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.
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