THE RITUAL

The knife is out before you know it: about six inches long, it's the same type of blade that every farmer seems to carry in central Sulawesi. In the wink of an eye the young man holds up the knife for all to see, and in one quick, fluid movement he takes a swing and slashes a huge cut across the buffalo's neck, as calmly as if he's cutting through an inconvenient bush, or cutting down rice during the harvest. The buffalo changes in an instant. Eyes roll in their sockets, searching for something, like a young child in a crowded shopping mall who suddenly realizes that his mummy isn't by his side any more. The buffalo's legs jerk involuntarily, trying to run away from the pain, but its tied foot brings it crashing to the ground, convulsing. The cry of fear, loud and hoarse, becomes a loud gurgle as the buffalo throws its head backwards in a confused reflex action, turning the slit into a huge, gaping wound, pumping bright crimson blood into the arena with every heart beat. Dust from the ground sticks to the buffalo's hide, mixing with the blood and sweat, attracting flies in clouds as the buffalo gradually slows down, jerking less and starting to shiver.

My eyes shut tight, heart squeezed. Is it dead? All of a sudden, tears filled the chambers of my eyes. It certainly looks like it, but after a couple of minutes its hind left leg starts to twitch spasmodically, and as the young man who made the cut walks over to the body and wipes the blade of his knife clean on the buffalo's stomach, the beast reacts to the touch. It thrashes around, aware now that the creeping numbness is permanent, that it is dying, and for another two minutes its breathing changes from a gurgle to a hoarse coughing, a rattle that signals the final struggle: and then the beast lets its bowels go, its eyes change from panic stricken to glazed, and finally it's dead.

Within ten minutes of the buffalo's demise, the local boys have started to chop it up. It's amazing how this previously proud animal soon becomes nothing more than an exercise in butchery, and somewhere there's a point at which it ceases to be a buffalo, and becomes a selection of prime cuts and offal. Looking at the huge pile of red cutlets, it's strange to think that just half an hour ago, every piece of bone and flesh had a function, every globule of glistening gut was essential to the existence of a water buffalo: now it's off with the skin, slice open the stomach and discard the cud, chop through bone and sinew by taking huge axe swings with the butcher's knife... bits of body fly everywhere as the flies home in on the smelliest parts, and odors of guts, blood and stomach contents fill the air. No wonder everyone smokes kreteks at funerals.