Every day in the United States, an average of 130 people die from gunshot wounds. That’s one every eleven minutes. Over a year it adds up to roughly 47,000 lives – more than the population of Dubbo or Orange – lost to homicide, suicide, and accident.
But life carries on. Americans go to work, go to school, go shopping. Classrooms install bullet-resistant lockdown blinds. Parents debate which backpack offers the best chance of stopping a round. This staggering toll becomes a “fact of life,” a political argument, a cultural wedge – anything but the stark public-health emergency the numbers plainly describe. The risk is diffuse, familiar, and wrapped in enough partisan dynamite to make it easier to shrug and say, “It won’t happen to me.”
And yet, to my continued amusement a high number of these same Americans – perfectly comfortable living in a country with 120 guns for every 100 citizens – tell me they could never visit Australia.
Why?
“Too many spiders. I could never.”
(The “won’t happen to me” clause doesn’t apply to spiders.)
Such is their manic fear of Australia’s arachnids.
Not sharks (we lose about three people a year to those). Not crocodiles (fewer than one a year). And surprisingly, not drop bears. No, it’s the eight-legged locals that keep them away. They’ve seen the YouTube clips: a huntsman the size of a dinner plate sprinting across a lounge-room wall; a brave Aussie with a Tupperware container and the steady nerves of a bomb-disposal expert. That’s apparently all it takes. Entire family holidays cancelled because “Australia is basically Arachnophobia: The Continent.”
Let’s run the numbers – because numbers are soothing.
Since 1979, the year reliable records began, exactly one person has died in Australia from a spider bite. One. A man in 2016 who tragically did not receive antivenom in time after a redback bite. In that same period, champagne corks have killed more Australians than spiders. So have vending machines. And are more likely to die operating a lawnmower than from anything with fangs.
And yet the myth is unbreakable. I’ve watched grown adults in Texas – where open-carry is as normal as wearing boots – go visibly pale the moment I mention that huntsmen have a real fondness for hitching a ride in cars. One of the great (and slightly wicked) motoring spectacles in Australia is spotting an oncoming car whose occupants are suddenly screaming because a huntsman – appearing from seemingly nowhere – is taking a casual stroll across the inside of their windscreen. (Yes, I’ve witnessed it in real time. Pure comedy gold.)
“Do they… drop on you?” they whimper, as though gravity operates under special rules in the Southern Hemisphere.
It’s a perfect case study in how humans assess risk. Familiar horrors become background noise; exotic, unfamiliar ones become existential threats. Daily exposure to gun violence has dulled the American limbic system to bullets, but a single viral video of a harmless (and, let’s be honest, rather majestic) spider is enough to trigger full fight-or-flight.
The irony is delicious. In the United States you can buy an AR-15 more easily than a headache tablet, yet Australians are the reckless ones because we share a continent with arachnids that haven’t killed anyone since the Hawke government.
Maybe one day an enterprising tour operator will offer a combined package:
“Visit Australia – Spider-Free Guarantee! Then fly home via the United States, where we’ll throw in a complimentary active-shooter drill at no extra charge.”
Until then, I’ll keep inviting my American friends down under. I promise the only thing likely to jump on them is a seagull trying to steal a chip.
And if they do spot a huntsman on the ceiling? Just wave. He’s more scared of you than you are of him.
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Roswell, as everyone knows, I’m a man of few words, so…
Excellent!
Thank you, Steve.
If it’s praise you’re giving out, one word is hardly enough. You should still be typing.
Good one, Roswell. I love a good spider story. You might know this already, but I had occasion to briefly work with an American up in the NT, just out of Larrimah (yes, that place!), anyways, he had Native North American as part of his genetic mix, and he told me his grandmother taught him at a young age to respect spiders, don’t kill them or destroy their web. I changed my attitude completely after hearing that, not that I was a rabid killer but I did get a bit antsy if they were about to drop on me from above.
Also had the experience of driving a Falcon sedan in western Qld with four other men on board, around 5 miles from a homestead to a shearing shed, one gate along the way, only to find out a couple of hours later that we’d shared the ride with a large adult brown snake that had curled up under the front seat.
And was once offered accommodation in a picker’s hut on an orchard that turned out to home to many many redbacks… they were everywhere. I moved out after the first day…. my wife with our then 1yr old son were not impressed!
SD, a man of few words? Nice try, Steve.
Kanga, does that make me a try-hard? 🙂
Always love your stories.
I’ve also duly noted their reluctance: I would love to go to Australia but oh, those spiders and snakes keep me away.
That’s when I send them a photo of the one Aussie animal to truly fear: the “megalania”. I’m bad business for QANTAS.
I am happy to give hunstmen ( the spider)houseroom as long as they stay above head high. If they venture lower l chase them back up.The bite is not that bad , but the mozzies they consume are far more dangerous to health .
I was having a shower at home (in the old bathroom), there was a small window about 7′ above the shower area. I had a eerie feeling I was being watched, looked up at the window, nah. And then I saw it, a very large black-eyed huntsman peering down from the window sill. I just said, “G’day, thanks for your service.”, and continued on with my ablutions.
I have a live and let live policy towards spiders here (except whitetails, because they seem to like biting me and I react badly to their bites), but the rule with huntsmen is for them to keep away from both the bedroom and the computer. Once they start idly wandering across the screen while I’m busy doing things, it’s eviction time. Or when I’m heading off to bed after the usual preparations only to find an eight-legged monster calmly having a nap right in the middle of my pillow …
My all-time worst, however, was once driving along the coast road from Cygnet back towards the city, going around a corner to find the sun in my eyes, and flipping down the visor. The brief moment of awareness of something vaguely furry touching the fingertips is not sufficient warning to halt what is an automatic movement for an experienced driver nor, apparently, sufficient warning for said vaguely furry something to hold onto the visor. Neither myself nor the biggest huntsman I’ve ever seen enjoyed the following moments of intimate contact (far too intimate, because you can guess exactly where it landed).
If the next corner had been left instead of right I probably wouldn’t be here today.