Buzkashi stew in Kabul has uncomfortable consequences

A friendly meal shared in the Afghan capital compels an Australian visitor to leave something behind.

Fruit vendors in a market in Kabul, the capital of Afghanistan.

It’s 8.30pm in the depths of a Kabul market where food stalls emit their spicy odours, disguising other olfactory experiences. Three local guys sidle over. “You Americans?” one asks. “No, Australian”. “Ah, we love Australia. We buy you Afghan food.” Hardly in a position to resist, we follow a growing throng to a stall where unmentionable objects are bubbling in a huge tureen.

They claim to be students and their English is quite good, so we answer many questions about Australia and their chances of emigrating. In the meantime, the contents of the gurgling pot are ladled into metal bowls and we tuck into the soupy mixture. It tastes disgusting but we’re ravenous. After a while we notice strange bits and pieces, including a round object that appears to be an eyeball.

“Ah yes, that is the best part of buzkashi stew,” we’re informed. “What’s that?” we ask with growing trepidation.

There follows a passionate description of the Afghan national sport, buzkashi, in which a form of polo is played with a dead goat, with no holds barred.

The goat carcass is whisked from one end of the field to the other, and the remains, if any, are transferred to the kitchen. It all seems a bit far fetched and I suspect they’re having a lend, but they’re having fun in trying (successfully) to shock our Western sensibilities. If goats have a sense of humour, I doubt they’d be amused either.

Fast forward to 5.40am next day. I’m awakened by the hotel night porter who knocks loudly on the door. “Sir, 20 to 6. Holy moly, we were supposed to be woken up at 5am. We have tickets on the 6am Qaderi bus for Kandahar and the bus station is six blocks away.

Flinging clothes on, we ignore ablutions and run to the bus stand, throw our backpacks up on the roof and clamber on, the last to board. Made it! The bus rumbles off into the desert with the sun peeping over the horizon.

Problem: last night’s dinner is having unexpected consequences. Tummies are rumbling ominously. Where’s the bathroom? Not on this bus, sir!

After an agonising two hours the bus shudders to a halt at a row of decrepit tents and food stalls. First off, I make a hasty retreat to the steep dunes on the other side of the road. I stumble into a cavernous spot in the shadows and perform the necessary tasks. Relief!

But wait. There’s a kind of muttering, audible gasps breaking the dunal silence. All too quickly, I realise I’m actually in someone’s living room, a rug beneath my feet. The muttering grows louder and I decide it’s high time to hightail it outta there.

I reach the safety of the bus, conscious of the shouting behind me growing louder, and jump on board.

With a tinge of regret, I leave the grateful inhabitants of the shadowy abode to marvel at the strange foreigner, possibly the leader of a cargo cult, who has deposited great gifts which undoubtedly will bring good fortune to this lonely Afghan outpost.