Don’t Mess with the Monkeys

A Childhood Memory from a Costa Rica That No Longer Exists

Originally Published on my JorgeDiaries Substack here

I know this is progress, but on a recent vacation to Costa Rica, I was shocked by how little of the old country remains. You can still catch glimpses of it here and there, but so much has changed.

When I was growing up, my brother and I were in the Boy Scouts, and we often went on camping trips deep into the Costa Rican wilderness—back when there was a lot more of it. I’ve been to places that today are home to 400-room private resorts and fincas that have turned into full-blown luxury neighborhoods in Guanacaste.

While I was there, I told a friend about one of those old trips—a story from more than fifty years ago that came flooding back to me.

It was a camping outing to a remote location in the jungle. Before the trip, our Scoutmaster carefully prepared us for the five-day adventure. Like with every outing, he explained what we’d need, what to pack, practiced camp setup with us, staged a mock run, and of course spoke to all the parents. I still remember my mother being a little nervous about the whole thing. We needed special permits to camp there—not something people did back then—so both the Scoutmaster and our Eagle Scout were pretty excited to get them.

There were fifteen of us boys in the troop. We started early on a Saturday: a few hours by bus to a small town, followed by several hours of hiking into the jungle. We had to find our campsite and set it up before dark. Since it was the tropics, we had to be ready for rain, which meant digging trenches around the tents. It was a long day, and by the time we sat around the fire eating sandwiches and listening to the sounds of the jungle, we were completely exhausted.

The second day was all about finishing camp setup—building wooden tables out of sticks, practicing knots, collecting and purifying water, and setting up the latrines. We even rigged ropes to climb the tall, beautiful trees surrounding us. It was busy but exciting, and we were proud of what we’d built.

Our Scoutmaster had warned us about the wildlife, but nothing could have prepared us for the chorus of sounds that filled the nights. The loudest by far were the howler monkeys. We could hear them high in the trees, protesting our presence—though of course we didn’t realize that at the time.

That afternoon, a few of us went down to the river. When we came back, we saw several monkeys near the camp, watching us and chattering. Without the Scoutmaster nearby, a few of us had a brilliant idea: to throw some rocks and sticks at them. They screeched and moved slightly, so we threw a few more.

Big mistake.

Within minutes, more monkeys appeared in the trees, yelling louder and louder. Soon there were dozens—maybe more—shaking branches and making an incredible racket. The rest of the troop rushed over as the Scoutmaster shouted for us to stop and back away.

Then came the counterattack.

Branches and leaves rained down, followed by something far less pleasant. The monkeys began peeing and pooing all over the camp. There wasn’t much we could do but wait it out. After twenty or thirty minutes, the chaos finally subsided, leaving our campsite foul-smelling and trashed. We had to move and re-pitch our tents—in the dark.

Our Scoutmaster had told us to respect the wildlife, but now we truly understood what that meant. He later confessed he’d never seen anything like it either.

As a final note, the site where all this happened now lies beneath the waters of what is today Lake Arenal. Although I do not remember the exact dates, this trip was around 1976, or 1977. The damming of the Arenal River after that tripled the previous smaller lake’s size, submerging an old town and the very jungle where we camped. We were one of the last scout troops allowed in that area before it disappeared forever.

Lesson learned: do not mess with the monkeys.

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