Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
time I got back my wounds had opened and I was covered in blood.” This experience con-
vinced Hafiz that he should leave the country. A few days later he was in Pakistan.
Nowwe were beyond the mountains that encircle Kabul and sohad escaped the city'sdust
and smog. We entered a broad plain flanked by mountains and headed toward the Panjshir
Valley and Mazar. We were traveling along one of the few safe routes out of the capital. The
people here are Tajiks with a history of loyalty to the mujahideen, and they have provided
thousands of recruits for Afghanistan's new army and police. Taliban are thin on the ground.
I asked Hafiz to describe the most poignant cockfight he could remember, and he respon-
ded with a tale of humiliation. One of his birds had been losing badly, and Hafiz had wanted
to concede defeat, which would have saved the bird. A fellow member of his syndicate had
insisted on a different course of action. “I'll take over your bet,” the man had said. “Your
winnings or losses will be mine.”
Afterthis,Hafizrecalled,“mybirdsuddenlygotasecondwind.Hedefeatedhisopponent,
and my partner picked up my winnings. I put the bird under my coat and went home, but
when I got home I saw he had died along the way.” He grinned ruefully.
Themenwhogamblelargesumsoncockfightsdonotregardthemselvesashavingrepudi-
ated their religion. Hafiz's description of his encounter with the Taliban reminded me of the
words of another cocker I spoke to at the tile factory. He said, “Everything we do is sinful.
You walk down the street and look at a woman—it's a sin. Under Islam, traders are supposed
to make no more than ten percent from their transactions, but here in Afghanistan there are
people who make five-hundred-percent profits.” Then he quoted an Afghan saying: “Drink-
ing wine is forbidden; tell me something that is permitted in this world!”
We arrived at a small provincial town, came off the main road, and followed a dirt track
away from the houses and in between the fields, many of them planted with vines. High
adobewallsencircledeventhesmallestplot—atestament totheprecariousnessofownership
in Afghanistan. Our destination was the bank of a canal that was lined with parked cars. We
walked across a bridge to a big ruin, also made of adobe, which had once been the home of
a prominent local family before it was colonized by the cockers. By now the sun was up,
warming our backs.
A dozen owners were in the pit, sorting out which bird should fight which. Hafiz saw
friendsandwentofftosayhello,kissingcheeksandexchangingtheusualprofanities.Acoal-
fired samovar chugged away in one corner, and Karim and I breakfasted on green tea and
greasyfrenchfrieswrappedinbread.Acoupleofarmedmenwanderedaround.Spottingme,
the only foreigner in the place, one of them asked whether I was a suicide bomber. I said no,
and he accepted a cup of green tea.
Duringaninterval between fights, wesat byastream andchatted with alocal commander,
a youngish man wearing a dun-colored shawl. He had joined the mujahideen as a 13-year-
old, he said, and after a few years came to lead a force of 2,000 men. Now he was a high-up
