Uncle Ali’s farm was not far from Kabul to the north, where his farmers grew grapes that made the sweetest raisins in all Afghanistan. Shabir and I always looked forward to our trips to the farm because we could ride horses, which Uncle Ali forbid because he thought it was too dangerous. We paid the farmer to let us ride his horses—and added a little extra so he would not tell Uncle Ali.
Afghans are by necessity a warrior culture. The men enjoy dogfights, kite battles, and buzkashi—a violent and chaotic competition, a kind of war. Even when Afghanistan is not at war, the men still play at war. The same strength, craftiness, teamwork, and communication required by buzkashi would help the mujahideen defeat the Russians. It is Afghanistan’s national sport and a passion of all Afghans—Pashtuns, Uzbeks, Hazaras, Tajiks, and Turkmen. In the cool winter months thousands of men (never women) watch hundreds of riders compete as Afghan musicians play above the noise of the crowd and the grunts of the horses. The horsemen try to grab a burlap sack containing a disemboweled, decapitated goat carcass, carry it around a post, and drop it into a chalk circle—the “circle of justice.” Most of the riders never get near the goat carcass.
Shabir and I made up our own game of buzkashi using a burlap bag stuffed with rotten grape leaves for the goat’s carcass. Our horses’ hooves kicked up clouds of dust as we galloped into each other, hitting and kicking—often ignoring the burlap bag altogether. We played for the sheer joy of it, but real buzkashi players—the chapandaz—play for money, special turbans, and clothing as well as the honor of their village. They know their horses and the tricks of the trade: having the horse spread its legs so the rider can grab the goat; head butting a competitor to knock him off his horse; pulling the horse’s ear with scarred hands and gnarled fingers so it will kick a player and knock him off his horse. So many players break limbs getting thrown from their horses, the elders have become experts at fixing broken limbs. Shabir and I were great chapandaz. And eventually, like a great chapandaz, I broke a rib.
I had to tell Uncle Ali.
“How could you break a rib?” he demanded.
“I fell out of a tree.”
“Well, what do you expect if you go around climbing trees?” he said. “Don’t climb any more trees.”
Shabir and I didn’t climb any trees—but we continued to play buzkashi.