Creatures

I’m very happy to report that while cockroaches are part of our household, we are only occasionally aware of their presence. When I do see one, I’ve taken to scooping it up and depositing it outside, hopeful that it will find more plentiful food sources elsewhere.

We have three types of other (known) roommates. My favourites are the small geckos that sometimes appear on a wall. I suspect that they and the small spiders that I sometimes see in nooks and corners are equally beneficial in controlling the insect population.

Less beneficent, from a human perspective, are the termites, a seemingly persistent reminder that nature is ready at any moment to reclaim our human habitations. The strongest stipulation in our lease agreement is that as tenants we are obliged to immediately report any sign of termites to our landlord, or be liable for the cost of the damage they incur.

Because our flat was newly painted and repaired before we moved in, Marine and I thought termites would be unlikely. One of the other volunteers commented during her first visit to our home that she could see where the carpenters had repaired termite damage and sealed vulnerable areas in the ceiling. It took the visit of another volunteer a few weeks later to bring to our attention a foot-long worm-like trail on one of the brick walls, and to confirm that the dust we saw under the door hinge of the refrigerator and along a baseboard were other signs of their presence.

What surprises me most about both termites and the local mosquitoes is how tiny they are. In my mind, I had associated the size of their bodies with the magnitude of threat they present to habitats and health – but the opposite is true. Termites, at last the ones in our fridge, are the tiniest ants I’ve ever seen, and the mosquitoes here are little bigger than no-see-ums on the west coast.

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The Tuesday after the Easter long weekend, I am (unsuccessfully) fighting off a cold. Because I don’t feel up to cycling, I get a ride with Marine, and at my lunch break I walk over to a wooded area and have a nap in the shade.

I still feel tired when we get home, but put on the celestial apron my stepdaughter made for me years ago and begin to make myself a big pot of lentil soup. I put the pressure cooker on the stove, open a drawer to get a wooden spoon, and suddenly near the wrist of my light pink, long-sleeved, knit cotton shirt there is a black, furry spider, about 10 centimetres wide.

I jump, shake my arm, and scream – loudly. Then form my scream into a word: “Marine! Marine!” She emerges from her bedroom. “Help! I need you!” The spider has disappeared, but I have no idea where it’s gone. Is it still on me? Marine grabs her glasses, and comes to investigate.

Finding nothing, we reassure ourselves that the spider is just as scared as I am, and is either cowering under the stove, or has already escaped through some secret crack that we would never discover. Neither of us is brave enough to get down on the floor and look for it. I take a few deep breaths and calm myself, Marine goes back to her bedroom, and I resume cooking.

Onions, spices, tomatoes – I chop and measure, adding each layer of flavour to the pot, and as the hot oil transforms them they begin to scent the air. I pick up the wooden spoon and reach in to stir the lovely mixture – and there is the spider, emerging from the pocket of my apron.

More screams! Marine runs out of her bedroom. “Get it outside!” she says. She opens the front door, and I run over to it. As I get to the threshold, the spider falls from the apron – and now he is on my right pant leg, scampering around to the back of it, near my ankle. More screams! I lift my leg, hoping to shake it away, and as I do Marine screams, “It’s gone! It’s outside!” "Is it really?" I think. But I back away from the door, and she slams it shut and locks it. We look at each other in relief.

Much later in the evening, I feel calm and curious enough to wonder whether it really could have been a tarantula. I google “spiders of Malawi”, and there appears a large, black, furry cousin of the creature with which I was in such intimate proximity earlier. Here it is called a baboon spider, but it is indeed a type of tarantula. They range in size from 1.3 to 9 centimetres in diameter, and take ten years to mature. Normally, they are reclusive and stay in or close to their nests, but at some point a male spider’s libido draws it out of hiding and motivates it to wander further afield in search of a willing female. What I encountered must have been one of these larger, libidinous, roaming males.

Photo credit: Peter Webb (I was not calm enough to take a photo myself.)

I also learn that baboon spiders have many predators, including birds and other spiders, and that their population is threatened by humans who collect them as pets or curiosities. I’m reminded of a friend who once counselled a woman experiencing arachnophobia, and that part of the treatment involved learning how vulnerable and fragile spiders actually are; developing empathy for them.

I think how possible it is that the spider that escaped through our door could have been injured during our encounter, and I do feel empathy for it. I wonder whether that empathy would make me calmer and more rationale in similar circumstances. I imagine myself seeing the spider on my sleeve, serenely recognizing our shared essence, gently transporting it outside, and setting it free to find its mate — a kind of horse whisperer for spiders. But it’s more likely I would scream equally wildly if it were on me again.

Copyright © 2019 Lynn Thorsell, All rights reserved.

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Malawi album on Google Photos

Please note that the views expressed here are mine alone, and do not necessarily reflect the views of Cuso International.