For those hoping to view wildlife, a visit to a tropical rainforest can be quite a frustrating experience. Unlike on the plains of Africa, rainforest animals can very easily conceal themselves among the dense vegetation, under a forest canopy that permits very little light to pass through. To make matters worse, many species avoid detection by resemblance to non-animal objects in their environment. Here, insects are the ultimate masters of disguise: stick insects and leaf-mimicking katydids imitate twigs and leaves—some even come complete with tiny spots meant to mimic diseased or chewed leaf bits. Still other insects sport patterns that allow them to blend in seamlessly on lichen-covered tropical tree trunks, some even with tiny frills and flourishes that bear an uncanny resemblance to mosses, fungi, and tree bark. By remaining unseen, small insects survive in a world teeming with hungry predators. Only one who is attuned to the jungle environment and the cryptic habits of its invertebrate denizens will appreciate the true, albeit hidden abundance of rainforest insects.
However, not all insects in the rainforest survive by hiding. Many biting and stinging insects—bees and wasps, mostly—invest little in camouflage, instead inviting hunters to attack with flashy colors and conspicuous behaviors. Those that do so are surprised by an unexpected counterattack and quickly learn that there are probably easier meals to be had. Importantly, predators are capable of remembering an unpleasant attempt to make a meal of an angry wasp, or an excited hive of stinging bees. So the rainforest, then, is full of predators, but those that have learned to avoid stinging insects—most predators probably learn this very early on—avoid insects that pack painful bites and stings. Given the extraordinary abundance of bees and wasps in the rainforest, this strategy appears to serve them well.
Below is a an example of just such a stinging insect: a wasp, right? Wrong. This is a picture of a katydid, a harmless relative of the crickets and grasshoppers. Biologists call such an animal a mimic: the katydid has escaped predation through protective resemblance—mimicry—of the much more noxious, stinging wasp, its model. In this case, the wasp must invest not only in a costly stinger and venom, but also in educating predators of its painful sting. The katydid knows nothing of these investments.
Amazingly, this katydid takes its trade one big step further than mere resemblance. Not only has this species foregone the typical, protective green coloration of most katydids, it has abandoned nearly every characteristic that makes it identifiable as a katydid at all. Instead of using its powerful hind legs for jumping the way katydids, crickets and grasshoppers tend to do, this individual gets where it needs to go by flying—in precisely the manner the wasp does. When it flies, the long hind legs trail behind, making the katydid nearly indistinguishable from its wasp model in flight. Even the antennae contribute to the deception, gesticulating back and forth, side to side, in a decidedly unkatydid-like, but wholly wasp-like manner. The katydid’s mimicry is exact to the finest detail.
Mimicry—the convergence, in this case, of not only the appearance but also the behavior of creatures as distantly related as a wasp and a katydid—is a potent testament to the transformative power of natural selection. And the wasp-mimicking katydid is but one example. The rainforest is overflowing with such wonder, if only we have the patience, and the eye, to look for it.