“The most important truths aren’t always measurable. They’re felt—in the air, in the shared work, in the quiet recognition that everything is part of something else.”
When we talk about ecosystems, we often describe them in diagrams—boxes and arrows, inputs and outputs, predators and prey. But living inside one, as we’ve done these past two weeks, dissolves those neat boundaries. You begin to see the systems for what they are: overlapping, responsive, and far more personal than any chart could suggest.
Our second week in Costa Rica has taken us from the muddy trails of La Selva to the cloud-kissed ridges of Monteverde, passing through organic farms, volcanic landscapes, and deepening friendships. And through it all, I keep coming back to the fungi—not just as a research subject, but as a metaphor. My project focuses on fungal fruiting body diversity and how certain fungi could be used for bioremediation—the ecological cleanup of contaminated soils and water. But the more I walk these trails, the more I realize that fungi aren’t just healers. They’re connectors.
We began our week at two organic farms—one pineapple, one banana—both alive with more than just crops. These weren’t sterile, industrial plots. They were systems in dialogue: bees pollinating, soil microbes breaking down organic matter, fungi recycling nutrients. I spotted mushrooms growing from decomposing stems near the edge of a pineapple field, and it reminded me how agriculture, if done mindfully, doesn’t have to push nature out. It can include it.
But these farms are rare exceptions. We’ve talked in class about how monoculture plantations in Costa Rica—especially pineapples and bananas—have come to dominate the lowland landscape, leading to soil degradation, pesticide runoff, and a dramatic loss of biodiversity. Fungi, once abundant in forested areas, struggle to survive in fields soaked with herbicides and fungicides.
This isn’t just about local farming choices—it’s global. The U.S. and Europe subsidize large-scale agricultural exports like corn, soy, and wheat, which lowers international market prices and undermines farmers in tropical nations. This commodity dumping makes it harder for Costa Rican farmers to compete, leading many to sell land to large agro-export firms or shift to export-focused monocrops. It’s a domino effect: policy in one place disrupts ecosystems and economies in another. And it’s all connected—fungi included.
Later, after trying patacones, fresh pineapple, and handmade piña coladas, I reflected on what it meant to eat something that wasn’t just organic but ecologically integrated. These meals weren’t just about taste. They were about participation—joining a food web that includes farmers, fungi, fruit, and us. When grown sustainably, food doesn’t just feed—it nourishes relationships.
But most people don’t get to eat like this. In class, we’ve discussed how many Costa Ricans, especially in marginalized urban areas, rely on imported processed foods. This paradox—living in a lush, fertile country but eating boxed noodles—is the legacy of structural adjustment programs (SAPs). These economic policies, pushed by institutions like the IMF and World Bank in the 1980s and 90s, forced Costa Rica to privatize industries, cut public spending, and reorient its economy toward exports. Local food systems were among the casualties.
Today, that economic restructuring continues to ripple through the landscape—shaping who farms, what they grow, and what ends up on people’s plates. And once again, fungi are caught in the middle. As forests are cleared for export crops, fungal habitats vanish. As soils degrade, so does the microbial life within them.
At the banana farm, we saw stingless bees buzzing around their waxy hives—tiny but mighty players in the pollination network. Bees, like fungi, don’t operate alone. They thrive in interdependence, building hives from chewed leaves and resins, navigating landscapes shaped by the availability of flowers and trees.
In one shady corner near a compost pile, I noticed mycelial threads stretching through decaying banana leaves. Fungi here aren’t just decomposers—they’re part of a regulatory system that keeps nutrients moving and pollutants in check. Studies have shown certain fungal species can bind or break down agrochemical residues in tropical soils, offering hope for greener farming practices (Gadd, 2004; Harms et al., 2011). That’s part of what our research hopes to explore: Can fungi be allies in ecological restoration, even in damaged environments?
Our next stop was the breathtaking La Fortuna Waterfall, where we swam in the plunge pool beneath a roaring cascade. Standing there—soaked, awed—I was struck by how water, like fungal networks, moves nutrients and energy invisibly but powerfully. The waterfall wasn’t just a photo op. It was a circulatory system, flushing the forest, renewing the landscape.
Later that day, as we drove toward the Arenal Volcano and its crater lake, the metaphor deepened. What if we thought of the rainforest as a body? The fungi are the gut flora, breaking things down and building them up again. The bees are the hormones, sending signals and linking systems. The snakes we keep spotting—fer-de-lance, palm pit viper, tree boas—are the reflexes, quick and quiet. And water is the blood, circulating nutrients, flushing waste, maintaining balance.
Monteverde offered yet another layer of complexity. The cloud forest isn’t just rich—it’s vertical. Epiphytes grow on tree limbs, fungi sprout on fallen logs, and palm pit vipers rest like green ornaments in the canopy. Every inch feels claimed by life.
As we hiked, a spider monkey cuddled its baby, shielding it from the light rain and gusty wind. The following morning, I spotted a delicate fruiting body emerging from the moss-covered roots below. Everything is connected, even if the connections are hidden.
I keep returning to the idea of layers—not just physical (canopy, understory, soil), but relational. Fungi that interact with trees, which interact with monkeys, which disperse seeds that feed insects that are prey for snakes. And somehow, our presence—our research, our data collection, our laughter—becomes part of that ecology, too.
We’ve begun analyzing the fungal data we’ve collected from La Selva. It’s slow work—sorting morphotypes, logging trail data, noting trail disturbance and topography. But even here, the theme of connection emerges. Each fruiting body was found in a context: substrate type, trail topography, secondary vs. primary forest.
We’re starting to map patterns, but the real value isn’t just in the numbers. It’s in the meaning those numbers carry. Fungi aren’t randomly distributed. They follow cues we’re only beginning to understand—nutrient levels, host species, microclimate. It’s humbling to realize how much remains invisible, despite how much knowledge we have as humans.
This week has expanded my understanding of the word niche—a concept we first explored through the eyelashes of a tiny pitviper. A niche isn’t just where something lives. It’s how it lives. Its role. Its rhythm. Its relationships.
Our niche, this week, was fluid. We were scientists in the morning, friends in the afternoon, storytellers at night. We played in waterfalls, worked in spreadsheets, and indulged in many new dishes. And through it all, we observed.
And in observing, we became part of the system.
References:
- Altieri, M.A. (2009). Agroecology, small farms, and food sovereignty. Monthly Review, 61(3), 102–113.
- Forsyth, A., & Miyata, K. (1984). Tropical Nature: Life and Death in the Rain Forests of Central and South America. Scribner.
- Gadd, G.M. (2004). Mycotransformation of organic and inorganic substrates. Mycologist, 18(2), 60–70.
- Harms, H., Schlosser, D., & Wick, L.Y. (2011). Untapped potential: exploiting fungi in bioremediation of hazardous chemicals. Nature Reviews Microbiology, 9(3), 177–192.
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