‘Oh don’t listen to her,’ I say, grabbing Carrie’s arm. ‘She’ll try to give you the beer next and it’s awful.’ I address the woman directly now. ‘I’ll have another of the small ones, please.’ I sense Martin at my shoulder. ‘And one for him.’

‘Woohoo!’ says Carrie. ‘Violet wants to party?’ She squeezes me, then nudges Rory, who’s looking a bit more excited now that he’s had a drink. ‘If Violet wants to party, then we will all party.’ She grabs a bottle of the schnapps from the bar. ‘How much?’

The woman looks uncertain. ‘We like to give in small cups.’

Carrie waves the bottle in front of the woman’s face. ‘How much?’ She turns to Rory. ‘Pay the woman, Roarster. A few Chingis.’

Rory starts pulling notes out of his pocket, handing them to the woman. She nods when she’s decided it’s enough, but we’ve no idea what we’re paying. I’ve already forgotten the different colours and the exchange rate, but it doesn’t matter because it’s not my money. I still haven’t paid for a thing. And it doesn’t matter because Carrie has linked arms with me and we’re running out of the tent, the boys following behind. The sun has dipped a little now, and the wide, cloudless sky is turning a shining gold and shimmering shades of peach.

The drums are getting faster now, reaching a crescendo, and people are all huddled together in the middle of the festival space. ‘I think the shamanic ceremony is about to begin,’ Carrie shouts into my ear.

The games are over. Now it’s time for the real party to begin.

15

The drums slow down their frenetic beat, and the crowd begins a low, monotone hum. Little fires have been lit in a circle, and something fragrant has been thrown on them with the wood – some kind of incense, heady and intoxicating. We stand, transfixed by the show.

Out of one of the small gers near where we’ve been drinking, three shamans in full ceremonial dress appear, and walk slowly in a line, into the circle, where they stand together, facing out at the crowd, which has now formed a semi-circle around the lower part of the circle of fire.

Carrie grabs hold of my hand, and I glance at her, but she’s staring straight ahead. I squeeze her hand, and we stay like that while the shamans begin their ritual.

By the time it’s over, we’re both feeling the effects. The boys are forgotten now, the two of us are hugging each other, damp-faced from crying.

The crowd starts to disperse, heading back for more food, drinks. People stamp on the fires. ‘Bloody hell,’ Carrie says. ‘That was mental.’