The tunnel was strategically important in the resistance against the Taliban. At the end of the nineties it was blown up by the Mujahedeen hero Massoud, in a desperate bid to stop the Taliban’s advance to the north. They got so far, but no further.

It is completely dark, or completely grey. The car slides, gets stuck in the snow, wedged in the deep ruts. The wind whistles, nothing can be distinguished in the blizzard and Said can follow only what he thinks are tracks. They are driving on snow and black ice. Without chains only Ali can guarantee a safe outcome. I can’t die before I get to his grave, Mansur thinks. Ali has called me.

It brightens slightly. They are at the entrance to the Salang tunnel. A sign outside warns: ‘Caution. Danger of poisoning. If you are blocked in, turn the engine off and make for the nearest exit’. Mansur looks questioningly at Akbar.

‘Only a month ago fifty people were holed up inside the tunnel because of an avalanche,’ the well-informed Akbar tells them. ‘It was minus twenty and the driver left the engine running to keep warm. After several hours, when they had managed to shovel all the snow away, ten or twenty people had fallen asleep from the carbon monoxide and died. That happens all the time,’ says Akbar as they drive slowly into the tunnel.

The car stops, the queue is at a standstill.

‘I’m sure I’m just imagining it,’ says Akbar, ‘but I feel a headache coming on.’

‘I agree,’ says Mansur. ‘Shall we head for the nearest exit?’

‘No, let’s hope the queue will move soon,’ says Said. ‘Imagine if the queue starts moving and we have left the car, then we’ll be the ones causing the queue.’

‘Is this what it feels like to die of carbon monoxide poisoning? ’ asks Mansur. They sit behind closed windows. Said lights a cigarette. Mansur screams. ‘Are you mad?’ shouts Akbar and snatches the cigarette from his mouth and stubs it out. ‘Do you want to poison us even more?’

An irritable feeling of panic spreads. They are still not moving. Then something happens. The cars in front crawl forward. The three boys pick their way out of the tunnel and emerge with splitting headaches. When the fresh air hits them the headaches evaporate. They still see nothing; the fog is like a greyish, white, whirling porridge. They follow the ruts and the dim lights ahead. It would be impossible to turn. They drive on in a fellowship of destiny. Every pilgrim is following the same worn, icy ruts. Even Mansur has stopped munching biscuits. It is like driving into oblivion, but oblivion where precipices, mines, avalanches and other dangers might suddenly strike.

At last the fog lifts, but they are still driving along a precipice. It is worse now that they can see. They have started the descent. The car lurches from side to side. Suddenly it slides sideways down the road. Said has lost control and swears. Akbar and Mansur hold on tight, as if that might help if they go over the side. Nervous silence descends once again on the car. The car slides sideways, rights itself, slides sideways again, and then swerves from side to side. They pass a sign which puts the fear of daylight into them: ‘Warning! Mines!’ Immediately outside – even inside their skid-zone – there are mines. All the snow in the world can’t protect them from anti-tank mines. This is madness, thinks Mansur, but he says nothing. He does not want to gain a reputation as a coward. And anyhow, he is the youngest. He looks down on tanks that lie scattered about, snow-covered, together with cars that have not made it either. He prays. Ali can’t have called him just to see him plunge over a cliff. Although at times his behaviour has been contrary to Islam, he has come to cleanse himself, put evil thoughts behind him and become a good Muslim. That last part down the mountain he experiences as if in a trance.

They enter the snow-free plains after what seems like an eternity. The last hours of the journey to Mazar-i-Sharif are child’s play in comparison.

On the road into town they are overtaken by pick-ups laden with heavily armed men. Bearded soldiers sit in open lorries carrying Kalashnikovs pointing in all directions. They bump along at sixty miles per hour over the rutty roads. The scenery is desert, steppe and stony hills. Now and again they pass little green oases and villages with mud huts. At the entrance to town a road-post stops them. Gruff men wave them through the barrier, which is a piece of rope stretched between two rocket-shells.

They drive into town, tired and stiff. Amazingly they have made the trip in twelve hours. ‘So this was an absolutely normal trip through the Salang tunnel,’ says Mansur. ‘What about those who take several days? Wow, we’ve made it. Ali, here I come.’

Soldiers with weapons at the ready stand on rooftops. Disturbances have been predicted for New Year’s Eve and there are no international peace-keepers here, just two or three opposing warlords. The soldiers on the rooftops belong to the governor, who is a Hazara. The soldiers in the pick-ups are the Tajik Atta Muhammad’s men. A particular uniform is the hallmark of the Uzbek Abdul Rashid Dostum. All the weapons are aimed at the ground, where thousands of pilgrims are wandering around, or sit in groups and talk: by the mosque, in the park and on the pavements.

The blue mosque is a revelation, shining in the dark. It is the most beautiful building Mansur has ever seen. The floodlight is a gift from the American Embassy, on the occasion of the ambassador’s New Year visit to the town. Red lanterns light up the park around the mosque, which is teeming with pilgrims.

This is where Mansur will ask for forgiveness for his sins. Here he will be cleansed. It makes him faint just looking at the large mosque. And hungry. Coke, and banana-and-kiwi-filled biscuits are scant fare for a traveller.

The restaurants are packed with pilgrims. Mansur, Said and Akbar find the corner of a carpet to sit on in a dark restaurant in Kebab Street. Permeating everything are the fumes of grilled mutton, served with bread and whole onions.

Mansur bites into the onion and feels drunk. He wants to shout for joy. But he sits quietly and stuffs himself with the food, like the others. He is no child, and he tries to keep the same façade as Akbar and Said: cool, relaxed, worldly-wise.

The next morning Mansur is awakened by the prayer call of the mullah. ‘Allahu akhbar’ – ‘God is great’ booms out as if someone had fastened enormous loudspeakers to his ears. He looks out of the window, straight on to the blue mosque, which is sparkling in the morning sunshine. Hundreds of white doves fly over the holy place. They live in two dovecotes by the tomb and it is alleged that if a grey dove joins the flight its colour will change within forty days. Also, every seventh dove is a holy soul.

Together with Akbar and Said Mansur pushes through the enclosure. It is about half-past seven. Aided by Akbar’s press card they shove their way up to the podium. Many have spent the night here to get as close as possible when Ali’s banner is raised by Hamid Karzai, Afghanistan ’s new leader. The women sit on one side, some wearing the burka, some only a white veil. The men sit opposite. While the women sit quietly on the ground, amongst the men there is a lot of pushing and shoving. The trees outside are black with people. The police walk around wielding whips, but more and more pass through into the enclosure; they jump over the fence and avoid the whips. Security is tight as all the Government ministers are expected.

The Government enter, Hamid Karzai leading the way, wearing his characteristic blue and green striped silk cloak. He dresses so as to represent all of Afghanistan: lambskin cap from Kandahar in the south, cloak from the north and shirt from the western provinces bordering Iran.

Mansur strains his neck and tries to get closer. He has never seen Karzai before. Karzai, the Pashtoon from Kandahar, had himself for a short period supported the Taliban but later used his position as chief of the Popolzai tribe to win over supporters for the fight against the Taliban. When the Americans started their bombing campaign, he left on a suicidal motorcycle tour of Taliban strongholds to try and convince the oligarchy that the Taliban was finished. It is alleged they were more convinced by his courage than his arguments. Later he was nearly killed by American friendly fire. At the UN conference in Bonn, drawn together to map out Afghanistan ’s future, he was chosen as the country’s new leader.