Rebels smoke hash while the US bombs fall

After more than a week of US and British bombardments, the evening ritual is well-established. For the best view of the bombing of Kabul, you must arrive at the mountain village of Toap Dara before sunset, then wait on the roof of the local "Islamic State Army" outpost as the temperature falls ten degrees every hour.

Hamid (my interpreter) and I somehow ended up discussing the will of Allah versus human initiative as we drove up the slope at twilight, in full view of the Taliban guns on the top of the mountain.

"Everything that happens is God's will," Hamid said. "That is why a Muslim is never afraid." Moulana Nezamuddin, the village mullah, stood on a pile of stones, his hands cupped behind his hears, to chant the evening prayer call.

We climbed to the roof of a house abandoned by an Afghan who had fled to Pakistan. The rusted cab of an old truck, embedded in the mud building, served as a watch tower. Through binoculars I could make out a Taliban tank on the crest to the south-east, and a Taliban radio antenna swaying on the peak directly above us.

"These binoculars have drunk the blood of many Taliban," a mujahed named Ismael boasted to me. "It doesn't let Arabs or Pakistanis or Chechens survive."

The crack of gunfire raced down the mountain towards us, and the mujahedeen laughed as I ducked behind a wall. "The Taliban see there are many of us on the roof," one suggested. "It's their way of saying, 'Welcome to Toap Dara.' "

The procession of headlights from Kabul started at 6 p.m., a long necklace snaking towards us then stopping in the Taliban positions on the far side of Shomali Plain. The Taliban military feel so confident the US will not bomb their frontline positions opposite the United Front that they take shelter there every night. "Everyone knows this; everyone sees them," Hamid said. "So why doesn't the US attack them? It is very suspicious."

There were a few sparks - rockets fired by the United Front at the Taliban convoy - and the headlights went out briefly. At the northern end of Shomali, towards Panjshir, something burned bright yellow.

Below us, near Baghram Airport, another explosion left a crimson glow. In the midst of this soundless light-show, we could hear the Taliban firing a heavy machinegun at a mujahedeen position on the mountain range where we sat.

"Why weren't they targeting us?" I asked the hirsute commander, Golpatcha. "They used to shoot at us a lot," he said. "Now they are still firing, but not at us; we have some indications they want to defect to our side."

The "foreign ministry" of the United Front had insisted on sending a guard with us. I had mistakenly assumed it was to protect us from the Taliban, or bandits on the road. But the guard was there, I soon realised, to protect us from the Islamic State of Afghanistan's own fighters.

As night fell and we watched the chain of Taliban headlights, the gunmen began puffing away on hashish cigarettes. An American photographer's supply of juice cartons disappeared. "These people are not trustworthy," Hamid whispered. "Do not leave your belongings." The hash-smoking guerrillas never went to school, he added. "They know only the Kalashnikov. They like to steal - especially from foreigners."

The Afghan capital was 35 km due south, a halo diffused from behind the screen of a low mountain. Our light-fingered mujahedeen companions were by now so high on hashish that they giggled like schoolgirls as they sat waiting beside us.

At 9 p.m., arrows of red tracer bullets and sparkling anti-aircraft fire rose up from the city. With the first bright flash of an American bomb, the mujhahedeen cheered and roared with laughter. "Kill the Taliban! Kill the Taliban!" they shouted. A few more flashes over the following hour, then nothing.

When I picked up my shoulder bag to go, the mujahedeen shrieked. Here was something more frightening than Taliban bullets or American bombs: a scorpion the size of a man's hand, quickly crushed under Ismael's heel.

Hamid had napped with his head on the bag, and drew the obvious conclusion: "You see, Missus Lara, Allah wants me to survive."

On the road back to Jabal Saraj, Hamid (28) told me how he'd abandoned medical school in Kabul because the faculty no longer had the means to train physicians. He left the capital a few weeks ago, in the hope of making his way to Europe via the United Front's "free" enclave.

The guerrillas' laughter at the bomb explosions had enraged him. "My mother and father, four brothers and sisters, are all in Kabul," Hamid said. "Maybe the bombs fell on them. These country people don't understand. My friends and family are Afghans too."