Showers, Spiders, and Small Houses

The past four days it has rained and rained and rained. In the US, this is a minor inconvenience--you worry about messing up your hair if it is fixed, or about getting your shoes muddy. Here, you worry about leaks and losing electricity, roads covered in water (which is no fun on a motorbike), and--the biggest issue for us--laundry. We have nine people living in one house. There is one washing machine...and one clothes line. On a normal day, we probably do two loads of laundry. It works just fine, though, because the heat dries up the clothes in no time. But when it rains for four days straight, you have problems. Cindy Brewer and I try to sneak out in between rain showers to hang everything up. When we hear tapping on our tin roof, we go running for the clothes...and hope we can get them before they're soaked all over again. Yesterday, we tried to improvise by hanging up a second clothesline under a sheltered area of the roof; we used poles (which are meant to hold mosquito nets over the beds) and ribbon hung from the rafters. It held for a little while, then came tumbling down. I think we need to come up with a better solution before the rainy season....

A few days ago (on one of my trips to the clothesline) I discovered that we had a not-so-welcome visitor. Close to the washing machine (and not so far from our bedroom) was a giant spider. I mean a tarantula sized spider...smaller body and longer legs, but a very scary fellow. He was probably three-quarters of the size of a hand (even though we all joke about how the spider gets bigger every time we tell the story). I yell for Enoch, but he hates spiders just as much as I do; he goes on and on about what a monster it is and we stare at the thing, at a loss about what to do. We're not about to step on the spider (I mean, who knows how fast the thing runs, or whether it jumps...and for all we know, it is a venomous spider with deadly poison that kills you on the spot). Tony Brewer is in China, so our only backup is Cindy. We call her up to the roof and point out the nasty creature. She stares at it from afar and the three of us just watch, perplexed. After going over our options a few times, we decide that the bug spray that we use on ants might slow it down at least. The benefit to spray is that we can stand back several feet (which we pray is out of jumping range), but the drawback is that we're not talking about some puny little ant.... So Enoch and I head back out, me armed with a shoe (for hurling, not smashing) and Enoch with a can of bug spray in one hand and a shoe in the other. Cindy and the girls watch from behind the safety of the door. (Wimps.) Enoch and I stand there for a while (to psyche ourselves up) then go in for the attack. Enoch starts to spray, and the spider leaps for a nearby hole/drain. I jump back and scream (never having fired my weapon) and Enoch continues to coat the drain, not satisfied until he makes himself sick from the fumes. So we think we're safe...for now. At least nothing is crawling out of that hole for a while.

Yesterday, Enoch and I went out to meet with a Vietnamese gentleman about our website. When we pulled back up to the house, Bi (our Vietnamese housekeeper/cook) was headed out on her motorbike. Bi doesn't speak a word of English and I can't even tell one syllable from the next in Vietnamese, but we can communicate a little bit with sounds and hand gestures. So Bi points to herself, then me, then her motorbike, and makes reeving sounds. I think, sure, why not, and hop on the back of her bike. Soon afterward, I start to second-guess my decision. First, Bi flies (I'm on the back squealing as she narrowly dodges motorbikes, bicycles, and pedestrians; Bi is laughing and mimicking me the whole time). Second, she keeps driving and driving and driving. I don't know if we're going to the market or her house or some unknown place, so I'm on the back taking everything in, trying to figure out how to tell Enoch the way to come and get me. We end up on rough, narrow roads, and finally stop in front of a small house. Bi motions for me to come in.

The house is tiny--concrete, with two dim rooms. In the front room, there is a bed, a broken fan, and an old TV. The second room is a kitchen/washroom, and there are burners on the ground for cooking. The roof is damaged, and there is a cloth drooping from the ceiling as extra protection from the weather. One child is there in the house--the others (two boys and one girl) are at school. The boy I'm introduced to is probably around 15, but not in school because (as best I can tell), he is mentally challenged. Bi's husband is also gone (at work, I assume). Total, there are six people living in two rooms, only one of which a bedroom. Bi communicates the sleeping arrangements to me using pictures: two are in the bed, and four are on the floor. I'm looking at the space in the tiny room and trying to figure out how on earth they fit.

Bi keeps talking in Vietnamese, and gesturing toward the floor. I'm really starting to sweat at this point--does she want me to stay for the night? We are so far away from my house, so it makes sense that she wouldn't want to drive me back. But I can't talk to anybody...and as far as I can tell, there isn't a bathroom...and there will be so many people sleeping on that floor, with no air conditioning, no padding, and who knows what crawling around the house. I'm smiling, trying to make the best of things, and hoping that there is a way out.

About 15 minutes later, my relief comes. Bi starts to make reeving noises again and points to the door. I smile and nod and thank God. On the ride home, I'm quiet. No more squeals of terror, just lost in my thoughts. It is really pitiful that I would be so afraid of spending one night in that house. Here I am in Asia to help people, and I can't take the thought of living the way most Vietnamese people live for 12 hours. I'm ashamed. But I'm learning. Life in Asia is more real to me than ever.