| caption: |
Chapter nine. First-Fruits Festival |
| caption: |
second buffalo hunt; filming |
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The animal was tied up, as the bull had been, on the flat space in front of the upper morung. Haichangnang and I stationed ourselves with the cameras in the porch of the lower, where we were almost opposite and had a refuge in case of need. The bucks lined up, the rod came down on the hairy flank, the runners surged forward, and the buffalo gave a convulsive bound; but in the confusion someone had forgotten to untie the hobbles. In a trice half a dozen men had hold of the tail at once, and kicking, yelling, plunging and bellowing, the tangle rolled straight down the short slope on top of us. The next thing I knew I was on top of the morung woodstack, fifteen feet above ground. I had not then, and have not now, any clear idea of how I came to be there. I was, however, filming away quite automatically at a howling maelstrom below, where arms, legs and hoofs waved, black (78) heads bobbed, bodies writhed, the bellows of the buffalo rose above a growing quarrel, red-blanketed headmen bored cursing and cuffing into the riot, and members of rival morungs shrieked abuse, slapped, punched, scuffled, kicked, wrestled and pulled hair. |
