Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
battle. Rostam's disapproving father arranged a cockfight and by this device impressed on
his son that no true warrior turns tail. Today, Rostam's name is synonymous with unyielding
courage and valor. “But it was only after seeing a cockfight,” the old man explained, “that
Rostam became Rostam.”
As we walked toward the building's entrance, my attention was caught by a middle-aged
man wheeling his bicycle into the lot from the road outside. He wore a scruffy anorak over
a long
tanbon
shirt, and a piebald
dastmal
, or scarf, over his head, and exchanged pleasant-
ries with everyone he passed. He grinned at us and went into the derelict factory, giving off a
strong smell of hashish.
Karim and I also went in, handing over the equivalent of 75 cents. The walls had been
badly shot up at various times during the many years of fighting, and the winter sun strained
through holes in the roof. We took our seats on the lowest of several steps running around a
rectangular areaofpackedearththesizeofasquashcourt.Bythetimethelastofthespectat-
ors had filed in, there must have been around 500 of us, greeting one another, cursing cheer-
fully, squeezed around the pit.
ThespectatorswereasvariedasAfghanistanitself.TherewereethnicUzbeksfromthefar
north, wearing neat little turbans over red skullcaps, as well as a sprinkling of fuller Pashtun
turbans, and beards one could lose a fist in. Most common was the mujahideen look, consist-
ingofalongshirtwithanobliquelyslashedhangingcollar,trousersstoppingabovetheankle,
and a soft-brimmed woolen hat over a trimmed beard. Even in winter, sandals without socks
arederigueurfortheex-muj,denotingmanliness.Andthen,adisheveledfashionplateonthe
bottom step: the bicyclist with the
dastmal
over his head, his almond-shaped eyes suggestive
of Turkish ancestry, listening with an amused expression to the anecdote of a neighbor.
Two men holding roosters walked to the middle of the pit. One was glowering and
musclebound in combat fatigues. (He turned out to be a general in the Afghan National
Army.) The other was chubby and young. His name was Sabur, and he and his brother Zil-
gai—Karim pointed him out, sitting behind us—were considered up-and-coming cockers.
Two handlers, called
abdars
, took the birds, and the owners sat on the lowest step around
the pit. The
abdars
set the birds on the ground facing one another, beak point to beak point,
hackle feathers rising to form collars around their small, concentrated features. Then there
was a furious dash of wings and spurs.
It was all over very quickly. Before I had properly focused on the combatants, the general
bolted from his place, his face ashen, and carried his rooster away. “I think the general's bird
was hit in the eye,” Karim said. “Very unlucky, after just a few seconds. I don't think he'll be
able to fight on.” The young brothers, Sabur and Zilgai, were jubilant.
I had not seen the deadly blow, and I missed the significance of much else that day. The
birds' spurs were bewilderingly quick. The betting, with men leaping into the pit and shout-
ing odds, and others signaling their acceptance, was chaotic. Later on, having grown accus-
