Who's Becky's Tan?

"Af-gha-ni-stan. Af-gha-ni-stan."

The chant boomed off of the stadium ceiling. Each syllable of the word was syncopated and precise.

"Af-gha-ni-stan. Af-gha-ni-stan."

These were passionate supporters, passionate about their country and passionate about their sport.

"Af-gha-ni-stan. Af-gha-ni-stan."

Sure, they were in the neighbourhood, but I presumed it had taken a lot more time and effort for them to get to the match than it did for me. I wanted to know how they'd gotten here, where exactly in Afghanistan they were from, what their lives were like and how they had changed in the last few years.

Time stood still. The ball lingered midair on its way from one side of the futsal court towards the goal posts.

All these questions would go unanswered and linger in the dry Tashkent air.

"Af-gha-ni-stan. Af-gha-ni-stan..."

If you had told me a few weeks ago that I would be watching a futsal game at the FIFA Futsal World Cup in the Uzbek capital I would have laughed in your face. For one, I'm not much of a sporty person so heading to a sports match is not my idea of a way to spend an evening. That's even before we consider that I'd be watching one somewhere as exciting and foreign and exotic as Uzbekistan.

Uzbekistan had been on my list of places to go for some time but I hadn't gotten the chance. If nothing else, it's quite far away. But then again that hadn't stopped me in the past. Though with hot, harsh summers and freezing cold winters, I knew timing was everything. I wanted to go in between seasons so I could still travel light but not burn to a crisp in the desert heat.

When I saw a direct flight from Bangkok to Tashkent leaving at a time of year that would fit the seasons, I booked it. I left Bangkok early on a Friday morning and arrived in Tashkent early that afternoon.

I spent a few days exploring the capital's green boulevards studded with ornamental bushes of basil. Tashkent was a very cosmopolitan city. Its clean, wide streets approached brutal Soviet-era structures. Verdant gardens surrounded monumental structures built much more recently. Huge governmental and official buildings had been built in the centre of town, on a scale that reminded me of the oversized wonderland of Skopje, in North Macedonia.

After the ubiquitous hostel traveller-talk I had been convinced into attending the futsal match. I at first had rejected the offer. Happening to have just landed in the country hosting the World Cup was not enough of a reason for me. Ultimately it was when I heard that the game was between Afghanistan and Angola that it seemed almost too peculiar not to attend. If not in sport, where else would you find such a matchup of two nations? I've yet to see an exclusive Afghan/Angolan bipartisan agreement nor have I been able to make a reservation at a Afghangolan fusion restaurant.

Better still, of the two Brits heading to the game with me, one was an Afghani expat. I had a perfect conduit to appreciate the nuances of Afghani futsal culture and to understand the various chants being sung in Farsi at the game.

And so we made our way to the Humo arena in central Tashkent to show our support for our neighbours to the south. Security, as usual in Uzbekistan, was tight. Usually, I have found, the security in the country is more show than anything else. Every metro station in Tashkent has security who waves a metal-detecting wand over your bag with a level of disinterest only matched by parents watching a magic show at their child's friend's birthday party. X-ray machines at major train stations, too, are observed peripherally by guards who are more interested in chatting to each other than what dangerous items could be appearing on their screen.

Security at the futsal game, though, was at another level. Police and security scattered across the entire area surrounding the stadium. When we entered the first set of gates the three of us had about thirty different bag-checking security guards to choose from. I chose a soft-faced giant, hoping that it would speed up the process. I had also considered bringing a bag but instead chose to leave it at home. Considering the check included the guard making me discard every slither of tissue and paper receipts in my pockets and inspect every pocket and card compartment inside my wallet, I felt leaving the bag at the hostel was, if nothing else, a time-saving measure.

After entering the arena-proper there was, unsurprisingly, uniformed guards and police every few metres. Again, I feel this was not at all due to any particular threat but more to portray the appearance of safety and security. It felt like an expensive way to get the message across.

I thought I had seen all the security until we took our seats.The arena was mostly empty except for some blocks of tourists, Afghani supporters, disinterested school students who'd received free tickets to the game and four or five Angolan supporters. But I noticed that they managed to sell out almost all of the front row. In front of us were some Uzbek guys all wearing dark pants and white shirts. This was not uncommon to see, it was a common style in the region. I then looked a little more around the stadium. In the front row of almost all the blocks of seats, despite many having no one else sitting in them, were clones of similar twenty-one year-old-looking guys all wearing dark pants and white shirts. I realised quickly that this was the plain-clothed 'extra' security. They didn't seem particularly thuggish but I felt it was another unnecessary level to the display of strength.

All up, there must have been at least two, if not three, security or police officers for every one person watching the game. Not because Tashkent was unsafe or there was anything to be worried about just because it looked good.