Oct 262014

lostI lose things. Gone is the Benetton scarf that was my only souvenir from a great vacation in Italy. Gone are the pricy sunglasses I bought in France (as a replacement after losing the previous pair). And on this Sunday morning, I cannot even find my phone. I feel dangerously close to losing my temper as well.

And then there is the prototype.

It was one of two engineering samples that a client entrusted to me, and I cannot find it. If this little piece of electronic equipment fell into the wrong hands, this mishap could scuttle my professional reputation and sink my career. I already searched the bag five times. I already retraced all my steps since I last saw the prototypes, when I showed them to a potential customer. I clearly remember putting them back in my bag at the end of the meeting. Could one of them have fallen out of the bag when I rode home on my motorcycle? Did I just leave it there, on the cafeteria table? What am I going to tell my client?

Focus! Right now I am looking for my phone; there is nothing I can do about the prototype until Monday. So I search the living room, the dining room, my home office, the kitchen, the bathroom, the toilet, the dogs’ beds, and even the garbage can. Nothing. My blood is boiling, and I’m thirsty. I look for my water bottle on the side of the bed.

Right next to it, my cell phone awaits.

I simply left it there when I got up, instead of taking it with me as usual. Baffled, I grab the phone and sit on the bed. The phone was right here all along; everything else was a story I told myself, a trick of the mind.

A crazy idea goes through my head: maybe the prototype is also exactly where it’s supposed to be. I run to the computer, search for the shipping confirmation email, and open the packing list. The truth explodes on the screen: my client only shipped one prototype, not two. I slap my forehead and let out a sigh of relief.

My martial arts Master once explained that losing something is an illusion: the item you are looking for is exactly where you left it. I just learned this lesson first hand.

Now If I could only find this Benetton scarf…

~Cedric, 10/26/14

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Jan 052014

Lakehouse in San Marcos de AtitlanOn our first night in the lake house, while brushing my teeth, I knew someone was watching. Reflected in the bathroom mirror, I counted half a dozen black spots on the wall behind me. T-shirt clad, toothbrush in mouth, armed with a Nike flip-flop, I sprung into action. I struck again and again, and then some more. Arachnophobia had turned me into a mass murderer.

After all these years, I know the symptoms very well — eardrums and temples throbbing to the accelerated pace of my heartbeat, drops of sweat pearling on every inch of my skin, and cold shivers running up and down my spine. Reason vanishes. Panic takes over. I scream like a little girl, jump off the trail and run away, stomp to kill, rush to the closet and fumble for the bug spray, grab the nearest shoe or makeshift weapon. I must escape the foe or exterminate it; there is no other alternative. Any grown man should know better. I don’t.

In the United States on average 6.6 people die from spiders every year, compared with 20 from horses, 53 from bees or wasps, and a whopping 15,000 from homicide. Yet cases of hoplophobia (fear of guns) remain unheard of, while a quarter of the men and half the women in the U.S. are confessed arachnophobes. For us, phobia trumps logic.

When I embarked on a yearlong road trip in Latin America I knew that sooner or later, willingly or not, I would confront my nemesis. In fact, I secretly hoped an extended journey in spider habitat would help me get over the fear. Yet here I was, in this mansion in Guatemala planted right above the sapphire waters of Lake Atitlán, overlooking an ancient volcano… decimating entire families of innocent spiders in order to brush my teeth in peace.

How did it come to this? I had to find out. Maybe understanding the roots of my fear would clear a path to overcoming it.


One night, in deep sleep after a full day playing at the beach with other ten-year old kids, I sensed a threat. I woke myself up. Still adjusting to the pitch-dark room, my eyes instinctively honed in on a large spider crawling on the ceiling, straight above my head. I jumped out of bed, panicked, and ran to my teenage brother Marc for protection.

“Do you know why it came above you?” he asked with a grin.

I shook my head, too overwhelmed too speak.

“Spiders get on the ceiling to sneak up on their victims without being seen,” Marc continued. “They jump from above to catch you by surprise.”

“You just wanna scare me,” I said, not even convincing myself.

“Fine, don’t believe me, but it’s true. One day the priest showed up at Sunday school with the corner of his lip swollen like a strawberry. A spider bit him during the night. You should have seen his face, it was really ugly.”

“How do you know it was a spider and not a mosquito?”

“There were two bite marks. Only spiders do that.” Marc curled his thumb and index finger then joined their tips, mimicking the pinch of the bite. “The space between the two marks shows how big the spider was.”

Mortified, I sat on my brother’s bed for a few minutes before gathering the strength to stand up. Slowly I walked back to my own bed and stood in front of it, inspecting the ceiling – nothing in sight. What if Marc was right? What if the spider dropped onto the bed like he said? Using only the tips of my fingers, I pulled the sheets delicately, dreading what I might find inside. Hidden between the folds, there it was – black and shiny, a body shaped like a figure 8 with short beefy legs sticking on the sides. It bolted. So did I.

As it turns out, spiders don’t really drop on people intentionally. They may, however, lose their grip when moving against gravity – like on a ceiling – and simply fall. Spiders too make mistakes. Sometimes, when threatened, they may also decide to let go and drop down in order to escape a predator. Come to think of it, by suddenly jumping out of bed I probably scared the spider into tumbling down the equivalent of a fifty-story building without a parachute. No wonder it hid under the covers to recover from the shock.

But Marc’s spooky story convinced my young mind easily, for the seed of fear had been sown in me long ago.


Sandokan aka the Tiger of MalaysiaA five-year old boy sitting in front of the TV, I screamed to warn my hero, but Sandokan could not hear me. He did not notice the tarantula sliding down from the trees above; neither did he feel its hairy legs landing on his own hairy arm – the good-hearted pirate was too busy spying on the villains who kidnapped his beloved lady Marianne. The spider bit and disappeared.

Sandokan almost died. An orange-sized lump grew on his arm as the venom started paralyzing his body, threatening to stop his heart. Fearless, he chopped the lump off with his scimitar, bandaged the wound with shreds of his tunic, and single-handedly rescued Lady Marianne from the villains. I cheered for my hero.

Some get arachnophobia from the trauma of a painful spider bite, others from watching a French-Italian TV series from the seventies with a cheap tarantula puppet for special effects.

Was this truly the origin of my fear? I had doubts. If a TV show did this to me, an entire generation of French and Italian kids should have been traumatized. There had to be something else.

“The fear of spiders expresses dread of mother-incest and horror of the female genitals” Sigmund Freud once said. So children abused by their mother can develop arachnophobia, and the same goes for those nosy kids who walk in on their parents having sex. My memories lack any abuse or recollection of catching my parents in the act, but in Freudian logic this does not prove anything.

Phobias act as a vehicle to express the fear caused by something that the conscious mind finds too shocking to remember. In other words, if a traumatic event caused the phobia, it cannot be remembered, because if it were remembered there would be no phobia. The logic is as flawless as it is useless.

Fortunately vaginas do not frighten me, Sigmund, spiders do. So it seems arachnophobia is one thing I cannot blame on my mother. Another dead-end.


“Say your name out loud three times,” asked RZ, my spiritual teacher and therapist, when I phoned her for guidance. Neither childhood memories nor Freudian psychology had quenched my thirst for reasons, and I was ready to expand my horizon to different dimensions. RZ had looked into my past lives before; I knew the drill.

She remained silent for a short while, travelling through space and time, opening and closing invisible folders, seeking truth.

“It happened in a jungle,” she said, “probably in Central or South America. I don’t know exactly when, but it was centuries ago. You betrayed your tribe.”

“What did I do, exactly?” I asked.

“You gave information to the tribe’s enemies, and your people found out. So they beat you up and tied you to a tree. Then they brought the tarantulas. The last thing you saw was a set of red eyes before a spider ate your face.” RZ paused while her words sunk in.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” she said cheerfully. Then she burst in hilarity, her way of dissipating the tension.

A wave or relief washed over me. When your fears lurk in a deep pit of darkness, even the most horrible image is an improvement. I laughed with RZ. Humor heals.


Goliath Tarantula (source: Wikipedia)Luis, our nature guide in the Amazon rainforest, bends down, grabs a piece of stick and rubs it against his sweaty forehead. “I put the smell of my flesh on the stick,” he explains, “to give it the taste of meat.” We gringos just walked past the spider hole without a second look, but Luis does not miss anything. This jungle is his turf.

Since we left Guatemala to continue our journey southbound there has been no memorable spider encounter, so the adventurer in me couldn’t pass the opportunity to spend a few days in the rainforest. I flew from the city of Quito, high up in the Andes, to Coca, a port town in the heart of the jungle, then took a river boat, and finally stepped into a small paddle canoe, the only means of transportation in the deep jungle of the Amazon basin. Indiana Jones would approve.

On our first day here I told Luis that I was afraid of spiders and I hoped to conquer my fear by seeing real tarantulas. The zealous guide took this request at heart. Once upon a time, long before jungle expeditions became eco-tourism, Luis lead an Englishman and his camera crew deep into the rainforest, searching for wild birds. The man’s name was David Attenborough. And now, during our jungle hike, Luis is determined to make a giant spider come out of its hole in order to fulfill my own wish. What the hell was I thinking?

“Goliath tarantulas,” he explains, “hunt birds, rodents and other small animals. They jump on their prey, strangle it, and bite to paralyze it with their venom. Then they drag the victim into their hole and eat it in their own time.”

Luis asks me to get closer and point my flashlight inside the hunter’s hide. Then he rubs the stick on his forearm for an extra dose of human meat flavoring. Meanwhile I am having a heated argument with myself.

“Only 7 types of spiders out of 40,000 species in the world are considered dangerous to humans,” says my left brain, “and most of them are small. Larger spiders, including the bird-eating Goliath tarantula, are usually incapable of causing harm to humans.”

“Bullshit!” replies my right brain. “What if the spider jumps out of the hole onto the stick, then gets angry when it discovers the trick, and attacks the nearest fool nearby? Apart from Luis, I’m the nearest fool. Don’t spiders prefer the soft flesh of gringos? Mosquitos do.”

“Luis wouldn’t risk losing his tip,” says left brain. “Clearly, there is no danger.”

Two furry pedipalps appear, shutting off the chatter in my head and turning my blood to pure adrenalin. The feeling is excruciatingly familiar, yet something is different. Fear still oozes from every pore in my skin, I can still smell its acrid perfume and taste its bitterness, but it no longer controls me. I can breathe.

The Goliath tarantula won’t come out.


Cedric, April 2013.

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Sep 162012

It was a present from the cousins who always took pride in bringing the most unusual gifts. A black snake, fierce and threatening with ruby red shiny eyes, the kind of nasty predator that’s jumps on you for no reason… except this specimen is a plastic toy. After a bunch of good laughs the Chinese-born reptile ended up in the bathroom. There it lay quietly for almost twenty years…


In spite of all its charms the house has been listed on the market for several months, victim of the real estate bust. Today the family is going out to see the end-of-year school play. The phone rings as they stepped out the door: their agent Lisa wants to bring some clients for a last-minute showing. “Great!” says Steve. “For once we won’t have to hide in the garage*.”

Lisa is a perfectionist: she shows up at the house well before the appointment to inspect the place and tidy it up. She straightens the bed linen, puffs up the pillows and opens all the curtains to let more sunshine in. She opens the bathroom door, sees the snake, lets out a scream worthy of a horror movie actress, and slams the door shut. She calls Steve but of course both parents turned the cell phones off during their kids’ play. Crap! She calls her husband: he’ll know what to do. Ten minutes later John comes in, armed with a shovel. He opens the bathroom door delicately, takes one cautious look… and closes the door gently, not wanting to disturb the wild animal. He turns back to his wife, pensive, holding the shovel with one hand and scratching his chin with the other:
– “It’s right next to the toilet. If I hit it I might damage something. Is that OK?”
– “Of course it’s not OK!” she snaps furiously. “How am I going to sell this goddam place if you smash the toilet seat with your stupid shovel?”
Lisa calls the animal control services and stays on hold for fifteen minutes before hanging up. The buyers are to arrive in the next twenty minutes. She paces the kitchen like a caged animal. “Think! Who could get rid of this fucking snake?” Her eyes stop on a post-it note stuck on the fridge: the cleaning lady’s contact details. She may have dealt with a situation like this before… it’s worth a shot.
– “Hello, my name is Lisa. I’m Steve’s real estate agent. I’m at their house and there’s a snake in the bathroom. Can you come over right now and get rid of it?”
– “…”
– “Don’t you understand? It’s an emergency!”
– “Wait a minute. You said the snake was in the bathroom… does it happen to be next to the toilet by any chance?”
– “Yes. At least that’s where it was when I looked a few minutes ago.”
– “I don’t think it’s gonna move much. It’s a plastic toy.”
The girl laughs her heart out but Lisa already hung up.

After the play Steve checks his cell phone; there’s a message from Lisa. He crosses his fingers and prays: hopefully he’ll get an offer this time. “Steve, this is Lisa. I just wanted to ask you how anyone could be STUPID enough to have a fake snake in their bathroom, especially when they are trying to sell the house.” He puts his cell phone back in his pocket and wonders how anyone could be stupid enough to believe it was a real snake.


Cedric, 9/16/12
PS: Thank you Steve for sharing your story that inspired me to write this text.

*Note for non-Americans: it is common practice in the US for homeowners to leave their house while potential buyers visit it – so they can imagine themselves living in the place instead of considering it as someone else’s home.

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