OMG - The Cleaner Ants of Costa Rica!

December 27, 2016

We all woke before dawn—standard Costa Rica procedure and stumbled into the kitchen for our daily “breakfast of champions”: insta-coffee pumped through the sludge of powdered creamer and the ever-present bananas. Bananas sprout everywhere here—along roadsides, behind gas stations, in neighbors’ yards—just waiting to be snatched (if the monkeys or toucans don’t beat you to them). I love bananas. Truly. But by week three, even free bananas start to glare at you from the fruit bowl like passive-aggressive roommates.

That morning buzzed with promise: New Year’s was looming, and my son was about to put in an offer on his dream property. He and his crew were off on one last scouting mission, while I—ever the dutiful remote-working tech contractor—planned to hold down the fort. Cue Josh, my son’s friend, who normally wouldn’t surface until his third cup of coffee. He burst out of his room in full panic mode:
“There are ants. Like—a bajillion of them.”
“Ants? Josh, it’s Costa Rica. Ants are the national sport.”
“No, really—ANTS!”

We all froze and looked up. Across ceilings, walls, window sills—there they were: sleek black lines of ants on a mission, marching like tiny, clandestine inspectors. They weren’t raiding the dishes in the sink or food on the counter; they circled the edges of the house, climbed every wall, and scoured every corner as if auditing it for termite insurance. Outside, they clung to railings, pounded the deck, even inspected the poor dogs. Full-blown occupation.

In a hasty symphony of apologies and empty mugs, everyone bolted for the car, leaving me—an American woman alone in a jungle fortress—face-to-face with what I estimated to be millions of army ants.

Stepping gingerly over their highway (as I had already discovered they bite if annoyed), I carried my coffee and phone down to the open-air ground level. White tile stretched before me—a spare bedroom, laundry, deck, storage. Costa Rican houses live on stilts for exactly this reason: to keep monkeys, anteaters, and yes, ants—mostly at bay. Down here, they were swarming old wasp nests and a massive, decidedly dead grasshopper. My solution? Enter Exterminator Barbie.

I grabbed the hose, thumbed up the pressure, and unleashed a torrent worthy of a summer action flick. Nests washed away. Grasshopper blasted into the jungle. Even monkey droppings got a surprise rinse. The tiles gleamed like an over-sanitized lab, and I paused, half-proud, half-disturbed by my own enthusiasm at attempting to clean-tame the jungle.

Then I remembered upstairs—Phase 2! I climbed the narrow spiral staircase, braced for another ant festival, and…nothing. Not a single scout remained. The deck chairs, the kitchen counter, even the walls were pristine. Halo of sweat and disbelief, I tip-toed through the whole house. Miracle or hallucination?

I made fresh coffee and perched on the deck rail. Below, a toucan flung bananas into its beak with frat-boy finesse. Capuchin monkeys chattered and wrestled in the trees. The rainforest rolled out before me like a living, breathing quilt. And the ants? Vanished.

Later, the homeowner explained on the phone: these weren’t your average kitchen pests but Eciton burchellii—“cleaner ants” known locally as chutiya ants. They sweep through, devour every dead critter and wasp nest, then disappear without a trace. Nature’s own hazmat team. Ticos don’t panic; they just shrug, “If the cleaners come, take a hike. They’ll be gone when you get back.”

So there it was: another Costa Rica life hack—patience. Sometimes the jungle knows best. You don’t have to wage every battle. You don’t have to spray every invader. You just sit, sip your coffee, and let the ants, monkeys, and toucans do their thing.