Back in Kabul, a bit tired from the strenuous trip, but at the same time happy about the adventures in the Baniyan valley, about the Buddhas and the lakes of Band-e-Amir. Once again we feel blessed, gifted, but when thinking about the intolerable changes of the last years, only sadness and incomprehension remain.
The stopover in Kabul is coming to an end, Pakistan is calling, the Kyber Pass, a new world, a new discovery, so we hope.
But Kabul still has a lot to offer, it is no surprise that the city is a place of new beginnings, of cultural and social changes in the 70s. There are theaters, cinemas and art galleries. A lively Afghan music scene, particularly for traditional music.
Hard to imagine today, but it was also a time of prosperity and modernization, an important place for Afghan culture and art scene.
All over, all in the past.
So we immerse ourselves in everything that makes up the city. We stroll through the now familiar streets and alleys, buying groceries and getting annoyed that even when buying a few apples for a few Afghanis, you can't avoid haggling.
The streets are crowded, the fully veiled ladies squeeze at the stalls, the men wear beards and turbans and long airy leg dresses that can be called pants with just a little imagination.
It is noisy, the buzz of voices gives evidence of heated discussions, probably about the price, reminiscent of Herat and Kandahar. Many residents are still poor, the visitors coming from out of town even poorer. A few Afghanis more or less make a big difference.
Alien worlds
We are hardly noticed, tourists from faraway countries have long since become part of the town's image. However, one or the other glance shows something more than just curiosity. As soon as you return the gaze, it disappears as if it had been caught doing something that must remain secret.
Does this glance already contain what, years later, might explain the disturbed relationship between the Islamic countries and the West? Aversion, lack of understanding? We do not know, but a question mark remains.
One evening, it has become quite cold in the meantime, I stray through the streets in search of a appropriate birthday present for Monika, and get to a fully veiled lady at the roadside. Her eyes look at me through the net in front of her face, but I cannot interpret her look. Too much of different world lies between us.
But at least one highlight is still waiting for us, it's weekend, and just as in our latitudes football is being played, stately men on stately horses meet here to play the Afghan national sport.
Buzkashi - the game for men on horses and an animal carcass.
Who might have guessed that this event was going to be one of the most exciting games of my entire life.
Buzkashi
So we find ourselves in time in the huge stadium, one might think to be at the final match of a soccer world cup. Thousands of spectators have gathered in the ring, in anticipation of the spectacle that will be held here.
Well, to be honest, we have no idea what to expect. We have been made aware of this by other travelers. "Don't miss it, the best ever!"
Well, we're excited.
But here are a few clues about the game and its rules.
Buzkashi is a traditional equestrian game in Afghanistan and other Persian and Turkic speaking parts of Central Asia. It is also the national sport of Afghanistan. The game is played by 20 or more players, and games with more than 1000 participants have previously taken place.
At the beginning of the game, a dead goat, sometimes a dead calf, is placed on the playing field. The purpose of the game is to pick up the dead goat while galloping and place it in front of the judge. It is played everyone against everyone, which makes the game very unpredictable. Everything is allowed to get the goat.
Whoever has succeeded in taking the goat is almost certainly the center of a dense pack of riders sweeping across the steppe at full gallop, whose only goal is to prevent the current owner of the goat from getting to the judge.
The game can last very long - up to several days - due to the sometimes very large number of riders. Since the game is played very hard and even the use of the riding whip is allowed, the players usually wear thick protective clothing and head protection. Such protection is not mandatory. Winning a buzkashi is associated with high social prestige and can also mean a high prize - often a precious horse.
Better than football
So here we are, sitting in the midst of enthusiastic spectators, most of them locals with a few foreigners in between, recognizable by their clothes and bright faces. I do not know whether their faces, like mine, will change color as quickly in the course of the game because what happens in the next few hours has everything to make the pulse race.
There are games in football that have been put into the collective memory for all eternity. I remember with a shiver of joy the rush of adrenaline remembering the Match of the Century between Germany and Italy at the 1970 World Cup in Mexico. That semi-final forever in the annals of football, that constant back and forth between the two teams, perhaps the best they've ever had, a pinnacle in the footballing world, never reached again, never regretted to the same degree when the game ended after 120 minutes.
The wild men
After the whistle or however to call the sign to start the race, we are first quite clueless about the rules of the game.
There is a carcass (a sheep or a goat or the remains of some other deplorable being?) apparently the center of interest. Roughly twenty riders might be involved, maybe more, because the dense crowd of horses and riders is quite confusing.
In any case, immediately after the start, a chase begins that not only takes the breath away from the horses and players, but also from the spectators.
Overwhelmed
After a few minutes, I ask myself if I have ever seen anything like it. The answer is definitely no. Although the scrum is sometimes at the other end of the stadium, you crane your neck to see what's going on, whether one of the fearless riders has managed to grab the carcass and ride off.
It takes us a while to understand that there are not two teams fighting each other, but that everyone is playing against everyone else. In the best case we recognize where the carcass is, but mostly we only see a wild dance of riders and horses.
If we are lucky, the fighters sometimes rush past our position, fast as the wind, and for a tiny moment it becomes clear that one of the fastest riders has pulled the carcass onto his horse, and is now galloping across the meadow at a speed that the rest of the posse can do nothing but rush after. Dust swirls up, the horses snort, the spectators go wild as he is able to place the carcass in the middle of the chalk circle.
We have just a vague idea of what is happening, and yet we feel the heart beating in our chest, the sweat on our forehead, and we are convinced that we have never seen such a spectacle before.
Homage
Eventually, no idea if there is a time limit, the game is over, who won is unclear, maybe the tall man with the grim face who confronts the cameras and the looks of the admirers. In any case, the enthusiasm is intense. His chest is proudly heaving, his social prestige probably receives a huge boost on this day.
The riders sit down, a dense cluster of enthusiastic spectators gathers around them, they are the heroes of the hour. It is reminiscent of the ovations in the football stadium, the chants, the admiring looks given to the players.
Anyway, rather exhausted by the events in the stadium, we leave the place of wonder.
And then an earthquake
Even the most beautiful time eventually comes to an end, we get restless, feel the the urge to continue the journey. We are still far from our destination, First Pakistan, another huge country to cross, and then we reach India.
And so one evening we sit on the terrace of a restaurant, enjoying the view for the last time, life from a helicopter perspective, the food, the presence of friends.
And then, as a farewell, so to speak, we are being shaken, an earthquake. For a few seconds we are frozen stiff, hearing people's screams, something collapsing somewhere, and then the horror is over. We are still sitting still, frightened, relieved to have survived the first real earthquake.
We take it as a clear omen. It's time to move on.
Matching Song of the year: The Rolling Stones – It's only Rock 'n' Roll (but I like it)
And here the journey continues ... to Jalalabad
