Dead Goat Polo is not the most charming name for a sport, but it certainly does what it says on the tin. Raiding and kidnapping from the neighbouring village are no longer as acceptable as they once were (though bride-napping remains in vogue), but in their place the Kyrgyz have developed a surrogate pastime that offers the same outlet for aggression and a similar showcase for horsemanship.
Kok Boru, as Dead Goat Polo is known in Kyrgyzstan, is the most likely forerunner of modern polo. Played by teams well over a hundred strong, the traditional aim of the game was to capture a goat from the opposing tribe and to race with it all the way home. Each team must demonstrate their stamina and strength: carrying a 60 lb goat in one hand is no mean feat, particular when someone equally determined is trying to wrestle it from your grasp.
Each weekend in summer mounted armies go head to head in hundreds of valleys across Kyrgyzstan. Their battlegrounds of choice are long, flat pitches alongside rivers, their armour ranges from rugby skull caps to leather coats, and weapons include both whips and fists. The stakes are high: clan pride and the carcass of a dismembered goat both hang in the balance. The entertainment has begun.
The game begins when the referee (a fairly recent but useful addition to the game) rides to the centre of the pitch. Thrown across the pommel of his saddle is the goat carcass, specially prepared for the match with its head and legs already removed and the resultant holes sewn up to stop the spewing of entrails. He runs through the rules at break-neck speed, a term particularly suitable in this context. I’ll summarise the rules as no knives, no guns, no swearing, the last of which came as a particular surprise.
A final, acrid smelling cigarette is tossed to the ground and the referee casts out the carcass, backing his horse away from it in the split second before the players dive forwards. The four or five leading horses circle the goat, trampling it underfoot whilst their riders bend down, arms outstretched, in a vague bid to grab a handful of fleece before being barged out of the way by another horse’s flank. One man, a particularly wiry individual who appears to be able to ride with only one knee hooked into the saddle, finally catches the prize and, in a single movement, wrenches his body upright and pulls the goat into his lap. Even with the head removed, this is an impressive show of strength.
Any rider’s breakaway from the pack is short-lived. The horses race neck and neck across the field, veins pulsing and sweat pouring from their bodies. The men on their backs seem possessed by angry spirits, roaring and screeching like banshees, their arms and whips flailing manically. Before the rider can reach half way to the goal, horseback fights break out, men wrestling with their arms and torsos, seemingly oblivious that they are each perched atop 1200 lbs of fast moving muscle. It seems certain that a man must fall and be horrifically trampled. Still they cling on.
A goal is scored when the goat is thrown into the centre of a ring of tyres, which are located at either end of the field. The tyres are placed around the top of a mound. It’s too wide for a horse to jump over in a single bound, but getting one horse hoof up on the earth gives the rider additional height from which to drop the goat. If he remains at the foot of the goal, the chances are that another rider will block his throw, thwarting his attempt to score.
Unlike in regular polo, there is no change of horses during the game: once a horse starts it must remain on the field until the final whistle. Life at high-altitude has made the men and horses as hard as each other but still, as the game draws to a close, adrenalin is no compensation for extreme fatigue. The goat, now trailing guts and stinking, even from a distance, is barely in a state to be thrown: you put more effort into keeping the fast separating parts together than in angling your toss.
The teams leave the field bloodied, mud stained and looking distinctly bedraggled. Clothes are torn, everything is streaked with sweat, and several of the horses are limping after one collision too many. Still, everyone is in high spirits and, as a show of appreciation, we pass round vodka and kvas (a popular fermented bread drink) to numb the cuts and bruises. The much-tenderised goat quickly disappears from view but will likely make its reappearance at dinner.
First published in Asian Geographic, 2010
