“You can help bring the buffalo,” our host offers. Beaming, he hands me a section of the wide red ribbon that binds the ill-fated creature to the people. A familiar mix of gratitude and discomfort tugs at me. Our procession snakes through the remote forest and I try to muffle my burgeoning anxieties with a smile. Hooves and feet slide in the fertile mud as we push aside contorted branches and papaya leaves. I reach the clearing with trepidation. Framed by rice paddies, the new house is simple yet grand. Buffalo horns adorn the tall roof, stark against the blue sky. Ancestors, born of the sun and the moon, are said to have descended from the heavens on steps of buffalo horns. The noble creatures are woven into life on this small Indonesian island; diet, rituals, mythology and artwork. Today the community gathers in ceremony, asking the gods to bless this new home. It’s a rare honour for foreigners to be present. We are the 55th and 56th documented visitors to have stayed in the wobbly bamboo palace of the village chief – a proud man in traditional embroidery and a leather motorbike jacket. It’s a situation I never expected to find myself in. A life-long vegetarian, welcomed into a poignant moment of ritualistic sacrifice. After lunch, the buffalo and pig are led forward. Drums start beating hypnotic rhythms, like the pounding of hooves. Women begin to sway. Men circle the animals. Jumping. Shouting. Head dizzy from psychotropic forest nuts, I remind myself to breathe. To keep a respectful serenity about my face. Undulating cries reverberate through the air as the deadly dance commences. Over and over, the men stab the screeching animals with non-fatal wounds. Opening small windows of muscle and bone. Dogs gradually skulk forward, lapping up the blood that paints the ground. I've never known them so vulture-like. The shrieks fill my ears, permeating my core and rattling my being. Small boys stab imaginary animals with sticks. My eyes desperately seek distraction amongst the trees. Coconuts. Cashews. Betel nut. Jackfruit. Eventually, the battle-fatigued pig is dragged onto the fire and its squeals reach a grim crescendo. Some of the men seem grave, revering the divine offering. Others have the wild excitement of the hunt about them. As time drags on, the smell of burning pig swirls about my nostrils. I find solace in an elderly woman, dancing as if oblivious to the ritual. A picture of peaceful grace amongst the slaughter. The buffalo musters the dignified energy to rise to its feet once more and I find myself trying to connect to its spirit. To offer comfort in its last, brave moments. Finally, the young men decapitate the fallen creature and divide its body up for the community. Agitated thoughts of culture and ritual gnaw at me. My presence feels strange, invasive. These traditions are sacred and not yet performative. What impact will the coming waves of outsiders have on these people? I'm conflicted about the ethics of indigenous tourism and shaken by the slow killings. But it doesn’t feel right to apply my own cultural lens to people with an entirely different relationship with life and death. Who so deeply respect their connection to nature. I picture busloads of foreign tourists at English abattoirs, selfie sticks documenting our hidden, automated butchery. Peace signs and stun guns. Once, the buffalo were numerous and the people were few here. Nowadays, the balance has shifted and the creatures cost a small fortune. Families may go into debt to sacrifice them at significant life moments. The island is poorer than it’s neighbours. One man whispers to us that he wishes they would send their children to university instead. He's not alone in this, but it's a divisive topic. Honour the traditions that appease the ancestors, or invest in the next generation. After the ceremony, we thank our hosts and leave to watch the sun setting over the ocean. On the way we see a group of young boys in a field, grinning as they spring between the backs of standing buffalo. Carefree and laughing with the creatures whose lives and fates are so intertwined with their own.