It is Nor Rus, the Persian New Year, and we have spent the morning parading about the community celebrations in our very best threads (snappyt suits for the men, a less than flattering multi-coloured traditional pants/dress combination for me) when we decide to enquire about the possibility of taking in a Buzkashi tournament. We are in the middle of asking a couple of idle policemen whether they know if such a game is likely to take place, when Aladdin,a young Tajik who speaks to us in English, tells us that there is a game on today, and that he will meet us at the Hippodrome at 3, where the game is to take take place.
After a quick stop at our hotel to change into more suitable clothing (a light rain has persisted all morning and we are now more than just a bit damp) we flag down a service taxi on Rudaki Avenue. There is a lady already in the front seat, so we take a detour past Sad Barg- the multi story post soviet shopping mall- to drop her off.
As the lady gets out we reiterate our intended destination, and after some confusion, the cab driver gets out of the cab and approaches a group of other taxi drivers, we assume, to ask directions. Not uncommon in Dushanbe, or in fact anywhere else in this region, where GPSs are not widely available, A to Zs just don’t seem to exist.
Seemingly on track, we head off, back the way we came, the three of us still jammed together in the back of the tiny vehicle. Before long, our driver takes a left turn into a cul-de-sac, and again confusion arises. He winds down the passenger window to ask for directions in Russian from passers by. There are hand guestures and knodding of heads, so we figure we can’t be too far off.
The cab begins to U turn, and the cabbie stops a kid by yelling
‘Hippodrome?’
It turns out the kid is headed there to, so he hops in the front, and at last we seem to be heading the right way.
The kid directs the cabbie to take the next left, and we start to negotiate the backstreets of Dushanbe, where the bitchemun stops and there are groups of kids running and jumping through the mud that coveres the cobble stoned alleyways.
Without warning, the cab stops in the middle of the road, and the kid jumps out, and motions for us to follow. We pay the cab driver, and put our faith in this 12 or 13 year old who is forging ahead with obvious enthusiasm.
We reach the top of a staircase, where we can see a large grassy oval where horses and riders are gathered in groups. The spectator stand lies on the far side perhaps a kilometer away. I’m starting to think there might have been a better route for our cab to have taken.
We descend, and are faced with the tall grey brick wall that marks the preimiter of the Hippodrome. It seems we have a long trudge through the mud in order to get to the stands.
We follow our guide, and begin to notice that up ahead the kids are disappearing one by one into the wall, and as we approach we see gaps in the brick work.
Wondering if this is the correct entry point for the stadium we figure there’s nothing else for it but to give it a go.
I go first, and halfway through the gap I come face to face with a flushed police officer, who seems a little surprised to see a western woman squeezing through the gap, but waves me through when he sees my hesitation. Official entrances, rules and entry fees don’t seem to have a place here in Tajikistan, and I wonder what exactly it is that the policemen are responsible for.
All three of us are in, and we continue to follow our leader through the mud around to where a large group has gathered, close in to where the action, we assume, will take place. Old ladies sell nuts and bread from ancient prams, and the men around us deftly spit out the shells of roasted pumpkin seeds. Kids that look no older than 10 wait for the policemen to drop their guard before running cheekily onto the field.
We are waiting for the ‘buz’ of the buzkashi- the headless goat that acts as the ball for this Afghan Polo. It is a notoriously dangerous game that is more like rugby on horseback than the genteel game played in collared shirts, and we are eager to see what plays out .
Without warning, the crowd in the stands goes wild, and a handful of horses start racing round the edge of the stadium, and pass just metres from where we are. The kids in the middle are much closer, having to jump out of the way to avoid being stampeded.
Another race begins as this one ends, and after that another, and although we are hoping these races are just a warm up for the game we are aching to see it seems there has been some kind of miscommunication, and we are, in fact at the races, although further in ideology from Ascot than in miles! No ladies in hats, no betting. No order at all.
A riderless horse makes a run for it and makes it out the gate and into the streets of Dushanbe. Another steed isn’t keen to stop when the race is over and continues as far as it can, rider flailing incompetently atop him. A sore loser tries to knock the victorious jockey of his horse after passing the finish line.
We eventually meet up with Aladdin, who is glad to have found us in amongst the crowd. He shrugs off our disappointment at not finding Buzkashi, and I wonder if he knew all along that there was no game planned. He is keen to practice his English, and, he confides, is hoping one day to go to Australia.
The rain is beginning to ease up, and although we are enjoying the spectacle we decide to leave and seek further Nor Ros celebrations elsewhere.
As we are leaving, a kid in the crowd who speaks to us in carefully constructed English sentances seems to think there will be buzkashi in two days time, and phone numbers are exchanged. Is this perhaps another attempt to secure a rare English speaking opportunity? Or will there be Buzkashi after all?
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