Only once on my rambles around Mazar was I brought up short, while attempting to inspect the inside of the shrine in the city centre. An old guidebook I had bought in Peshawar described the building as the finest in the country. It commemorates Hazrat Ali, the dragon-slaying cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet Mohammed, who was assassinated in 661. The original shrine was destroyed in the early thirteenth century by Genghis Khan, who thought there was gold buried beneath its pillars. The present building is a fifteenth-century replacement.
– Not the least of its charms are thousands of white pigeons who make their home here, I read. Local belief has it that should a grey pigeon join the flock, it will become totally white in just forty days, so holy is the site.
I had removed my shoes and was about to pass through the great south gate when a bent old man on a stick came out and began to scold me, jabbing a gnarled finger in my face. He wore the white robes of a mullah, and I backed away, grinning dumbly: I had meant no offence. But the torrent of invective merely strengthened and the inevitable crowd gathered. I raised my hands in an exaggerated sign of surrender, which some of the crowd found funny. It wasn’t clear if they were laughing at my expense or the mullah’s, although they didn’t seem to share the old man’s anger. Then one of them called out in English, the first I had heard from a Mazari resident. He was a neat man with small round glasses who spoke precisely with a slight American elision.
– Where are you from? What are you doing here?
– From England. Inglistan. I wish only to see the inside of this beautiful holy place.
The man in glasses translated my answer: the mullah shouted back. The bystanders turned their heads to watch like the crowd at a tennis match.
– He says foreigners are not permitted.
– Please tell him that if this is true then I will leave, I said, pointing amiably at my shoes. Although, please also tell him that I have visited many mosques in many countries, and have never been forbidden to enter before.
My translator hesitated.
– Does it say in the Koran that foreigners may not enter? I added.
A smile flickered across the English-speaker’s lips, and then he nodded vigorously.
– You are right. I agree.
He translated once again in a loud voice for the benefit of the crowd, who began to murmur among themselves, enjoying this spontaneous public debate. But the mullah’s eyes blazed. He shook his stick, spittle flecking his beard, his harangue rising to a shriek before he turned on his heel and hobbled off at speed into the recesses of the shrine. The exchange was suddenly over, and the crowd, muted, began to disperse. The man in glasses smiled and shook his head.
– What did he say?
– He said, all foreigners are spies.
– But I’m not a spy, I’m a journalist.
– Don’t worry. The mullah is a crazy old man.
– So it’s OK – I can go in?
But the Afghan looked uneasy, clearly afraid of the mullah’s authority, however mad he might be. I gave up and put my shoes on again, and asked him about his English. He had learned it from watching American movies on television, he said. Despite his scholarly appearance he was a soldier, on leave from the front. Tomorrow he would have to return to his unit, which was a blow because I had been on the point of offering him a job as my interpreter. Instead I asked him where his unit was stationed, but he merely smiled.
– Perhaps the mullah was right, he said archly. Perhaps you are an English spy.
This was a good joke, but despite my efforts my new friend refused to move beyond polite formality. All too soon he was looking at his watch.
– You are welcome in Mazar, he said finally. This is a good city, with good people. You will be safe here.
I watched him pad away across the square through an explosion of doves, wondering if it was really possible to learn such good English simply by watching television.
Mir was already working for another group of visiting journalists when we met. He was returning with them from a two-day trip to the Hazarajat, the Northern Alliance’s southern front against the Taliban. I had been told about these English-speaking journalists by the kindly Oxfam people and was hoping they might be able to help me. My search for a good interpreter-fixer over the previous two days had been fruitless. One or two volunteers had presented themselves at the compound doors, having heard somehow that a foreigner with dollars in his pockets was looking for someone, but it was quickly obvious that their English wasn’t up to the job. The problem was fast becoming urgent. Despite the assurances from the man at the shrine, there was a limit to the amount of wandering around on my own that it was sensible to do. In any case, having found my bearings in the city I was keen to use it as a base camp from which to explore the neighbouring regions of the country as soon as possible.
The party of journalists finally trooped in at dusk, shedding camera bags and laughing loudly, tired and dusty from their journey. I introduced myself to Ewan, a British writer based in Eastern Europe, Rick, a Canadian agency photographer, and Al, a cameraman with Live News. I met Mir last.
– Pleased to meet you, he murmured with a slight bow. My name is Mirwais, but everyone calls me Mir. Mir means ‘peace’ in Russian, you know?
He had dark round eyes in a chubby face, cheeks as shiny as apples, a wisp of immature beard on his chin. His frame was portly and he shuffled when he walked, his feet turned slightly inwards. Black curls poked from beneath an embroidered pillbox cap worn in the Uzbek style, although his nose and other features were distinctly Pashtun. His family was evidently wealthy – only the relatively rich could afford the education implied by his spoken English. They were originally from the south, he explained. His father Amanullah, a judge, still owned land and houses in the Pashtun heartlands around Kandahar, as well as in Kabul, but he had moved to Mazar when Mir was still a child. Mir asked where I was from in a quiet, attentive way that I immediately liked. It contrasted with the raucousness of the Anglo-Saxons, who were growing louder as they relaxed. He was barely nineteen, yet there was something trustworthy about him, a quizzical puppyish-ness that made guile seem improbable. There was intelligence in his eyes as well as a willingness to please, despite his obvious tiredness. Most important of all, his English, although heavily accented in the usual Afghan way, a bit guttural, a bit sing-song, was serviceable.
Out on the balcony the journalists