MOVING TO COSTA RICA IX
The Ants Go Marching One by One
Hurrah, hurrah!
My pants were on fire to find a place to retire a tropical clime where I could have a good time be warm without fleece live in quiet and peace and have plenty of time for margaritas with lime. —Adelia Ritchie, 2022
There’s a saying in Costa Rica— and one of my first lessons about living in the tropics:
If you kill anything, you have to eat it.
Even before I spent a month in a rustic cabin a few years ago, sharing space with an enormous tarantula that lived quietly under the bathroom sink, I was aware of the Tico approach to Nature: Leave it alone and it will leave you alone.
Well, most of the time it will. But that’s another story. 😳
I heard this saying on my first visit to Costa Rica when my girlfriends and I were taken on a jungle tour. We saw everything from howler monkeys to hummingbird nests, but the most memorable were the termites. Showing off, our guide broke open a termite tunnel on a tree trunk, collected the swarm in his hands, and offered the tiny critters to us to “taste.”
Just like peanuts, he said. Try some!
The bravest of us did, and yes, except for the tongue tickles, they do taste like peanuts. Good to know where to find protein if you find yourself lost and starving in the tropics, I guess.
Back to the ants
Ants are everywhere here, from tiny, almost invisible black ones that bite your toes, to huge red ants that stand tall on their hind legs to challenge you, piercing mandibles at the ready.
My favorite by far are the charming and productive leafcutter ants, who farm underground fungi by feeding them fresh greens. On many casual walks, I’ve seen long trails of freshly-cut leaf segments moving along the forest floor on their way to a mound or underground nest somewhere in the distance.
But not in my house, please! In the rainy season, it’s not unusual for ants to seek shelter indoors to escape waterlogged habitats outside. Theoretically, they’re attracted to lights at night, so it’s common practice to leave a light on outdoors, to discourage them from wanting to come in.
Here, in my cabin by the river, while I hang out until moving day, I cohabitate peacefully with spiders, moths, flies, gnats, a few mosquitos, beetles, and an occasional misguided hummingbird. And geckos, my night-chirping little buddies who snack on most of the aforementioned.
But I had not seen a single ant inside my cabin. A very good thing.
Until…
Yesterday, I reached to grab a bra — something I can only tolerate on special occasions in the tropics. Sorry, is that TMI? — from the undie basket perched atop a wire shelf by the window. To my horror, up my arm swarmed hundreds of pissed-off red ants, upset at having their nest—masses of white, rice-like eggs deposited in the lacy folds of my bikini panties—disturbed by the likes of me.
All over me, all over the floor, now all over the bed where I had panic-tossed the swarming heap of infested unmentionables… every bleeping where!!!
Swatting, flapping, hopping up and down, flinging undies around the room, kicking and flailing like a drunken Scot in a Highland Fling frenzy —ants everywhere. Big ones. Red ones. Mad AF ones.
Eventually regaining a semblance of composure (Ha! As if that could happen!), I flung everything outside, dumped the eggs, flapped all my undies once more to remove any stragglers, and tossed everything into the washing machine. That’ll teach the little bastards, I snorted.
Yet even then, having restored calm and decorum, I noticed the tip of my thumb sported one more stubborn little bastard guard ant hanging by her mandibles, which were firmly planted in my flesh. Fighting to the end. A death grip. Death!
Broken rule: No, I did not eat her, but she didn’t live to brag about it.
That afternoon, my landlady had the place fumigated. Ant corpses swept away, sanity restored.
But do I ever want to reach into my undie basket again?
New rule: In the tropics, go commando. Let those puppies breathe. And, if you are ever feeling fidgety, you’ll know it’s not because you have ants in your pants.
