In the Danger Zone Read Online Free
Author: Stefan Gates
anyone who's got a horse can play – you have to pick up the headless corpse of a goat, and drop it in a chalk circle to score a goal. The problem is that all the other 299 horsemen want to stop you, assault you, then rip the corpse out of your hands and score a goal themselves. That's about it. It's utter mayhem, and no one appears to be having a good time, not even the huge audience, who stand with frowns of confusion on their faces. Nobody seems to know who's winning as factions develop in a bid to ambush whoever's carrying the corpse, and then collapse as soon as someone snatches it. It's violent, incomprehensible, ancient and, to Afghan culture, very important.
The favoured garb is trad-bohemian filth, with Russian tank-commander helmets clearly very popular. An ancient chap sporting a blue nylon wig and riding a frail old Rosinante shouts jokes to the audience. He's obviously the court jester. I get caught in a few stampedes so I take refuge on a tiny seating area with some of the sponsors of the game, where I befriend a man who speaks a little English and says that he owns one of the horses that's competing. I ask him who's winning, and he shrugs 'nobody knows'. Is it always like this? 'Yeah.'
I ask him if the corpse gets eaten at the end of the game.
'What a bizarre idea,' he says, before turning back to watch 300 grown men on horseback beat each other up over a headless goat.
Finally there's a goal: a fearsome-looking fellow, resplendent in a purple velour judo outfit, sporting a vast moustache and quarter of a tonne of mud, manages to drop the goat into the circle. I'm told that this is Shamsull Haq, an important local figure. Eventually the final prize is announced: if anyone can get another goal, they will win themselves a new fridge. The entire horde of frenzied competitors turn . . . well . . . more frenzied. That poor bloody goat.
After much fighting, it's announced that everyone's knackered, cold, wet and confused, and no one looks likely to win, so the fridge will be up for grabs tomorrow instead. Shamsull Haq pulls his horse up to where I'm sitting and announces that a) he's in charge of the whole shebang, and b) I will be dining as his guest of honour that night. My sponsor friend suggests that it would be wise for me to accept Mr Haq's offer of dinner instead of his. Marc shakes his head. Bad idea, he mouths.
Nonetheless, and probably against our better judgement, later that night Marc and I draw up at Shamsull Haq's place. Aleem has said that I'll be fine, that he knows this man well, he's a powerful local leader, and in any case when you're a guest in an Afghan's house your safety is their responsibility and they must protect you as though you were family. It goes against everything in the hostile regions training manual, but on balance it seems more dangerous not to go – you don't want to go around offending an Afghan's hospitality.
Shamsull Haq lays on a vast spread for us and 25 of his friends. We sit on the floor around a huge red plastic cloth. Lamb is the only food on offer, and on the way Marc drops a bombshell: he can't eat lamb. Well that's just great! Lamb is pretty much the only meat they eat here, and turning down food is tantamount to betrayal around these parts. Hell, I'd probably shoot you in my own house if you turned down my food.
Shamsull chats for half an hour or so before revealing that he is actually Commander Haq, and was a Taliban commander himself a few years ago. I nearly choke on my lamb. I'm dining with the Taliban.
The Fear washes over me again, and I wonder if we ought to quietly leave before anything bad happens. But everyone's very friendly, including Commander Haq, and it would be more foolish to insult them by leaving. So instead we talk about the pros and cons of crushing repression, beards and burkas. I try to do the journalist thing by pushing him to answer some difficult questions, even though I'm woefully underqualified for this kind of thing. He flatly
The favoured garb is trad-bohemian filth, with Russian tank-commander helmets clearly very popular. An ancient chap sporting a blue nylon wig and riding a frail old Rosinante shouts jokes to the audience. He's obviously the court jester. I get caught in a few stampedes so I take refuge on a tiny seating area with some of the sponsors of the game, where I befriend a man who speaks a little English and says that he owns one of the horses that's competing. I ask him who's winning, and he shrugs 'nobody knows'. Is it always like this? 'Yeah.'
I ask him if the corpse gets eaten at the end of the game.
'What a bizarre idea,' he says, before turning back to watch 300 grown men on horseback beat each other up over a headless goat.
Finally there's a goal: a fearsome-looking fellow, resplendent in a purple velour judo outfit, sporting a vast moustache and quarter of a tonne of mud, manages to drop the goat into the circle. I'm told that this is Shamsull Haq, an important local figure. Eventually the final prize is announced: if anyone can get another goal, they will win themselves a new fridge. The entire horde of frenzied competitors turn . . . well . . . more frenzied. That poor bloody goat.
After much fighting, it's announced that everyone's knackered, cold, wet and confused, and no one looks likely to win, so the fridge will be up for grabs tomorrow instead. Shamsull Haq pulls his horse up to where I'm sitting and announces that a) he's in charge of the whole shebang, and b) I will be dining as his guest of honour that night. My sponsor friend suggests that it would be wise for me to accept Mr Haq's offer of dinner instead of his. Marc shakes his head. Bad idea, he mouths.
Nonetheless, and probably against our better judgement, later that night Marc and I draw up at Shamsull Haq's place. Aleem has said that I'll be fine, that he knows this man well, he's a powerful local leader, and in any case when you're a guest in an Afghan's house your safety is their responsibility and they must protect you as though you were family. It goes against everything in the hostile regions training manual, but on balance it seems more dangerous not to go – you don't want to go around offending an Afghan's hospitality.
Shamsull Haq lays on a vast spread for us and 25 of his friends. We sit on the floor around a huge red plastic cloth. Lamb is the only food on offer, and on the way Marc drops a bombshell: he can't eat lamb. Well that's just great! Lamb is pretty much the only meat they eat here, and turning down food is tantamount to betrayal around these parts. Hell, I'd probably shoot you in my own house if you turned down my food.
Shamsull chats for half an hour or so before revealing that he is actually Commander Haq, and was a Taliban commander himself a few years ago. I nearly choke on my lamb. I'm dining with the Taliban.
The Fear washes over me again, and I wonder if we ought to quietly leave before anything bad happens. But everyone's very friendly, including Commander Haq, and it would be more foolish to insult them by leaving. So instead we talk about the pros and cons of crushing repression, beards and burkas. I try to do the journalist thing by pushing him to answer some difficult questions, even though I'm woefully underqualified for this kind of thing. He flatly
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