Core Of Culture Field Operative Nathan Whitmont researches a different ancient tradition in the Himalayas:  polo.

Classic American rock 'n roll and the 2,500-year-old sport of polo are still going strong in Ladakh, "Land of high passes," ancient Buddhist kingdom in the Himalayas, in northern-most India, stuck between Pakistan and China – a region plagued for decades by violence and war.

A polo player for Montana State University, I arrived in Ladakh with saddle and mallet to play the game so commonly, and wrongly, attributed to the English, as close as possible to it's actual homeland.  To get even nearer to polo’s origin I would need to go to Pakistan, but right then my government was bombing it.  Anti-American sentiment was strong.

Polo, oldest organized sport in the world, originated in Central Asia as training for horseback warriors.  It came to Ladakh in the 16th century, according to one tale, in the bridal retinue of a princess from Baltistan, an ancient Muslim kingdom in northern Pakistan.  Ladakh and Baltistan, formerly independent nations, once joined by their polo traditions, are now forced by India and Pakistan to be enemies in the conflict over Kashmir.

For several days I tracked down possible contacts, meeting dead ends.    As recently as the 1960s polo was played in the main street of Ladakh's capital, Leh, a newly popular tourist destination, but now all I found were vague rumors.  Then I learned of Chuchot, a Muslim village along the upper Indus river, alleged to be Ladakh's polo heart.

I arrived at the end of an empty dirt road, the last passenger on a beat-up, nearly broke-down, but colorfully painted, public bus, the driver nodding encouragement as he pointed out at a wasteland. 

Ladakh rests on the Western end of the Tibetan plateau, in the rain shadow of the Himalayas.  It is as barren as the moon.  Near the villages glacial streams irrigate lilacs and apricot trees, but those orchards, and all other signs of life, had stopped several kilometers back.  I was trying to find Ladakh's polo heartland.  This looked more like a graveyard.  

I climbed a vague trail as the bus vanished, sure I was getting my leg pulled.  Instead, topping the rise, I found several mud-brick buildings and a tall mound of hay.

I ducked through a hole in the chain link fence. 

Climbing dusty porches and looking through broken windows I found Abdul Karim, a senior employee of the Indian Department of Animal Husbandry, and, it was to turn out, captain of the department's polo team.  

Abdul knew just enough English to determine, along with my flailing arms depicting mallet swings, that we were both polo players, and he offered me tea.  In Ladakhi I can say hello, how are you, thanks and very beautiful.  I can also count to five.  Abdul and I mostly stared out the window.

Abdul Karim (in Ladakh there are no surnames, everyone has two first names - there are also no addresses; houses have their own names) waited patiently while I drank my tea, then showed me the polo team's five ponies.  He saddled a black mare named Kalia which, though sounding exotic, linked perhaps to the murderous Hindu goddess Kali, actually only means black, and invited me to take a ride.  

Kalia’s back barely rose to my belly button (Abdul Karim at full height just reaches my shoulder).  First the little horse wouldn't move; then she wouldn't stop.  She turned like an anchor in wet concrete, and constantly ducked her head, nearly pitching me over.  I couldn't see how Abdul played polo on her.  

Kalia unsaddled, Abdul invited me to his home.  A tree-lined path led along blooming barley fields to his gate.  His house was simple, made of mud bricks finished with concrete.  I met his wife and two teenage daughters in bright head scarves.  One of his sons arrived in a green secondary school uniform.  We drank sour, salty, butter tea and ate dried apricots, unleavened bread and hard-boiled eggs.  

Abdul rummaged through a box of tattered photographs, of his family, his brother's wedding, himself on horseback, first in polo gear, then in festival regalia.  He carefully removed  a black and white print - the only one not crinkled and dog-eared - of himself as a strong young man astride a sweaty horse, a polo mallet resting casually across his shoulder.  

Then we all watched a Bollywood movie on the little TV.

After a few hours it was getting late and bus service back to the city (a town of 28,000) would soon quit.  As I took pictures of the family,  Abdul's cell phone rang and he disappeared, then, to my delight, returned with two mallets and said "Polo practice."

Back at the stables we met Liyaqat Ali, another Department of Animal Husbandry player, who spoke fair English.  I learned Ladakhi teams are six men each  - it’s four in the West - with a seventh as an alternate, and that in Ladakh there are almost no rules (hence the necessity of the alternate I guessed).  

Women don't play polo in Ladakh, Liyaqat said, and he was surprised they did in the West.

“Now, woman horses -” he said.  “Of course they are playing all the time.”

We used flat rocks to groom the horses, which we saddled with worn wooden tack woven together with wire and string.  The horses were skinny and small, but in a condition as good as any I’ve seen in developing nations, free from sores, and all wearing shoes.

We trotted down the road in the afternoon light, my stirrups over my saddle, my feet nearly dragging the ground.  24,000ft. peaks rose around us, and a white monastery shone in the sun on a distant ridge.  

At the polo ground children gathered along a stone wall.  They shook my hand with stern faces, then gigged as I rode away.

Liyaqat Ali was on Kalia.  I watched as they built speed across the field. A rooster tail of dust rose behind them and shone in the sinking sun.  Kalia began to duck and weave.  In Ladakh, a state one third the size of Montana, buddhists speak Ladakhi, Muslims speak Urdu, Hindus speak Hindi and Tibetans speak Tibetan.  I didn't know what Liyaqat Ali was speaking, but apparently it was Kalia's language.  The horse was incredible!  With powerful mallet swings Liyaqat sent the ball flying and Kalia followed it like a Bnashee.

  I, however, wasn't so successful.  The sand was hard and flat and full of fist-sized rocks, just the color of the ball, which camouflaged itself the moment it stopped rolling.  My first challenge in Ladakhi polo turned out to be just finding the ball.

I rested and took pictures of the kids who crowded me, delighted to see themselves on the screen of my digital camera.  They were especially excited by photos I had stored of the recent Intercollegiate Polo Regional Finals in Washington.

"America," they whispered.

Liyaqat Ali let me take a spin on Kalia, and she was slightly more responsive when I let her open up, but I was still left with great respect for Abdul and Liyaqat's horsemanship.

Heads knocked off two mallets (in Ladakh most players make their own mallets from local timber and cheap glue and repair is a constant part of the sport), the sun sinking and far from my hotel, we headed for the stables.  Castle-like monasteries dotted low ridges on both sides of the valley, and the towering peaks sparkled in the evening sun.  

We unsaddled, brushed the horses with the flat rocks, turned them out, and started walking.  The last bus had long since passed, and I was 15 miles from town, as thirsty as I’ve ever been; I hadn't drank a drop since the salty butter tea at Abdul's house.  

A car appeared, chock-full of women in headscarves with babies on their laps, but still they crammed me in.  Abdul clasped my hand through the window until the car started moving.

Soon the women were let off and I was alone with the young, English-speaking driver, Norbu, a marketing major on summer vacation from the nearest university - a three-day drive away.  

Norbu wore fashionable jeans and sunglasses.  He gave me an apple juice, and we talked about the cultural importance of polo to people on both sides of the Kashmiri conflict.  We talked about Christians, Buddhists, Hindus, and Muslims finding common ground through the good things in life, like sports and music.  We blasted Guns 'n Roses and sped together through the apricot groves along the Indus into a blazing Himalayan sunset, two people from opposite sides of the earth forming a friendship.