And other jungle horrors.

The saying with scorpions goes: You only see them once you’re no longer thinking about seeing them. I can now confirm this to be true.

I first learned of their presence on my initial boat ride into Yelapa. We were skimming past the beautiful, lush jungle coast, cruising into Yelapa’s sparkling bay. The man behind me was telling me about all Yelapa’s wonders — the waterfalls, the rivers, the hikes. “The only thing you gotta watch out for here is the scorpions,” he said. “They’re a thing here.” One time, he was fixing a patio umbrella and thought he saw a brown leaf. He went to flick it off and boom — a stinger whips right into the fleshy, fatty part next to his thumb. “The good thing is, recovery’s pretty straightforward,” he said. “You get an anti-venom shot from the clinic, lay down for an hour, and you’re good to go.”

Sounds fair enough. But then I learned Yelapa, a town of about 1,500 people, only has one clinic, and that clinic keeps shorter hours than an artisanal sandwich shop. Plus, scorpions are nocturnal creatures. They don’t sting strictly during business hours. What if I got stung after dark? What if the clinic ran out of shots? Yelapa is a 45-minute water taxi ride away from a legit hospital. I’d be dead and foaming at the mouth before we even docked.

The image of me convulsing on a dark, dusty Yelapa pathway at 2am was rather disturbing.

My first night here I hardly slept. I looked everywhere, shaking out clothes and shining flashlights into my shoes. Thing is, scorpions lurk in damp, moist spots — like within the folds of your bathroom towel, or nestled between your bedsheets, or curled into the toe part of your shoes. Or maybe one’s bathing under a plate in your kitchen sink. You have to shine your flashlight when you walk around at night as well, as they tend to, I guess, linger on your bathroom floor.

By the time I had my encounter, I was pretty over them. I’d been in Yelapa for a month and they were out of mind. Plus, I had other natural problems to deal with. First were the fruit bats that flew into my palapa at night and dropped generous amounts of bat shit all over the floor (there must have been several bats coming in, because if that amount of excrement is coming from just one bat…sheesh). I also learned about Histoplasmosis, the disease you get from inhaling the fungus from broken-open bat crap (otherwise known as guano, the not-so-friendly substance that spawned ebola in Africa). This is mostly dangerous though in caves or poorly ventilated areas, where the shit bakes and releases these potentially fatal spores. For most of us, if you aren’t living in a cave or cleaning out a Guatemalan sewer, you’ll likely be okay. You might pick up a cold, or at worst end up having spots on your lungs, but hey, you’ll live.

Then came the hornet’s nest. It started with about five, and had since grown to 15 or so. Sometimes 20. At first I was freaked out. But then I figured, either these guys are unemployed or they’re of severely poor health — because they just sit on this windowpane all day, every day, ambling to and fro.

Then came the ants, which covered my jacket in such a way that it looked like a series of rolling brown waves. That, relatively speaking, was easy. A smaller, less menacing critter was the golf ball-sized beetle that flew in like a banshee, banged into every wall, then landed on its squirmy little back, making this disturbingly loud buzzing noise. The big brown spiders weren’t fun, and, though they’re jittery, are also remarkably patient. The mosquitoes are a less acute threat but bring a more long-term consequence — especially as I was in the jungle with large pools of stagnant water nearby. I’d already gotten Dengue fever in the past; there are four strains of Dengue, and if you get a certain combination…let’s just say it’s not a good time.

And last but not least, let me share that I am not an outdoors man. I’m a city boy. I live in Brooklyn, New York. Bushwick, specifically. Sure, I enjoy the peaceful serenity of crickets and ocean waves. But let it be known, my night of true relaxation consists of cozy PJs, a warm shower, Netflix, and four solid walls with a door.

So, as you can imagine, I was not ready for the scorpion.

It was dusk when it happened. I had just taken a shower and was getting ready for dinner. I had put on my shoes and was walking to this table next to the front door to grab my camera. The door was wide open.

And there he was.

He literally just waltzed right in, striding in like he was invited over for dinner. Calm, confident, casual. And he was huge, a good two inches long. The thing was black and sleek, with a slight shine on its toughened, armor-like exterior.

I felt like I’d just jumped in the coldest water. For a brief two seconds, I was actually paralyzed with fear. I just kept gasping, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god (God knows the scorpion was saying the exact same thing). It felt like it was happening in slow motion, and I couldn’t move — like the scene in Star Wars Episode V, when Luke’s in Dagobah and confronts the nightmarish illusion of Darth Vader.

It just stopped and looked at me. I looked at it. There was a pause, a reckoning. Then I quickly looked around to see what I can do. There was a broom and dustbin, both of which had long handles. I grabbed the broom and placed it nearby, hoping it’d just crawl on and I could fling it out. It got close to the broom, sniffed around, then made this decisive 45-degree pivot and started beelining RIGHT TOWARD ME. I started gasping again, oh my god oh my god oh my god. And let me tell you, these things are quick. I hopped up and to the side, grabbed the dustbin, and dropped it right in its path. The scorpion crawled right in. In that instant, without thinking, I picked up the dustbin and dropped it right outside the wide-open front door, on the front steps of the palapa. The scorpion crawled around the dustbin’s edge, inspected the scene, then crawled back into the corner of the dustbin and curled into a little ball.

I actually felt bad. He seemed to curl into this fetal position, maybe sensing these could be his final moments and was now doing what he could to best protect himself, sending his last Hail Mary to the scorpion gods above. He looked helpless and vulnerable.

I just stood there, a good three feet behind, staring at the back of the dustbin and checking Instagram over and over, as if that would somehow make the problem go away. I was hoping the thing would just quietly sashay back out the front door, but that didn’t happen. So I waited. It was about 20 minutes, and I was starting to get hungry. It was also getting pretty dark. I had to make my move. I took a deep breath and closed Instagram one last time. I gathered my strength. Just like plunging into cold water, I grabbed the dustbin handle, flipped it over, and shook the scorpion out into the bushes below.

Of course, the scorpion landed directly on a giant palm leaf right next to the doorstep, with a loud thwack. But instead of coming back in, it made its way backward hesitantly, then slowly crawled down the stem of the plant. I watched it go until I couldn’t watch anymore. It truly was an insect. Its legs were roach-like, very quick and thin and graspy, each moving erratically on its own. It’s skeleton is very flexible, I saw it bend completely both forward and backward. And that stinger really is huge, and that thing is not afraid to show it off.

I went to dinner and was so spooked to come back. I ran into some folks and showed them the picture. One guy goes, “Dang, that’s a real ass scorpion!”

When I got home, I checked everywhere. The sheets, the shoes, the towels. All seemed clear. I then started Googling. It turns out, that particular scorpion is rather harmless, in terms of venom. It could sting you, and it would hurt a ton, but it’s absolutely not fatal. Actually, there are about 250,000 stings per year in Mexico, and only 0.2% are fatal. The scorpions you gotta pay attention to, apparently, are the light yellow ones, which the Mexicans have a particular name for, alacranes gueros (Mexicans, by the way, are completely unfazed by any act of wildlife here; they either eat it or just spray it with Raid). With that solace, I could go to bed.

As I was going to sleep, I was reminded of a quote by a friend. Your thoughts influence your emotions, which influence how your body responds to something, consciously or not. Change the thought and you change the reaction. I initially had the thought that this scorpion could kill me. This produced a terrifying, almost paralyzing reaction. Then I gained more information and learned it’s more like a bee sting than a death sentence. That changed my thoughts, which then changed the emotion, and eased the potential reaction. I became less charged. My body could now relax.

Fear, I realized, is nothing more than a lack of information.

IT’S SCORPION TIME

A Night in the Temazcal