Like a Hole in the Head

Location:
India

Exotic, chaotic

By Christine Stanley

The sensory assault is intense and immediate. Hundreds of drunken tribal teenagers and crazy-eyed children are running amok through town, chanting, screaming and smearing rice paste on everyone they pass. No one is safe and there is no sense in hiding — as the only foreigners in the entire town, it’s impossible to sneak under the radar (or under the face paste for that matter). Our only option is to dive in and take the whoopin’. The populace in this backward area of India isn’t known for being civilized or hospitable, so I try not to retaliate when I am repeatedly slapped in the face with paint and groped.

This is the Doni-Polo festival. An annual gathering of Arunachal Pradesh’s Takin tribes that celebrates the blessings of the sun and moon gods. Apparently the celestial bodies continued to rise and shine this year, because the 1500 villagers gathered on the fruit-strewn soccer field look pretty pumped to be here. It also happens to be my 25th birthday.

I’m in a great mood and looking forward to the day, but I’m finding it difficult to adjust to my newly found celebrity status. Hoards of people surround us like paparazzi, only the cameras these kids are holding are the size of bricks and loaded with film. They’re shouting, grabbing us, taking our photos, demanding we take their photos. There’s rice paint in my eyes, down my shirt, in my ears, up my nose. I’m trying not to get pissed, but I swear to God if one more punk grabs my boobs I’m gonna punch his grubby little lights out! It’s only 9 a.m. and already, Lauren, my travel companion has slugged someone in the gut.

We make our way across the field, which is akin to running with the bulls in Pamplona or participating in La Tomatina, the world’s largest food fight. At the other end, we can see Takin troupes coming forth in waves to dance their traditional steps and chant their village songs. The women are lovely in their bright, hand-woven garb, draped with strands of beads and seashells; faces white with rice paint. The men don huge swords wrapped in monkey hair and leopard skins, bear capes, fur arm cuffs, and porcupine accents. They act out great battles and hunts, scuffling and shuffling in the dirt for our pleasure and entertainment.

It’s a great sight. Exotic and loud and intense. There is more to watch that our eyes can take in, more to hear than our ears can organize. I’m trying to take it all in, but it’s hard to know how to feel. I’ve been groped, yelled at, slapped, taunted, followed, molested, stared at and followed in circles for the past four hours. I’m covered in goop and sweating through my shirt, and what I wouldn’t give for a 30-minute time-out and a margarita. I obviously can’t have that relief in this strange place, but I figure the up-coming animal sacrifice will make it all worth the stress.

The sun is high overhead now and the gigantic bamboo altar is nearing completion. It looks sturdy, but here’s hoping it will be strong enough to sustain the pull of two panic stricken mithun — the forest-dwelling cross between a water buffalo and a cow that will be offered to Doni and Polo as a thank you and offering. It’s taken more than two hours to build this thing, and as the final ropes are secured the troupes of tribal dancers begin to increase their volume and proximity. They move around the altar in a swell not yet rhythmic. Dancing, chanting, shouting. The circle around the altar becomes more cohesive. It pulses and moves like one. Louder, faster, crazier. Spinning.

Two mithun, one smaller than a rodeo bull and one massive, are tied between the altar the mass of near-rioters. There is much yelling and commotion when the smaller of the two beasts received a blow to the back of the head with the ceremonial ax and crashes to the ground. The great, beautiful beast still standing begins to thrash and snort in terror. He jolts the great altar and the crowd ignites in uproar. We are roughed and jostled and crushed by the crowd, and ultimately tossed into the center of the circle in time to see a bamboo spear thrust through the beast’s belly and directly into its beating heart. The animal howls and collapses. It’s guttural bellow lasts only seconds before the ax splits its skull wide across the forehead. The gaping hole is larger than a fist but bleeds little.

Meanwhile, the entry point of the spear is gushing. Someone jams a bamboo stake through the animals limp, white tongue. Festival goers are cupping their hands into the mithun’s wound and throwing blood. The bull’s hot life is smeared on my arms, splattered on my face, and is now covering our photographer’s camera. (He will clean this later with a tooth brush). He’s somewhere in the middle of all this snapping photos; I’m still front and center, sweating and smiling and blown away. Who knows where Lauren and Rich are.

Finally, the beast is hauled into a pick up truck and sent to the butcher, and we’ve time to catch our breath.

Our crew is later invited to drink homemade beer and eat dog at a local house party. We accept the beer and spend the remainder of a star-lit evening reliving the day around a fire pit in a bamboo hut. I think tomorrow I might just lay low by the river. Happy Birthday indeed.

Further Information

Travel tips: This is only a location for the hard-core traveler.

Must see/do at this place: Sleep in Legu Village