Turning Japanese

Pics from my recent trip to Japan for a wedding, to hang out with my god-daughter Karen, see old friends and have a winter break from Afghanistan.

R&R

Today I saw...

The sun rise over the Hindu Kush

Muddy streets reflect colourful balloons

And familiar eyes in the bathroom mirror

Telling me they are weary even after sleep

Another day beckons unto all

Boys in the street throwing stones

School girls flinch as they hit their mark

The local kabob seller striking the culprits

His large stick finding its mark too

One way of meting out justice

Three women travelling in the boot of a car

Huddled behind the sedan’s open trunk door

Men inside protected from the show shower

Separated in accordance with local custom

An indifferent wind blowing from the north

The fat naked bottom of a central Asian sheep

Its carcass hanging stiffly in the cold winter air

Coals glowing red under cubes of mutton and lard

This meal more than a day’s wages for most

Give us our daily bread

A man lead his burka-blinkered women

Across a busy intersection by the mosque

Holding hands like a powder blue camel train

As motorbikes, cars and zarangs jostle

Giving an inch only under duress

And the sun going down

Behind the cold desert sands

Pink reflecting pale on snowy mountains

The night drawing in once more

Darkness and death

Icescapes

Response to Thubron

Sometimes you feel yourself weightless, thinned. You draw back the curtains (if there are any) on a rectangle of wasteland at dawn, and realise that you are cast adrift from everything that gave you identity. Thousands of miles from anyone who knows you, you have the illusion that your past is lighter, scarcely your own at all. Even your ties of love have been attenuated (the emergency satellite phone is in my rucksack, and nobody calls). Dangerously, you may come to feel invulnerable. You fear only your failure to understand or to reach where you are going. Sometimes you are move by a kind of heartless curiosity, which shames you only on your return home. At other times you are touched, even torn; but you move on.

Extract from Shadow of the Silk Road by Colin Thubron (London, 2007), pp.114-115

There is something different in the experience of those who live in a place and those who travel through but the dangers of being a voyeur are real all the same. To authentically engage with local people and remain true to myself and why I came can be fraught and lost amidst a struggle for identity but also the challenges of daily survival. Sometimes even I have moved on from suffering or simple kindness I could have shown. Poverty and cultural strain are wearying. This is no excuse. I am simply trying to observe what’s going on here and my role within it. Confronted with so much basic need it’s easy to be overwhelmed and wonder where on earth one starts. What is the right response to a beggar boy outside a mosque is Central Asia? Is it any different to the one sitting outside Oval tube station with identical open sores? Both are just as likely to have deliberately dressed for their day of self-abasing prostration to passers by. What is really going on? Do they have a choice? Am I feeding an addiction when I offer money? Perhaps I should take them for a meal or give them bread instead. I’m on my way to class, only stopping at the traffic lights while the red numbers count down before a half-missing nose and gaping cavity press up against the window of the car, the man’s eyes pleading in the miserable cold. This is not about appeasing guilt although giving something always makes me feel better. Do I have more time now on Koch-e Marmul than I did on Baker Street? Can I do any more than I did in London before this disintegrating face fades from memory? Spare change is offered, enough for bread. This will have to suffice as the impatient honking of horns grows. The lights have turned green and I move on. We were told the poor would always be with us. 

Buzkashi

We travel through Balkh to get to the game and get tangled up in the bustling Thursday market  of Balkh, capital of the province with the same name. Amongst a diverse mix of Uzbeks, Tajiks and Hazara this is one of the most Pashtun of northern Afghan towns. Still, burkas abound amid the varied headwear of them men who mostly wear the baggy, pyjama-like peron tombon common throughout Afghanistan. Passing through we see pilgrims at the burial site of a girl who came from this humble town but married the leader of an empire. These ramparts are imposing and speak of a different era – a time when this place was transformed because of the love and powerful reach of an emperor. This was a centre of empire: the eastern capital of Alexander the Great who among his conquests fell in love with a local woman called Roxanne and married her. It is unclear why people flock to her grave. They might be intrigued by the history of this tributary of the Silk Road and the remains of fallen civilization now gone or perhaps they are drawn by the romance of the girl who married a king. A place of prayer for a good marriage? Maybe Alexander was a wife beater.

We continue on and soon arrive at our destination, Daulatabad. From here and the villages beyond the riders come. Under expansive blue sky they gather upon desert land stretching out to the ancient steppes of the Mongol hordes who rode horses too. Yes, Genghis Khan had his day in this stretch of country and filled his days here with the usual murder, rape and plunder. Of course, we are aggrieved by more recent atrocities which took place nearby but a few thousand years seems to soften our attitudes and give an air of nostalgic resignation. Hollywood even makes movies about such events, glorifying them for a paying audience abroad. Either way, it seems unlikely that justice will come any time soon for those who suffered. Does this all make blood sport more appealing? Life is full of beauty, death and bloody suffering anyway. There was supposed to be camel fighting before they chopped the head off the goat for today’s game. Not a Bactrian beast in sight but horses abound. And they are wonderful – strong but subdued by their masters. The players, like different tribes come to do battle, are robed in the dress of their kin. Bare, muscled chests bulge beneath quilted coats. There are flying caps padded like rugby head protection and wide brimmed hats of fur, like those of the ex-Soviet ‘stans’ a mere 50 kilometres away across the Amu Darya river. There are also prayer caps of holy white and of course turbans wrapped tightly to keep dust out and brains in.

The black headless carcass weighing 50-60 kilograms is dropped before the ‘VIP spectators’ who sit close enough to be kicked, bitten and crushed below the knee if reactions are not quick. And then they are into it. Frothing mouths strain against short reigns as hindquarters are whipped. Into the biting, kicking, wrestling throng they barge. It’s each man for himself, and such it seems is so often the Afghan way. This is a game of patrons with money offered, like ‘noble’ sports of old. This might help explain how in a country so impoverished by war and poverty, horse prices for the national sport can exceed US$50,000. Of course there are lucrative sources of income which flow in across these borders. Tough, manly, hard, the players all jostle to be the one to reach down and take the buz (goat) which is in itself a feat of great daring amid the bone crushing mass of equestrian brawling. Then it’s off to round the national flag in the dusty distance before somehow getting back through the crowded pack and dropping the dead weight in the circle marked on the ground. Even then someone may snatch it as it falls to the ground – a trap for young fellas hopeful of their first score where defeat is snatched from the jaws of victory.  A rider is slammed to the ground. He hobbles unsteady then remounts (with some help of those with similar headgear). This is the closest I observed of teamwork in the entire two hours of play. He shows no weakness but I suspect it’s easier to him ride than walk at this point anyway. Like honoured guests we sit in the front row and in harms way. But beyond the cars and local men the game roams with not a woman in sight. Dust rises then a metallic bang rings out as ancient collides with modern. A new rider leans down and pick up the buz. “Towards the flag” the announcer roars again, as if the entire throng was completely disorientated like footballers with a shared concussion. This is accompanied by the ongoing frenzied barrage of psychaldellic, steel sitar blues. It looks very much like organized chaos even when, or perhaps especially when, the referee (of sorts) explains a decision to the provincial head of government. Gun toting guards and various armed protectors are in plain sight and the bright sunshine which is now low over the western horizon glints upon well used Kalashnikovs. Today the contest ends with kisses and handshakes as foes end as friends and rivals are reconciled. The match was a maul, a scrap to enthral.

As we return to Mazar-e-Sharif behind the heavy late afternoon traffic, lorries loaded seven-deep with exhausted steeds still lead the charge. Except now their horses are trapped in some kind of equine parallel parking performance on top of speeding trucks. Returning to base, two military helicopters traverse the setting sun and we are reminded that other battles rumble on.

38