On Friendship and a Caterpillar Burn

“Lots of people want to ride with you in the limo, but what you want is someone who will take the bus with you when the limo breaks down.” –Oprah Winfrey

Tonight, as we were walking through a congested neighborhood and marketplace in Guwahati called Uzan Bazaar, I felt an unfamiliar burning sensation on my upper back which hit me with a slow intensity. I reached back to see what it was and was even more perplexed, as this thorny burning spread to my hand and the other areas of my neck and back which I had touched. Amidst the darkness and chaos of the street, I stepped aside and asked my teammates walking with me to find out what it was. Thahira reached back and tried to wipe away the yellow powder that had accumulated on my back, and Martin did the same. They reasoned it must be some kind of leaf or plant that had fallen from a tree, but a few seconds later, they noticed that this acute prickly sensation had spread to their fingers as well.

We all tried our best to remain calm, despite my growing sense of panic at the uncertainty of what had at this point spread over my back, neck and hands and seemed to be pricking me from under the skin in hundreds of places. After unsuccessful attempts at using water and clothing to dull the pain, we decided to abandon our usual 40 minute walk back to where we stayed in search of an auto-rickshaw, which could get us home in a quarter of the time (although we weren't sure if heading to a doctor would be the smarter option). Inside the auto, I sat up right, making sure not to touch the back seat or anything to my back or hands. We arrived at our lodging and headed to the common room, where we correctly figured we could find out what to do from some of our local colleagues. After Martin described the incident to a captive audience (four or five people), nearly everyone looked just as confused as us. However one woman, Genny, came forward and told us not to worry; this was caused by a caterpillar-like insect native to Assam that she knew about from her village, which spread its small hairs across human skin upon contact. (What a relief...it was actually a living organism that had spread all over my back? My anxiety increased at the thought). But the remedy was simple: rub human hair over the affected areas to remove the invisible caterpillar hairs.

Before I continue, I must admit that I have been feeling waves of homesickness and longing for both the conveniences and familiarity of life in the US these past few weeks. While I am enjoying the project, my team members and our group dynamic, I have been missing my friends stateside. Outside of my team and our project coordinator, the people I have met in our host institution and where we reside seem cordial, yet dry. Interactions tend to be limited to asking about the present state of affairs (e.g. how is work, how do you like Assam, local food, and other pleasantries) and even extended conversations do not usually develop into much more. My friends in the US are outgoing, charismatic, and lively to be around. This is, of course, my perception, and there are also elements of freedom and security (financial, political, social) that may be very different by comparison and could easily affect social norms and acceptable behaviour.

In any case, what happened next changed my perception of the people I had labeled unexciting, and it made me in some ways re-consider the meaning of kinship and community. After Genny told us the remedy, she offered her help without hesitation, and we headed to my room to treat it. This meant spreading her hair over my back several times to extract the burning caterpillar hairs out from under my skin. And because it had spread so much, we actually required the help of another young woman with longer, thicker hair to assist; before I knew it, my room was like a kitty club of young Assamese women, plus me as the confused Westerner. Even the cook and her young daughter had arrived with special oils and a lime ointment, to apply to my earlobes (??) after the hair treatment, washing and talcum powder had been applied to my back and hands. After all of the commotion died down and the women filtered out, Genny explained that I would be fine and symptom-free within the hour. I asked her what would have happened if I had gone to a doctor instead of coming to them, and learned that I had made the right decision. She explained that most people in Assam are unfamiliar with this rare insect and its treatment; only because she grew up in a rural village did she know. (In other words, the doctor would not have known what to do.)

After this experience, I felt an obvious gratitude and new respect for these women and this community. Their care toward me and personal sacrifice during my time of humiliation and fear was something which I had rarely felt before in my life; only from my parents, siblings and a few very close friends. Experiencing this from people who barely knew me was a testament to their culture’s emphasis on collective responsibility and community caretaking, which could teach us volumes.