Under Grumpa's Hat

It didn’t take long after we unpacked the last suitcase and slid into our new home in Costa Rica to realize we weren’t exactly moving in alone.

No, there was someone already living here.

He didn’t pay rent, didn’t ask permission, and didn’t help lift a single thing on moving day. But the first morning after we settled in, there he was, perched on the wall like he owned the place.

A gecko.

Not the first one I’ve seen, but definitely the first one to make eye contact like that.

My wife, being the kind-hearted soul she is, gave him a name almost instantly. “That’s Marty,” she said.

Marty.

Of course.

And as geckos are natural bug-eaters, it only made sense that his last name was McFly. It just clicked. Flashbacks of Back to the Future and our fellow Canadian Michael J. Fox came flooding in. I could almost hear Marty whispering, “If you’re gonna move to the jungle, JD, why not do it with some style?”

Since then, Marty McFly has become a regular around here. We don’t see him as often as we hear him. Geckos make this odd little chirping sound, like a squeaky toy with attitude. And when, at night, we hear it echoing through the house, we just smile and say, “Good night Marty.”

But Marty, it turns out, isn’t the only squatter.

One morning, walking through the guest house, I spotted movement across the tile floor. At first, I thought it was a leaf blowing in. Then it moved again, crawling under the couch.

That had to be Marty’s Cousin Eddy.

A little larger and less subtle than Marty, Eddy the gecko seems to be the black sheep of the family. Where Marty stays on the walls like a good tenant, Eddy saunters across the floor like he’s looking for the fridge. He’s not shy. If anything, he seems slightly annoyed we’re here.

Then one night, came the toad.

Bigger than my hand. Lumpy. Not cute.

Meet Cane. Cane the Toad.

He made an uninvited appearance one evening, hopping around across the walking path between the houses after a heavy rain shower, like he had something to prove.

Now, Cane isn’t exactly the kind of guy you let crash on the couch. For one, Cane Toads secrete a toxin through their skin. And with two curious dogs, Amy and Rayna, who like to investigate anything that moves, Cane had to be shown the boundary.

Outside only, and NOT in the dogs’ fenced area! No exceptions.

He didn’t take it personally. At least I don’t think he did. He still visits, usually around dusk, giving us that disapproving look as if he built the place.

And it doesn’t stop there.

There’s Carl the Cicada, whom we recently wrote about, and whose volume knob is permanently stuck on max. He seems to love crashing into our windows in the master bedroom at night. You rarely see him, but you sure know when he’s near. The jungle goes from peaceful to full-blown heavy metal concert in a blink when he and his friends sing in unison at any time, day or night.

Then there’s Marcel, the capuchin monkey who swings by every now and then in the mango trees. Always in a hurry. Always up to something. Probably stealing something.

And Toucan Sam, who showed up one morning like a postcard from a cereal box. Bright, loud, and weirdly judgmental.

And just yesterday afternoon, while picking a mango off one of our many mango trees on the property, we made the acquaintance of Lord Leon the Lizard.

We are still patiently waiting for Sally, a sloth in no hurry to make it to our neck of the jungle, after she’s done her numerous extended naps.

At this point, we’ve accepted that this 5-acre slice of paradise isn’t just ours. It’s shared. And slowly, this cast of characters is becoming our jungle family.

There’s something comforting about it.

Sure, some of them are noisy. Some of them are toxic. And some walk right across the living room like they’re looking for snacks. But they remind us of something simple.

We’re not here to conquer this land.

We’re here to live with it.

In a world that often pushes us to isolate, divide, and claim ownership over every inch, this little jungle crew reminds us to share space, to make room, and to appreciate each other’s quirks.

Moral of the story?

We all bring something to the table. Some of us bring laughter, some bring noise, and some just bring bug control. But somehow, it all works.

Pura Vida isn’t about perfection.

It’s about living together, lumpy toads and all.