Travel Reference
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tomed to the speed of the action, I was able to follow the feints and maneuvers more easily. I
was not revolted, as I had expected to be. There were several small boys among the spectat-
ors,lookingonwithfrankenjoyment, andtheymayhavehadadisarmingeffect.Ithoughtof
my own seven-year-old and how he would have reacted.
Westerners have felt drawn to write about conflicts in Afghanistan ever since the British and
Pashtun first crossed swords back in the 19th century. Journalists maintained the tradition
in the 1980s, in many cases romanticizing the mujahideen who fought to expel the Soviets,
and they carry on today, embedding with American military units that are in conflict with the
Taliban. Watching events in the ruined tile factory, it crossed my mind that I, too, was em-
bedded—in a parallel war, a simulacrum of human combat, animated by the same honor and
fear, the same selfishness and pride.
The atmosphere of the pit, the racking coughs and curses and the gamblers slipping out to
squat and piss over the rubble outside, did not correspond to any idea I had of wealth. Then,
after one fight, Karim told me that the equivalent of $22,000 had been riding on the result,
including a $2,000 wager between the owners. These are huge sums in a country where per
capita income is less than $500. Karim gave me whispered biographies of the better-known
personalitiessittingaroundthepit,tellingmeoftheirpastservicetothejihadandoftheircur-
rent elevated positions in President Hamid Karzai's bureaucracy, army, and police. I would
not, I realized, find a version of the poor Kabuli who had featured in Hossein Fakhri's story.
That character had bought his pedigree cockerel for less than $700; nowadays he would need
to pay four or five times that much. Kabul is an artificial boomtown, powered by war, crime,
and foreign aid, and the price of virtually everything, including gamecocks, has soared.
Later, at the end of fights that proceeded in increments and often lasted several rounds, I
sawmagnificentcreaturesdie,tremblingandalone,reviledbytheverymenwhohadcheered
them,andIregrettedmyearlierinsouciance.Surelytheboutscouldbestoppedbeforeitcame
to this, and points awarded? That way, the birds would live to fight another day and perhaps
enjoy a warrior's retirement. I looked around—at the flushed faces, the looks of triumph and
vindication. No, death was the whole point.
As we were leaving the building, Karim and I found ourselves in step with the man with
the
dastmal
over his head. We learned that he was called Hafiz and that he owned several
fighting cocks. He agreed to meet with us the following day to talk about cockfighting. “The
one true love of my life!” he cackled and went to fetch his bicycle. We heard someone greet
him, “Hafiz! How are you, caliph of the tricksters?”
Early the next morning, Karim and I went for a walk in the center of Kabul. He told me that
our route, toward Straw Sellers' Alley, would take us past Zilgai, one of the brothers whose
