For nearly five months, I had wandered on my bicycle through Central Asia in hopes of finally witnessing a buzkashi match. I’d just pedaled out of Tajikistan after the government briefly opened the Tajik/Kyrgyz border to let travelers escape the civil war unfolding in the Pamirs, with only a couple of hundred miles remaining before crossing back into China. My imagination hung tightly onto the sound of thundering hooves echoing across the high plateau, riders in old Soviet helmets locked in battle, tugging at a goat carcass, dust filling the air.
The winter of 2011 found me in Urumqi during my second year cycling around China. That’s where I met Theodore Kaye, a photographer based in Dushanbe, Tajikistan, who was passing through with a portfolio that would change my route entirely. We began chatting in a hostel he’d just entered and went out for traditional lagman. Over numerous dinners and tea for the next few days, he shared stories from Central Asia, including his images of buzkashi: men and horses locked in violent competition, dust rising in clouds, faces fierce beneath Soviet helmets. Theodore had been documenting the sport for years and spoke about it with the kind of urgency that makes you pay attention. “You have to see it,” he said, leaning forward. “Get to Kyrgyzstan for Nowruz. It’s one of the most colorful times in Central Asia, and that’s when they play.” I hadn’t planned on Central Asia at all. My route had me heading straight to Kashgar and staying within China’s borders. But Theodore’s images planted something in me, and by the time I rolled my bike out of that guesthouse, headed toward the Southern Silk Road, I’d redrawn my maps.
I was riding along the plateau on a slight rise before the twenty-mile descent to the China border. The clouds were thick and gray, and a storm was building. The wind picked up, carrying something with it. It was men shouting, the thunder of hooves across the mountains. I saw them off to my right: men on horseback, others gathered to watch, riders converging from all directions with the Pamir mountain range rising in the distance. All men. Buzkashi was their world, their sport. I rode my bike to the edge of the road, although there was no traffic to worry about, and took a deep breath. A lone foreign woman walking into a space like this, there’s always a calculation, always safety to consider. Another deep breath. “You can do this.” I pulled my bike off the road and pushed it toward the scene I’d been imagining for months. A dream was becoming reality. Within moments, before I’d even reached them, the hoots and hollers started. Arms waving me forward. Come watch! I wasn’t just allowed, I was welcomed.
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