“Let us frighten our guest,” whispered Moro.
The buffalo sniffed at me, a stranger, and would have charged with his head down; but the man who had a rope tied to a ring in the buffalo’s soft nose, pulled the animal back.
“Get down, you foolish boy!” I exclaimed.
But before I could stop him, brave little Moro had climbed up between the fierce looking animal’s thick, long, sweeping horns, which extended from his large head back to his shoulders.
“Please get into the cart, everybody,” Fil’s father ordered, in a hospitable manner, bowing and waving his arm. It was indeed a high step.
The cart had solid wooden wheels, made out of one thick section that had been cut from a mahogany tree. There was no iron rim around the edge of the wheel. The sides of the cart, however, were light, as they were made from bamboo posts with rattan vine woven between them.
The driver sat on the shafts, and directed the heavy animal, just as much by words as by pulling the long rope.
“Why do you call these strong animals water buffaloes?” I asked Fil.
“Because, to escape the flies and the heat, the animal refuses to work during the heat of the day, and rushes off into a stream, or into the sea, to cover himself with mud and sand and water and weeds. All you can see above the stirred-up water are his large eyes and two wicked looking horns, which are as thick as a branch of a tree.”
“What an odd tail he has, much like a mule’s hairless tail. It looks like a piece of hose-pipe,” I exclaimed.