Feel free to laugh at me for this. I did.

Yesterday I had what I think is best described as a culture-shock day.

Last night, I was sitting in the living room talking to Joanna on gmail chat, and I kept hearing a click-click-click noise. At first I thought it was the fan blowing things across the reed mat.

But then I saw it.

The demon scorpion spider of doom.

You might think I'm exaggerating a bit. But you'd be wrong. In Zambia they're called rain spiders. I'm not sure what they're called here. Whatever they are, they're about two inches in diameter (not including legs), dark brown, speedy little buggers. And they are nigh impossible to kill. Even if you're fast enough to get to it and hit it, I swear to you that it has some sort of armor. Spiders are not supposed to have hard exoskeletons, but somehow these do. You can whack them with a shoe, and they hardly seem to notice. You have to truly beat them in order to kill them.

Now, I'm not easily freaked out by creepy-crawly things. I can handle the daddy long-legs-looking spider that lives in my bathroom. I can handle wall spiders. I can even handle the itty-bitty jumping spiders that pop out of nowhere.

What I can not handle is a spider that makes clack-clack-clack noises as it runs across my living room floor. But spiders are not supposed to clack-clack-clack. Just like spiders are not supposed to have hard exoskeletons. If it were just a slight rustling, shuffling sort of noise, I could forgive it. I cannot forgive a spider that clack-clack-clacks across my living room and clack-clack-clacks under the couch where I am sitting.

So I hurried to bed not long after that, eager for the protection of my mosquito net. But as I was changing into my pajamas, I heard a faint "meow!" And then again, but more distressed, "Meooooow!" I looked around the room. I saw no cat. I continued about my business. But there it was again: "Meeeoooooow!"

We have been trying to train Chi to be an outside cat ever since I've been here -- I'm allergic to him, and none of us particularly like him. But, well, he's not the brightest kitty in the litter, I'm afraid, and he's previously been spoiled, so the training hasn't gone so well. Lately he's taken to hiding in odd places -- the school library, the teacher workroom, the bathtub -- and getting locked in until someone discovers him many hours later.

His newest hiding place? ... My underwear drawer.

We've decided that the cat needs to find a new home.





Now, neither of these two incidents is really a big deal. And I know that. But somehow, some days, everything is a big deal, and yesterday was one of them. This is, of course, a sign of mild culture shock, and I know that, too. And today I can laugh about it. But sometimes it's just the little things that are frustrating, you know?