Kabul Diary

In wintertime we tried go to see buzkashi (goat grabbing in Dari), the legendary sport from times of Genghis Khan. The game is typical for nomadic people of Central Asia. In Afghanistan – in fact only in Northern regions - buzkashi season runs from October to March. We fail two times: once there is too much snow on the playground. It looks more promising the second time: even audience gathers, but at last one lonely rider gallops to the spot and informs us that all buzkashi players are in Panjsher Valley. I am disappointed: to live in Afghanistan and not to see buzkashi seems so silly...
My husband’s colleague Steven organized on Friday a trip to Panjsher Valley, the base for legendary Tadjik Ahmed Shah Massoud and his Northern Alliance. Both the Soviets and the Taliban were not able to conquer the Panjsher valley. The Soviets attacked nine times the valley and failed every time.
We start our journey at 6.30 a.m. After 2,5 hours drive we enter the valley through a narrow canyon. It is a magnificent view because there is a lot of foaming water in the river at springtime. The road has been renovated recently, so it is unusually easy ride over green hills. Lots of red-white-pink tulips are feast for the eyes as well. Instead of lovely small white shrine a new pompous one on Massoud’s grave is being built. We pass it at first, our driver asks for directions and locals tell him about buzkashi.
Buzkashi has two forms: the traditional game tudabarai and modern garajal, promoted by government. Traditional game involves hundreds of riders. Chapandazans (or expert riders) are a major force, but everyone has the right to participate as well. Such kind of game we see in Panjsher. There are two villages competing with each other and it seems that at least hundred of horses and players have gathered in the wide natural arena of the river loop.
By accident we arrived at the right time – it is 9 a.m. The sharpest observers are already occupying the best places – some branches of trees and roof of the nearby house. Crowd has conquered the roof of a nearby sea container – a great view and a safe place, as I see later. Players are gathering, horses are brushed, small boys are riding them to warm them up. I can feel anticipation in the air.
At one discretionary moment the game starts. The task is to ride around the flag that is some hundred meters away and to take the carcass of a calf to a certain point marked on the ground by chalk. I can see only chaos of men and horses, surrounded by a dust cloud. Next moment horses rush towards the crowd – it is a full-blooded feeling, but quite dangerous as well. Horses are coming like flood toward us. Riders can’t stop their horses so rapidly, so we have to run from their way.
I look around and see that some guys on the top of the minibus wave to me. I close to the bus, shouting: “Salam! Chi al dared? Man journalist astum. Edzjoza ast?” (Hello? How are you? I am journalist. Can I climb up? in Dari). The Afghans give me green light and I clamber to the roof of the bus. It is a good decision: I admire the beauty of the wild game and the skilful riders glued to horses backs. I am safe when horses stampede into the crowd and people dash apart as quickly as they can.

I go for a walk with my friend Viiu, who is interested to visit a distant shop of afghan handicraft. It seems that we tread forever on dusty streets. I try to follow shade because of sharp midday sun. Only one month back I tried to follow the sunny side. When we walk on the street full of men – it is a place where generators and spare parts for cars are sold – I am hit by a little stone. I look around, quite surprised, but I see nothing special. Was it just an accidental stone?
Some minutes later some ladies in burkas with a little boy, pretty as a picture, pass us. Suddenly boy stops, says “salam” and reaches out his hand. I take his hand and surprisingly he kisses my hand respectfully.
There are some moments it seems that I can understand afghans. Hans, professor of Cambridge University, tells about his talented Pakistani-origin student, who just disappears in the middle of his academic studies. Later he shows up with an excuse of solving family problems. For Hans it is obvious, that this guy spoilt his academic career. But we, living in Afghanistan, get used with “vanishing” - when afghan family has a problem, every member has to do his/her best to help.
However, sometimes I am confused because even the simplest thing can have another meaning. One day I was walking along the street alone. In front of me there was a man, carrying the armful of naan usbeki (rounded thin bread in dari language). He dropped some naan and I automatically stooped to help him. The next moment I realized that this guy was really irritated because of my unbidden help.

After spending one month long holiday in Estonia, Kabul greets us with warm and sunny weather. There has been lots of rain in recent time, so rivers are full of water – time after many years. Kabul has 24-hours electricity supply. Kabul River has even flooded over his banks for the first.
After cold winter life looks like in paradise – quiet (no generators’ noise), green and warm.

Our shared garden is full of workers, who build complicated arches on landlord’s house terrace. Our landlord, captain Attayee, sits like overbearing padishah, leading forces. Sometimes I think that the gentlemen who survived a severe flight accident forty years ago at Gatwick Airport, would have a better fortune for old age. He has lost his leg because of advanced diabetes, but his mind seems to be unbreakable.