Buffallo Country
October 25, 2006
It happened in the evening of a very hot day. I was about to say a summer day but that’s a bit irrelevant, as all days seem like summer here, no matter the month. They are always hot, with the occasional rain, but even after that the air feels like a warm towel pressed to your skin, keeping it damp.
I was tired after 7 periods of almost non-stop talking and on my way to talking some more. You see, I’m a teacher and although many would smile and nod at the nobility of my profession it does little good to me, as I feel neither noble nor extremely happy with it. I didn’t choose it, let’s say that the fate chose it for me.
But anyway, that’s not the story I wanted to tell. What I wanted to say was that I was riding on the back of this motorcycle-taxi, holding the little handlebar at the back with my left hand while my right was clutching a bag with an English book inside. I was on my way to teach 2 students after school and just thinking about it made me feel even more tired.
It doesn’t take long to reach their house, maybe 15 minutes of which 5 are spent on a motorcycle and the rest walking. The motorcycle goes on a straight line for a short while, leaving behind rows of small shops and a small market that looks like it’s always full of people (except on weekends) on the right side and a temple on the left, after which it turns left going up a street that resembles a small hill. Now the view changes quite suddenly revealing a small street going uphill, on both sides of which are patches of grass, more on the left side. This green zone is located right under a new and not very used highway.
As the motorcycle was surging forward preparing to do battle with the hill, I saw the first of them emerging from the tall grass near the road. It was completely black, the skin stretched tightly across its body, the familiar shape of the horns pointing up, the long tail trying to keep the flies away. It was unexpected and wonderful at the same time, although I felt fear as well. It was not alone, as it turned out. A small herd of buffaloes was following as the first one tried to cross the street, unmindful of any vehicles coming their way. They started walking together, their movements heavy and slow. And then it hit me. The smell, their smell. It brought back memories of a happy time when I was about 10 and my grandmother was still alive and my grandfather was taking care of the villages’ buffalo herd. It brought back the smell of warm milk freshly taken from the cows and drank with pleasure and a desire for more. An age when the mad cow disease was unheard of, when all food was natural and fresh and enjoyed the way only a child can. The smell of dung was not something I looked forward to in those days but now it became a smell I was remembering with great fondness.
Those were the magic days, when all I had to worry about was taking the hot food that my grandmother had prepared, to my grandfather for lunch.
I remembered Mura, slow and placid, and Sugar, who would get mad at the sight of red; they were my grandfather’s buffaloes for many years. Sugar was the crazy one, running after red cars on the street and sticking its big head in if the driver was unlucky enough to have left his window open. I smiled remembering all these things and when the smile died a part of the tiredness accumulated that day went away with it and left me feeling happy and a little sad at the same time.
- August 29, 2005 -
We all have stories to tell. Sometimes we bring them forth and sometimes we keep them buried. Here are my stories. I hope you will enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them. 
