An afternoon's entertainment

The season for the Afghan national game of buzkashi is over, but it is still played on special occasions, writes one of our workers.

The ancient sport of buzkashi, if you can call it a sport, is rather hard to understand. Because it's played on a horse, it has been likened to polo. The 'field' is just a huge flat piece of ground. No grass, just dirt. There are only a few markings and certainly no boundary lines. The markings consist of circles at points around the field, about six feet in diameter, marked in powdered chalk.

On our visit there must have been at least a hundred horses and riders taking part, in two teams. The most important aspect of this sport is that it is played with the body of a decapitated goat. The name 'buzkashi' means 'goat grabbing'. These days, we are told, it is usually played with the body of a dead calf, as they are tougher and less likely to fall apart!

 

Back to the game. The aim is to carry the goat's body and dump it in one of the marked circles. To outsiders like us, it seems to be a general free-for-all where the horses and riders are all crowding round trying to tackle the goat's body off whoever happens to have it at the time. This results in a huge mêlée of horses rearing up, all facing different directions, chomping on their bits, riders high in their chair backed saddles, whips in hand, dust flailing about and generally trying to force their way through.

 

All this activity creates a lot of dust, so there is a tanker lorry that drives around spraying the ground with water while the game is in progress. It is rather like trying to mow the grass at Twickenham while there is an international match in progress. If the horses are in the way, he just hoots his horn and carries on.

The spectators, of which there are many, station themselves around the perimeter of the 'field', some in cars, some just sitting on the mud banks, and others on terraces along one side. When the horses charge towards you, you had better run fast as there are no barriers and people have been known to get mown down.

As we had important guests with us last week, we decided it would be an ideal time to go and watch a game. By the time we arrived, the game was already in full swing and it was difficult to find a vantage point from which to view. Now you need to understand that this is a man's sport and there are very, very few women who attend these games and those who do stay in their cars. My two friends and I went behind the stands where a friendly policeman gave us a hand up onto a half demolished structure. We found ourselves in the centre of the stands, right behind the musicians, in the middle of armed soldiers and police! We had a great vantage point and enjoyed viewing the games from there. Unknown to us at the time, the ladies of our group were having another adventure!

 
His wife continues the story: We had found a place near one of the corners of the field, but a policeman was obviously agitated at our presence. This was a problem he had rarely, if ever, had to solve before. Although we were a few yards away from the local men watching, the policeman warned the men to keep away and not get too close, waving his truncheon threateningly. However, he was still uncomfortable about the situation, feeling we were in danger of the truck or the horses coming too close, so after a while he beckoned us to follow him. We were ushered towards a large dark green open-backed, 4x4 police truck. This was parked some way from the other spectators closer to the field of play and we assumed he felt it would be a safe place for us to stand. Once by the truck he indicated we could climb in the back. Ignoring the fearful, astonished protests of the other ladies, I clambered in and urged them to follow suit.

During a lull of activity we engaged the young policemen in conversation about the game, the horses, the training, the betting etc. Then, with no warning, we were in the heart of the action. The sweating flanks of the horses brushing the side of the truck, froth and saliva dripping from the corner of bridled mouths flew towards us. We could feel the heat from the glistening, finely-honed muscular bodies of those huge expensive beasts that rose to a near vertical stance as their riders pulled on the reins. The dust swirled, chokingly. Some riders wore the traditional fur-trimmed hats and thigh high, heeled leather boots, and all wielded short, stiff, whips with mother-of-pearl inlaid handles, jostling and shouting as they fought to grab at the goat.