again. David and I went back to the restaurant where the fellow had whispered his information. We didn’t really expect to find him there—or if we did, that he would be fool enough to talk to us again—but there was no other place to start. Our minders went with us, of course. To all appearances they had not missed us the night before. Both had still been asleep in the lobby when we returned just before first light. Now they drank tea and watched stolidly as David and I once again ate the coarse barbarian food.
There was no sign of my informant, but David overheard talk among the customers about a buz kashi match. You may have seen this game in the movies or in
National Geographic
—polo as a blood sport with the carcass of a goat as the ball. The match between Tajik horsemen and some Kyrgyz from the north was planned two days hence somewhere in the mountains. The conversation was so free and easy that you might have thought we were in a free country and the two scowling Han policemen sitting against the wall were members of the family. We asked if it was possible for us to see the match. The owner, who had been leading the discussion, replied that we’d be as welcome as the day is long. As a matter of fact, he had an uncle who owned a Toyota4Runner, and though he could not say for sure, it was possible that his uncle would be willing to drive us up the mountain. He was in the taxi business.
The uncle in his 4Runner arrived at our hotel at daybreak. He was a big sunburnt Tajik named Zikkar who somewhat resembled the Episcopalian, which could mean nothing or mean that they were related—or merely that both men possessed one of the halfdozen or so faces that the whole tribe shared after thousands of years of intermarriage. Zikkar asked for the equivalent of two hundred dollars to drive us up the mountain and back down. This was a large sum by local standards. Since we did not want him to carry passengers for whom he had no respect, David bargained him down to one hundred fifty.
Could he leave immediately? We were ready to go. We were already dressed in woolens and down parkas—it was cold in November even at Ulugqat’s relatively modest altitude. Zikkar did not answer immediately. His eyes were on our two minders, who were sprinting toward us through the crowd like a couple of halfbacks, spinning and dodging pedestrians. They were sleepy-eyed, frantic, panting. The senior minder let loose a torrent of Mandarin, too fast and slangy for me to understand, while the other gave David and me a burning stare designed to make us think of handcuffs and dungeons.
In Mandarin, David said, “We have hired this man to drive us to the buz kashi. We may never have another chance to see such a thing. You and your friend are welcome to come along.”
As if a horn had sounded ending the game, the senior man stopped raving in mid-sentence. He considered the offer for a long moment, then stepped back into the crowd, turning his back in case one of us was a lip reader, and made a call on his cell phone. While he talked, the silent minder placed himself in front of the 4Runner. In moments the senior man reappeared. Without another word, he and his sidekick got into the car as if they had paid for it. The talker got into the front seat. Very politely, I asked him to move to the back with his friend andDavid. There was no room for my legs back there. And besides, I had paid for the vehicle. Frozen-faced, he complied.
The buz kashi match would take place in a meadow at a high altitude. There was a road of sorts—actually a narrow track beaten down by hooves over centuries. The 4Runner, which had 200,000 kilometers on the odometer, made slow and bumpy but steady progress on a grade that got closer to the vertical with every turn of the wheels.
It took the better part of the morning to reach the point where, according to Captain Zhang, Paul Christopher had met his end. Zikkar halted by the fateful ravine as if this were a programmed stop
There was no sign of my informant, but David overheard talk among the customers about a buz kashi match. You may have seen this game in the movies or in
National Geographic
—polo as a blood sport with the carcass of a goat as the ball. The match between Tajik horsemen and some Kyrgyz from the north was planned two days hence somewhere in the mountains. The conversation was so free and easy that you might have thought we were in a free country and the two scowling Han policemen sitting against the wall were members of the family. We asked if it was possible for us to see the match. The owner, who had been leading the discussion, replied that we’d be as welcome as the day is long. As a matter of fact, he had an uncle who owned a Toyota4Runner, and though he could not say for sure, it was possible that his uncle would be willing to drive us up the mountain. He was in the taxi business.
The uncle in his 4Runner arrived at our hotel at daybreak. He was a big sunburnt Tajik named Zikkar who somewhat resembled the Episcopalian, which could mean nothing or mean that they were related—or merely that both men possessed one of the halfdozen or so faces that the whole tribe shared after thousands of years of intermarriage. Zikkar asked for the equivalent of two hundred dollars to drive us up the mountain and back down. This was a large sum by local standards. Since we did not want him to carry passengers for whom he had no respect, David bargained him down to one hundred fifty.
Could he leave immediately? We were ready to go. We were already dressed in woolens and down parkas—it was cold in November even at Ulugqat’s relatively modest altitude. Zikkar did not answer immediately. His eyes were on our two minders, who were sprinting toward us through the crowd like a couple of halfbacks, spinning and dodging pedestrians. They were sleepy-eyed, frantic, panting. The senior minder let loose a torrent of Mandarin, too fast and slangy for me to understand, while the other gave David and me a burning stare designed to make us think of handcuffs and dungeons.
In Mandarin, David said, “We have hired this man to drive us to the buz kashi. We may never have another chance to see such a thing. You and your friend are welcome to come along.”
As if a horn had sounded ending the game, the senior man stopped raving in mid-sentence. He considered the offer for a long moment, then stepped back into the crowd, turning his back in case one of us was a lip reader, and made a call on his cell phone. While he talked, the silent minder placed himself in front of the 4Runner. In moments the senior man reappeared. Without another word, he and his sidekick got into the car as if they had paid for it. The talker got into the front seat. Very politely, I asked him to move to the back with his friend andDavid. There was no room for my legs back there. And besides, I had paid for the vehicle. Frozen-faced, he complied.
The buz kashi match would take place in a meadow at a high altitude. There was a road of sorts—actually a narrow track beaten down by hooves over centuries. The 4Runner, which had 200,000 kilometers on the odometer, made slow and bumpy but steady progress on a grade that got closer to the vertical with every turn of the wheels.
It took the better part of the morning to reach the point where, according to Captain Zhang, Paul Christopher had met his end. Zikkar halted by the fateful ravine as if this were a programmed stop
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