He carries them into the actual crypt, and goes over to the mullahs who are sitting by the gold-painted wall inside the tomb. He places the gifts in front of one of them, who reads from the Koran and breathes over the gifts. When the prayer has been said, Mansur packs the things back into the plastic bags and hastens on.

By the golden wall one can utter a wish. In keeping with the patriotic speeches he leans his forehead against the wall and prays: That he one day will be proud of being an Afghan. That he one day will be proud of himself and his country and that Afghanistan may become a country that will be respected in the world. Not even Hamid Karzai could have put it better.

Intoxicated by all the sights and sounds, Mansur has forgotten the prayer of purification and forgiveness, the reason for his coming to Mazar. He has forgotten the little beggar girl, her thin little body, the big pale-brown eyes, the matted hair.

He leaves the tomb and goes over to Ali’s flag. Here too are mullahs who accept Mansur’s plastic bags. But they do not have time to take the gifts out of the bags. The queue of people who want carpets, beads, food and kerchiefs blessed is enormous. The mullahs just grab Mansur’s plastic bags, brush them hastily up against the pole, mumble a prayer and give them back. Mansur tosses them some notes; the prayer carpets and sugar lumps have been blessed yet again.

He looks forward to giving them away, to his grandmother, to Sultan, to his aunts and uncles. Mansur walks around smiling. He is pure happiness. Away from the shop, away from his father’s grip. He walks down the pavement outside the mosque with Akbar and Said.

‘This is the best day of my life! The best day,’ he cries. Akbar and Said look at him in astonishment, rather embarrassed, but they are touched that he is so happy. ‘I love Mazar, I love Ali, I love freedom! I love you!’ he cries and jumps along the street. It is the first time he has travelled alone, the first day in his whole life that he has not seen a member of his family.

They decide to watch a buzkashi fight. The northern territories are famous for having the hardest, roughest, fastest buzkashis. From afar they see that the fight has already started. Clouds of dust lie over the plain, where two hundred mounted men fight over a headless calf’s carcass. The horses bite and kick, rear up and jump, while the horse-men, whip between their teeth, try to snatch the carcass on the ground. Possession of the calf changes so rapidly that it looks as if it is thrown from rider to rider. The aim is to move the calf from one end of the plain to the other and place it inside a circle on the ground. Some fights are so violent that the animal is torn to bits.

To an outsider new to the game it might look as though the horses are just racing after each other across the plain with the riders balancing in the saddle. The riders wear long embroidered coats, high-heeled, thigh-high, decorated leather boots and buzkashi hats, a small lambskin hat like a bowler edged in fur.

‘Karzai!’ cries Mansur when he spots the Afghan leader out on the plain, ‘and Dostum!’

The tribal chief and the warlord are fighting each other for possession of the calf. To emerge as a strong leader it is necessary to take part in buzkashi fights and not merely ride around in circles outside the chaos, but commit oneself to the heat of the battle. But everything has a price. Sometimes mighty men pay to win.

Karzai rides around on the outskirts of the battle and is not quite able to maintain the other riders’ lethal tempo. The tribal chief from the south never quite learnt the buzkashi’s brutal rules. This is a Plains battle. It is the great son of the Plains, General Dostum, who wins, or at least whom the buzkashi let win. That might be worth their while. Dostum sits like a commander on his horse and accepts the applause.

Sometimes two teams compete, at other times it is everyone for themselves. Buzkashi is one of the wildest games in the world, brought to Afghanistan by the Mongols, who devastated the country under Genghis Khan. It is also a game about money; powerful men amongst the public pay out millions of Afghani for each round. The more money the wilder the game. And it is a game with political significance. A local chief is either himself a good buzkashi fighter or keeps a stable with good horses and riders. Victory is synonymous with respect.

Ever since the fifties the Afghan authorities have tried to formalise the fights. The participants merely nod their heads; they know the rules would be impossible to uphold anyway. Even after the Soviet invasion the tournaments continued, in spite of chaos in the country; many participants could not turn up for fights, as they had to cross battlefields to get to the venue. The Communists, who tried to get rid of most of Afghanistan ’s deep-rooted traditions, never dared touch the buzkashi fights. On the contrary, they tried to ingratiate themselves with the locals by arranging tournaments; one Communist dictator after another appeared on the stands, as one relieved another following bloody coups. Nevertheless, Communism tore down much of the foundations of buzkashi fights. When collectivisation started few could afford to keep a stable of well-trained horses. The buzkashi horses were scattered to the four winds and used as farm-horses. When the landowners disappeared so did the fighting horses and the riders.

The Taliban forbade the fights and classified them as un-Islamic. This one now is the first big buzkashi fight since the fall of the Taliban.

Mansur has found a place right at the front; sometimes he has to retreat fast to avoid being trampled on by rearing horses. He takes lots of pictures, of the horses’ bellies, which appear towering over him; of the whirling dust; the battered calf; of a tiny Karzai at a great distance; and a victorious Dostum. After the fight he takes a picture of himself beside one of the buzkashis.

The sun is setting and sends red rays over the dusty plain. The pilgrims too are covered in dust. Outside the arena they find a café. They sit on thin mats opposite each other and eat in silence. Soup, rice, mutton and raw onion. Mansur gobbles the food and orders another round. They silently greet some men who sit in a circle near them, arm-wrestling. When the tea is served, the talk can begin.

‘From Kabul?’ ask the men.

Mansur nods.

‘Pilgrimage?’

The men hesitate. ‘We’re actually travelling with quail,’ an old, toothless man answers. ‘From Herat. We’ve made a big circle, Kandahar, Kabul and then up here. This is where the best quail fights are.’

He carefully takes a small bag out of his pocket. Out of it trips a bird, a dishevelled little quail. ‘It has won all the fights we have entered it for,’ he says. ‘We have won pots of money. Now it’s worth several thousand dollars,’ he boasts. The old man feeds the quail with worn, crooked fingers, like eagle’s claws. The quail shakes its feathers and wakes up. It is so tiny that it fits into the man’s large, rough fist. They are labourers who have taken time off. After five years of secret quail-fighting, hidden from the Taliban, they can now live their passion, to watch two birds pecking each other to death. Or rather, shout with joy, when their own little quail pecks another to death.

‘Come tomorrow morning, early, at seven. That’s when we’ll start,’ the old man says. As they are leaving he presses a large piece of hashish on them. ‘The best in the world,’ he says. ‘From Herat.’

In the hotel they try out the hashish and roll one joint after another. Then they sleep like stones for twelve hours.

Mansur wakes up with a start at the mullah’s call to prayer. It is half-past twelve. Prayer starts in the mosque outside. Friday prayer. He suddenly feels he cannot live on without Friday prayer. He must go and he must be on time. He has forgotten his shalwar kameez in Kabul, the tunic and wide-legged trousers. He cannot go to Friday prayer in his western clothes. He is desperate. Where can he buy proper prayer clothes? All shops are closed. He rages and swears.