A Buffalo Attack in Ooty

In Ooty, a pleasant hill-station in Tamil Nadu’s Nilgiri Hills, I went for a quiet walk along the forested pathways above the town. Towards the end of my excursion, I spotted through a gap in the trees a meadow that promised fine views of the surrounding hills. I hopped a fence and strode across what turned out to be an enclosure for water buffalo belonging to a Toda pastoralist; the Toda are a tribal group from the rugged southern hills. It was indeed a beautiful spot, with the green hillsides sprawling beneath me. On my way back to the path I decided I would take this opportunity to photograph a buffalo, continuing my efforts catalog the diverse fauna of India.

I can say, in retrospect, that this was my first bad idea. At the sight of my camera, an unfamiliar and shiny object, one buffalo made loud menacing noises and began to flare his nostrils. He marched forward, closing the short distance that lay between us. Hoping to avoid incident, I turned to walk away. He continued to follow. I turned around and glared at him. He stopped.

I return to my photographic endeavors, this time selecting a seated, and supposedly more sedate, buffalo. I can say, in retrospect, that this was my second bad idea. In a second, he jumped to his feet and began to charge at me. Oh God. Apparently these guys aren’t as tame as their street-loping cousins! It was rather terrifying to have an animal that weighs several hundred pounds charge at me at full speed. I panicked as the “stand my ground” approach seemed to be leading only to paralysis. Alas, I did not have my trusty umbrella handy to use as a shield.

As the two of them began to close on me together, I ran away flailing my arms and screaming like a little girl: “Help me! Help me!” But the problem was that I could find the exact spot where I’d earlier hopped the fence. Frantic, I hid behind the cow shed. Thankfully, they didn’t follow me back there. They seemed more intent on avoiding the paparazzi than finishing me off. Still, I took some solace in knowing that, because I had spent the morning writing in the gardens, if I were to be impaled on their formidable horns I’d at least die with my journal up-to-date.

Behind the cow shed in a place of relative safety, I still had the task of surmounting a chest-high barbed wire fence, which I accomplished with a combination of haste and gingerliness, lest my cloven foes changed their mind. Having made it out of there without being crushed to death or contracting tetanus, I waved to the three planters that had responded to my cries for help. Since I spoke no Tamil, I used vivid hand gestures to explain what had just happened to me.

The first man, named Chinnu, nodded knowingly at my wild gesticulations. First he pointed to the buffalo and said “hungry.” Hungry? What did he mean by hungry? Then Chinnu pointed to me and said “escape… great escape.” I smiled and shook his hand. Now he’ll be telling the story of the idiot American who almost died in a cow patch for weeks. You know, I always assumed that, when I died in India, it would be on my bicycle or from dysentery. I never suspected a silent but angry buffalo would do me in. Safe but shaken, I sat on the far side of a fat tree to rest.