How to Ride a Water Buffalo

The farmer and his water buffalo

Vietnam is a hot, sticky place. Anyone with a map could tell you that. What the maps won’t describe is the weight of the humidity, the scent of heavy vegetation and roasted seafood mingling in the night air, and the sound of strange birds calling out in the early morning. Maps also don’t specify how the rules of the road are for suckers. I’m sure I was almost killed at least eight times by scooters (yes, scooters) coming from unexpected directions. And that was just the first day.

We had the wonderful luck of finding a local tour guide, Thuan, who was able to provide everything we could possibly want away from our hotel in Da Nang. If you ever get a chance to visit Vietnam, I cannot recommend Hue Private Excursions enough. On our third day, Thuan had arranged for us to experience traditional rice farming in Hoi An, and we thought it would enrich our cultural awareness or some yuppie nonsense like that. I think we both just wanted to ride the water buffalo and learn a little something about rice paddies, a novelty for people raised in the Midwest. 

On arriving at the local farmer’s house, we shed our shoes and changed into smocks and conical hats. The water buffalo plodded into the rice paddy, and my husband bravely decided to go first. While watching him slowly circle the paddy led by the farmer, I came to a couple of conclusions. First, the slow pace was probably a guarantee that I wouldn’t fall into the water. Second, the water buffalo seemed good-natured; not in a doggish way, but rather, almost bored with us. I’m convinced I saw him rolling his eyes while we tried to guide him around the place he walked every day.

When it was my turn, I was optimistic. Eric hadn’t fallen off, and he had never even been on a horse. However, my minimal experience with horses was worth exactly nothing once the water buffalo started moving. Trying to stay on him was like sitting on a massive ball that wobbled from side to side while going forward. The rest of the world fell away as I focused on simply staying perched on the animal’s broad back. I briefly wondered whether my husband was recording this in case I died of embarrassment after falling off. I pictured my funeral: “We are gathered here today because, in a tragic misjudgment, Tiffany decided it was a good idea to ride a water buffalo.”

This is a grimace, not a smile

After an eternity of three or four minutes filled with mute, desperate prayer, we had almost made a complete circuit of the paddy. It was the homestretch, and I began to relax. The farmer who was leading us around grabbed my knee, which I thought was weird. Then the water buffalo lurched into a trench under the water, and I thought I was going for a swim. The only thing stopping me was the farmer’s hand, and he burst into laughter – my horrified expression at this near-death experience was the source, I’m sure. His laugh was contagious though, and I joined him, mainly in relief at not having died.

After I was safely on my own feet, I began to laugh in earnest (the farmer joining me). I pictured the look that must have been on my face and how I could have been covered in mud, and laughed harder. While I don’t feel the need to ever ride a water buffalo again, I wouldn’t trade my experience for something more mundane. Those few minutes I spent clinging to the island of bovine flesh slogging through the paddy were a miniscule battle I had won. Later, however, I did slip into the mud while we were planting the rice shoots.

Until the next post, keep laughing, learning new things, and eating good food.