He was a beautiful moth, immaculate white wings with feathery antennae and a body the softest shade of green. He was fluttering madly trying to escape the garbage bag, instinct compelling him to climb, only to be confounded in folds of white plastic. I decided to spare him. I had more than enough moths to complete my feeding study, and one by one I picked up the mottled and striped brown and gray moths, carefully cut off their right wings with kitchen scissors, and tossed them into the spider nests. I released the white moth and continued to monitor spider-feeding behavior. A few minutes later I turned around and saw my little moth flailing and flapping on the ground. At first I thought his wings must have been damaged in the bag, but as I drew closer, I saw the black jaws squeezing the moth’s head. The ant was enormous, at least an inch long, with a shiny wasp’s abdomen. It repeatedly stung its struggling prey as it dragged its prize into the darkness beneath the leaf litter. Unequivocal proof that I am not God.

One of the first things I noticed when I reached the tropics was how big everything was, leaves the size and shape of umbrellas (and thus used as such), earthworms as thick as uncooked bratwurst and over two feet long, kapok trees towering overhead with buttressed roots like walls spanning over twenty feet, and butterflies six inches across with owl eyes on their wings. I felt very small, and here I was, sent to study that horror of horrors, something straight out of the movie Arachnophobia—social spiders.

Of the more than 50,000 described species of spider that quietly weave their webs in the dark corners of the world, most are solitary, but a handful species spread across several families have evolved some form of sociality. The completely social species I studied, Anelosimus eximius and the newly discovered Anelosimus guacamayos, remain in their natal nest their entire lives and only occasionally and under certain conditions disperse to found new colonies. As spiderlings, they are tended not only by their mothers, but by all the adult females in the colony. When they mature, brothers mate with sisters and cousins with cousins to engender the next generation. In the better-studied eximius, the spiders build vast silken cities that can measure several meters across, contain tens of thousands of spiders, and persist for years.

These spiders make fascinating study subjects for several reasons. Each colony is essentially isolated, genetically as well as physically, and this allows them to meet the stringent requirements for group selection. For years group selection was a fairly heretical concept among evolutionary biologists. Most phenomena appearing to be group selection could be better explained by individual self-interest, but today it is generally accepted that group selection can occur, albeit rarely. The highly female-biased sex ratios present in some social spider species is thought to not simply to be the result of group selection, but to be a compromise between group and individual selection. More females increase the growth and dispersal capacity of the group, while the rare sex advantage pushes sex ratios within the colony to 50-50. Equilibrium rests somewhere in between. The fact that these completely social spiders are for the most part inbred raises questions about the effects of inbreeding depression, how an inbreeding system can arise evolutionarily, and what benefits might arise from social living to compensate. Top that off with a latitudinal gradient accompanying sociality (the most social species are restricted to the tropics) and we have ecological and evolutionary questions galore.

My study focused on the benefits of sociality, specifically, what benefits sociality might confer to prey capture. I also examined whether the latitudinal gradient has an altitudinal analogue by comparing two species, eximius in the lowlands and guacamayos in the cloud forest. People displayed a remarkably uniform response whenever I mentioned the nature of my study. They all did the same three things in the exact same order. First they shuddered and expressed their general dislike for all things arachnoid. Then they asked how big the spiders were, and third they asked whether the spiders were venomous. Going into the project, I had no problem with spiders. I had worked with them in the past, and I knew that only a handful of spiders are known to be dangerous to humans. Some, with intricate patterns, delicate spines, or vibrant colors are beautiful, and some I would even go so far as to call cute. I would say that jumping spiders, with their big eyes and short legs, are the warm fuzzies of the arachnids.

The genus Anelosimus is in the Theridiidae family; they are the cobweb weavers, and best known for their largest members, the widows. My study species A. eximius and A. guacamayos share some characteristics with their infamous cousins, a large globular abdomen, though somewhat elongated in eximius, and “jointy” legs held in that all too familiar posture. As adults, both species are usually red, ranging from a fiery hue to the shade of dried blood. My first week in Ecuador, I was monitoring an eximius nest for prey capture. A katydid flew into the support webbing, strong cables of silk rising three or four meters from the main body of the nest to the trees above. It stuck fast and dangled over hundreds of hungry spiders. It fell. Within seconds, this large, maybe two-inch insect was engulfed by spiders, completely hidden by a mass of writhing legs and round bodies. The katydid struggled violently, and then, little by little, its movements slowed and then ceased. It was a mesmerizing spectacle. Watching the spiders converge on their prey, watching how quickly the life ebbed out of that angular green body; it was like admiring an Hieronymus Bosch.

I thought that I had no fear of spiders, but suddenly I wasn’t so sure. I was reminded of William Blake’s classic poem, “The Tyger.”

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

When the stars threw down their spears
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

As I wandered into the “forests of the night” I was confronted by their beauty and horror. At Yanayancu, I heard tales of Canadian researchers evacuated after contracting the sandfly borne, flesh-eating protozoan leishmaniasis, tales of someone known only as “Crazy Man” prowling the rainforest canopy and feared as a psychotic murderer, and tales of the scalp playing host to the larva of a human bot fly. At Jatun Sacha, I came face to face with the deadly fer-de-lance; I nearly sat on a tarantula. And while trudging through the forest, feet swollen and blistered, body drenched with sweat, it was impossible to escape the mosquitoes.

I’d like to say a few words about mosquitoes. As a veteran of the north woods of Michigan, I felt I had seen mosquitoes at their worst. On warm, windless days they come at you like impatient vultures. The swarm can become so dense that you can clap in front of your face, open your hands, and find five or six flattened mosquitoes. The worst is their sickly-sweet hum; they are like a cloud of violins, tiny and evil. The mosquitoes of Ecuador are not so numerous, but what they lack in quantity, they make up for in spectacular diversity. The mosquitoes of Michigan are uniformly unimpressive and indistinguishable. In Ecuador, however, there are the little gold ones, the large metallic blue ones, the tiny ordinary ones, and the ones that spread their legs out in crosses, seemingly held aloft by the sheer power of their malformed daintiness rather than by wings. If I were a better entomologist, I could describe each species, but I’m not and I have yet to find the field guide, Annoying Dipterans of Ecuador.

In the midst of all that there were such scenes, moments of transcendence that pulled my heart out of my boots and into my throat. I once watched the steam rising from the cloud forest, Volcán Sumaco’s cleft chin resting in the distance, and I could feel my nose twitching and my eyes burning. I saw fireflies so numerous they made the night sparkle. I saw clouds cresting a mountain like an army, immense and unstoppable. I saw the Milky Way streaming across the sky on rare cloudless nights. I saw a fleeting glimpse of the legendary quetzal, and I saw stunning butterflies, bright pink on velvet black, iridescent blues, blood red on rice paper. Man’s greatest fashion designs are but mockeries by comparison. I soaked up Ecuador’s landscapes. On the road between Quito and Tena, which can seem like five hours on a bad roller coaster, I would stare out the window for hours gazing at the vegetation spilling over the hillsides and waterfalls gushing out as if through pinpricks in a jug of water.

My most profound memories, however, are not of venomous creatures or Hollywood-perfect sunsets, but of walking in the forest, at night and alone. For my prey capture study, I needed to check prey availability at night as well as during the day, and so I would set out as the last glow of day faded, armed with a lamp and the knowledge that if I was not back by 1 AM someone would come look for me. The forest trails were like long corridors with blacked walls and ceilings; only the ground lay illuminated before me. In between prey censuses, I would turn my lamp off and sit in near-perfect darkness, a few shreds of starlight penetrating the canopy. I listened to the sounds of the forest, creaks, chirps, and strange roars. I listened to the haunting call of the common potoo. It sings a series of descending notes that begin as a mocking laugh and end as a bitter lament. I remember having the contradictory feeling of trepidation and peace amidst fearsome beauty. Maybe it is better to say I was at peace with my trepidation, like I was returning to the natural state of fear.

These are the images left indelible on my mind, a world of primal energy where life and death embrace like mad lovers and you can’t tell where one begins and the other ends. A biologist once expressed his doubt that a benevolent god would be capable of creating parasitoid wasps. I’ve begun to subscribe more and more to the idea that there is no benevolent God and that Blake was right on the money.

The duality of God was not restricted to nature. It was also manifest in people, in their hands, their eyes, their poverty, and their smiles. Poverty, especially among indigenous people, is a serious problem in Ecuador. The average monthly income is $150. Old, toothless women still smartly dressed in their wool skirts and felt hats, beg on street corners. Little girls, large-eyed and pleading, work the city buses, and young boys turn cartwheels at intersections for change. However, once at a bar near Jatun Sacha, there happened to be a local talent show. Men and girls danced and lip-synched to their favorite Latin pop songs. Kids sold 25-cent raffle tickets to win a chicken. A dozen young boys and girls, both dressed in grass skirts performed a dance to a drum cadence. Mothers guided their children to their positions and gently reminded them of the next step in the choreography. Fathers explored the best vantage points to take pictures. I had to remind myself that I wasn’t in an American elementary school. I have two hypotheses to explain the uncanny similarity to middle America. One, America’s influence is so colossal that it casts its shadow across the world, a pervasive silhouette of American culture. Two, some things never change no matter where you are. I hope it’s the second one.

Sometimes it’s even hard for me to tell what happiness is. What I want as an American and I what I think of as a happy existence reflects my privileged life, and sometimes I struggled to understand the expectations others hold. While working at the Guacamayos field site, I met a woman, introduced only as Antonio’s Wife. Antonio’s Wife had two kids in tow. The older child must have been six or seven. She was twenty-one—the same age I am. Antonio’s Wife was also one of the jauntiest women I’ve ever met, full of life and movement and able to convey about 50 emotions with the word, “claro!” Once she made this huge cake with raspberry icing and shared the leftover milk with me. I would have given my first born to have some of that cake, but, tragically, I had to leave to census spiders before it was finished.
All this makes sense. If one accepts the simultaneous existence of both kindness and cruelty in the same divine individual, it’s not hard to understand why there is suffering in the world and how people can laugh in spite of it all.

Quito is the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of cities. With one hand it offers a hearty handshake at the airport, and with the other it slashes your pocket. The people here are more generous than I ever imagined. When I planned this trip, I had intended to stay in hostels for the time I would spend in the city.

Instead, I was greeted by Patricio Salazar and Gabriel Iteralde, from my BRAVO! sponsor, Dr. Tjitte De Vries’ laboratory in the Department of Biology at Pontificia Universidad Catolica del Ecuador. Gabriel took a complete stranger to live in his home. His home became our home. After spending a couple of weeks in the field, I looked forward to coming home, washing my laundry that would qualify as a biohazard, taking long hot showers, and sleeping in my nice warm bed. But these are trivial matters. What Gabriel and his family gave me was a family of my own when I was so far away from everything I knew. Gabriel and his family were not unique. The two other American researchers I worked with were also invited into homes.

At the same time, Quito is not the friendliest city. On the very first day I arrived, Gabriel noticed a car break-in across the street from his home. Guards with AK-47’s stand on nearly every street corner patrolling the entrances of banks and pharmacies. Crime is rampant despite the numerous policemen, whose ineffectiveness and corruption people accept with joking resignation.

Transportation in Quito is an experience. On the plus side, buses can get you nearly anywhere; they cost 25 cents and will pick you up and drop you off wherever you want; just be prepared to jump off while the bus is still moving. Knowing what bus to take and where to go is the tricky part. Street signs in Quito are usually absent or cleverly hidden on the sides of buildings. Buses go to mysterious destinations, like San Carlos, which don’t appear on any of the maps in my Lonely Planet guidebook. If you’re looking for excitement, try taking a taxi. The best way I can describe Quito driving is this: drivers know where they want to go, and they take the best route they can to get there. Pedestrians wade into streets at their own risk, red lights are just a suggestion, and “car horn” is a language all its own.

Nonetheless, I was able to navigate the city, visiting museums, restaurants, and stores. Finding my bearings wasn’t difficult because the volcano Pichincha was in the west, and if I could find the gigantic man talking on a cell phone on the Bell South building, I could always find my way home. I remember the triumphant day when I returned from the field and knew enough Spanish to guide my taxi driver through the maze of streets to home.

The goals of the BRAVO! program were to acquaint me with both science and other cultures, but I learned something else. Science provides a method to examine the universe objectively and to find some sort of interim truth, one step in the progressive understanding of our world. But science is also art; it is creativity and innovation. Science, like art, is driven by passion and aesthetic inspiration. I don’t think I could study spiders if I didn’t have some aesthetic appreciation for them, and it was through this search for aesthetic truth, that I saw life’s beautiful savagery. I’m not sure why I didn’t see it before. Perhaps American society tries too hard to separate the lamb from the tiger. We dream of an antiseptic world full of shiny happy people, where hunger and pestilence are relegated to the third world, to be crushed at some later date. But if we only want to see the bright happy aspects of life, we only see half the picture and a distorted truth. If we only want to see butterflies, we won’t see the spiders, tigers in miniature, waiting for prey in the forests of the night.

Eric Yip, undergraduate researcher with Dr. Leticia Aviles, Ecology & Evolutionary Biology