I never thought I had arachnophobic tendencies until I found myself in the middle of the jungle at a seven-day yoga retreat in Costa Rica. Samasati Nature Reserve, a vast expanse of rainforest, is perched atop a mountain ten miles inland from the Caribbean, near the town of Puerto Viejo, just north of the Panama border. The name Samasati derives from what are said to be Buddha’s last words. This single word means, “Remember you are one with the ocean, trees, and stars. Remember you are Buddha.”
At Samasati, one is quickly made aware—you are also one with the scorpions, cockroaches, bullet ants, geckos, frogs, snakes, and giant horned beetles easily mistaken for small, low-flying helicopters. I was no stranger to the outdoors. I’d just come from eight days of mountain biking, river rafting, and trekking. Samasati was supposed to be the relaxing part of my vacation.
My first night there, however, was anything but. I sat bolt upright, awake in bed, hyper-vigilantly listening and watching for anything that moved or looked as if it might. A phobia is an irrational fear. Mine was substantiated. I’d just brushed my teeth spitting toothpaste on a scorpion trying to fight the stream of water to keep from going down the drain. I thought I’d won, but one could never be too sure.
Bullet ants are the most feared of all insects in Costa Rica, spanning two inches in length, (the Arnold Schwarzenegger of the species). I wasn’t sure if they were called bullet ants because their bodies were shaped like bullets or if the sting felt like being shot by one. Bart, who swept the steps with bleach to keep the slippery moss from growing, warned, “It is a pain like you will never forget.”
My bungalow was one of ten on this 250-acre rain forest with a spectacular view of the sea, far surpassing what the Web site promised. The décor spelled organic rainforest—hardwood floors, walls and ceiling, accented in ivory linens, fresh-cut rainforest flowers, and an inviting hammock on the veranda. By day it was relatively peaceful except for an occasional toucan squawk. At night, the jungle reverberated with a cacophony of thousands of frogs, howler monkeys, and locust-like creatures. Alone in my bungalow, I felt like a human trapped in a bug’s jar.
Eyelids heavy that first night, I finally managed to turn the light off—fingers clinched on blankets pulled taut over my head. Under the covers, I was sure I felt things biting me. Bed bugs? Fleas? Or worse? This was like a seven-day episode of Fear Factor. I awakened my first morning to a howler monkey hurling a coconut on my tin roof. Climbing in the shower I noticed an otherwise innocent fly. Back home in Los Angeles, I’d ignore the same insect as a common housefly. Here, I suspected it had fangs, venom and a personal vendetta; the buzz I felt certain sounded a little off. I flinched every time it hovered near me as I washed my hair in record time.
Yoga took place twice a day. Time to relax and get centered—for some. The studio was a hexagonal, screened-in structure that appeared to be inviting to two-legged as well as six-legged yogis. There were New Age types who gingerly picked up bugs and lovingly guided them outside—the same way a boy scout might assist a little old lady crossing the street. Not me. Middle finger to thumb, I flicked the ants away from my mat with the force of a scud missile.
I kept asking people, “Is that a bullet ant?”
“No, not big enough.”
I took at least one excursion a day off the Samasati premises. My favorite was the canopy tour—a thrilling experience where you see the jungle through the eyes of a monkey. At tree top level, secured with a rock-climbing harness, one leaps off a platform, careening via suspended cable the length of a football field to a total of eight platforms before rappelling down the final tree. Another day a few brave souls went trekking in the jungle along the beach in Punta Uva. We encountered giant centipedes and finally, scores of bullet ants trying to find cover. It was pouring—day five in a row during what the guidebooks called Costa Rica’s “dry season.” The rain turned the jungle floor a rich orange mud, which we spread like tribal war paint on our faces (I hoped to ward off any bullet ants). It proved effective.
