dab in the middle of the bridge--because I saw bubbles about thirty feet away. Thoughts of taking a picture came into my mind, but I was holding onto the unsteady bridge, dangling in water, and possible bubbles from a croc were coming toward me--I let the thought pass.
Finally, I made it across with not so much as another stray ripple of water, but I walked quickly and glanced back often--then for some reason, I ran like hell in zig zags for about a hundred yards, perhaps just to be sure I could do it.
After a bit more, I felt safe, but I met up with the professor, Michael, and he asked what I'd been doing. I stammered that I went for a walk in the jungle. He looked at me, then behind me, and asked, "Alone?"
"Yes," I said, as I glanced away.
"You better be careful," he said with a fatherly smile.
"I am," I said, as we walked back to the eating area, "don't worry."

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My time in our class and in Costa Rica  demonstrates to me that I am a "traveler" (Drew 60). This concept, as I've constructed it, allows people to come into situations with nothing against them. We, then, accept ourselves and others as nothing else but equal as fellow human beings. I also believe this can transfer to other lifeforms on our planet--and even our planet itself.
It seems clear, however, that far too often we are consumed by a place and driven to exist in THAT place instead of within ourselves. How we perceive our surroundings is still paramount--there is no other way. Our senses, our thoughts, our constructions all play a role in the existence of place and how we choose to operate within those places.
And for the most part, we've made poor choices. Now, it's time to change...