The last day of the old year was a Friday, and the holidays began then. At the foot of the Asmai mountains horse-racing and sports were held. Crowds of spectators lined the road, and the Grand Stand was the grey, old, rocky mountain: he had put on his holiday garb; all the lower half was crowded with gaily-dressed Afghans, sitting or standing in thousands in the blazing sun.
For the Princes and richer men tents were erected on any sufficiently level rock, and the servants, lighting a wood fire near, served them with tea, and cakes, and sweetmeats. For the poorer people there were itinerant cake merchants, sweetmeat vendors, and the Sakabi, with his water-skin and wooden cup; and for those who could afford it, there was iced sherbet—lemon, orange, or rose, in tumblers. There were toy sellers, too, with paper flags, whistles, and cheap walking-sticks from India; these were bought by the crowds who thronged the streets on their way to the mountain.
The horse-racing, over a course some five hundred yards in length, more or less, according to the fancy of the riders, and on a hard road, was, compared with what we call horse-racing, somewhat of a caricature. There were no prizes and no starters: anybody could gallop up and down the road who wished. As many did wish, and as there was no sort of order and much reckless riding, collisions were frequent. Sometimes, a horse and rider would be sent spinning. I do not know if there were many breakages, I did not go and see: I concluded they would fetch me if they wanted me. One considerable smash occurred just opposite where I was, and the friends came and gathered up the fragments that remained. They threw water in the face of the riding fragment, and he presently recovered: the ridden fragment limped painfully away.
Tent-pegging: Lemon Slicing.
There was “tent-pegging,” or something in a sense equivalent. There was no tent-peg, but a boy’s cap was put on the ground, and the soldiers charged at it with lances. The owner of the cap was not distressed mentally: his cap was fairly safe. The riders were very skilful in scoring the ground near, but only one or two touched the cap, and then a murmur went up from the spectators. The way the small Afghan boys gathered near to see the sport was rather horrifying: I fully expected to see one skewered: however, it was not so written in the book of Fate.
There was also “lemon-slicing.” A lemon was stuck on the end of a rod, which was planted upright in the ground. The soldiers dashed up one after another, flourishing their sabres, and looking very fierce and terrible; but they did not often hurt the lemon.
Occasionally, some man of position would join in. These were, as a rule, more skilful with both lance and sword than the soldiers were: possibly, they devoted more time to practice. My Turkestan friend, the Mirza Abdur Rashid, rode in: he was not at all unskilful with the lance. I saw, though not on this occasion, the Sirdar Abdul Kudus Khan, son of the Amîr’s cousin, and Naim Khan, the Courtier, tent-pegging and shooting at a mark while going full gallop: they were exceedingly skilful.
My small friend, Mahomed Omer, son of the Deputy Commander-in-Chief, rode in on a little white Arab. He was about thirteen, but he must have practised considerably, for he picked up the cap on his lance the first try.
The small boy who accompanied Prince Nasrullah on his visit to England this year, was the younger brother of Mahomed Omer. He had grown so, that I did not recognize him on the platform at Victoria, when the Prince arrived, until he came up and spoke to me.
There were displays of horsemanship: standing on the saddle and holding on to the reins, with the horse at full gallop; picking up a handkerchief from the ground while at a gallop, and so on: however, there was nothing but what I had seen done in England, and with greater skill. I had imagined that the Afghans were born riders, skilful swordsmen, and deadly shots; but whatever the hillmen, as a class, may be, the soldiers certainly are not remarkable.