The greatest beauty of choosing this time to go home seems to be that everyone has a row of seats to adjust their sleeping position: leaning against the wall, squatting in an S-shape, snoring like thunder, tilting their heads and opening their mouths, and even the reserved girls all the way finally rubbing their black hair and falling down on small chairs. On the other hand, I'm sober. I just sent a short message to my long-awaited family: On the way.
195 1 year 12.29, grava rode a Norton motorcycle produced by 1939, and the motor began to roar. Simple luggage, hunting clothes blown by the wind, and dust all the way for a long time, the Andes mountains are just silent and majestic waiting to be crossed.
On September 8, 2007, I turned from Xining to Golmud and went deep into Hoh Xil. The details are not clear, only remember that Qinghai Lake is an ancient jade hanging high, and the right side is blue; On the left are green pastures, white felt bags and scattered sheep. In the distance, the continuous brown Kunlun Mountain meets the deep blue sky.
Driving into the Gobi, green seems to refuse to decorate this boundless yellow-brown again. The Qinghai-Tibet Highway is a green snake winding in the sand, moving forward and forward. The camel thorns of the years seem to occupy a small sandbag and raise a faint yellow-green color in the wind. However, more was blown into a yellow loose ball and quickly rolled across the road. Aesthetics stops here, even the Toyota off-road vehicle with excellent performance seems to instinctively go west and west. The prayer flags suddenly appeared on the distant mountains, either white or red, and three or five long ones were connected in series to form a pyramid, shaking in the wind on the plateau, and it seemed deserted nearby. Quietly watch it turn out from the foot of the mountain, and then slowly turn into the foot of the mountain. Is it the wind or the heart that beats?
A smooth motorcycle was slowly overtaken by us, with the rider's cotton cap, wide goggles, heavy Tibetan robe and dusty cowhide Tibetan boots. Desolate desert, continuous mountains, washed sky, an endless road. Is that Che grava on the road? !
With a loud noise and vibration, the train stopped again. I don't understand why the train stopped again, in an unknown place. Outside the window is just a small platform, the dim light is cutting like the darkness of water, and there is no sound.
Che grava will also stop on the road, take out his canteen, take a sip of the Andes mountain spring, take a nap under the tree and light a Havana cigar. He already has a faint beard, and his eyes are faintly melancholy and dancing in the Andes with faint smoke.
A bus stopped, a lean middle-aged man stepped down from the road, and there was a small mud house at the far end of the mountain. It's just that I can't imagine the simplicity or warmth of the hut, and I watched him being quickly thrown into a small black spot on the Gobi Desert.
Our Toyota SUV also stopped in front of a row of dirty and simple brick houses (it is said that it was left by the garrison who built the Qinghai-Tibet Highway), and middle-aged couples from Sichuan greeted us warmly. Mushrooms in the grassland are delicious and thick as milk after the rain. There was a low roar from the backyard and it was found that they were two Tibetan mastiffs with dirty fur and locked chains around their necks. A strong man must have crossed the sea, and at first glance, he must be like an old monk; A few people have fierce eyes, creeping upper lips, low voices and uneven teeth.
The train finally started and entered Shandong via Xuzhou without any details. I tried to look for something familiar from the dark window, but I obviously missed the point. Similarly, when I got off the Toyota SUV again, I was at the Kunlun Mountain Pass, with an altitude of 4,767 meters. Not surprisingly, my heart, which is pampered in the rich areas, is still beating steadily. A scene, to be exact, is a tombstone that stops it at that moment-the Sonam Street Monument. Simple granite, Sonam's elder sister's eyes in black and white photos are deep and melancholy, looking into the distance at the entrance of Hoh Xil. "The undead minority in China is hard to attract social attention. If you need a dead man, let me die in front. " -this is Sonam elder sister's words. Tragedy and desolation began to flood my whole body like water.
In front of Sonam Street, Wulan Wula Mountain faces south and Kunlun Mountain faces north, so a vast expanse of Hoh Xil flashes, with low and shallow mountains rolling from side to side, streams on alpine grasslands like mirrors, and Kunlun Mountain stretches with snow peaks above the blue sky. A lonely wild donkey stood motionless on a distant hillside, three or five white-tailed Tibetan antelopes paced leisurely, and the rare Tibetan antelopes walked slowly like a string of brown spots on the yellow-green grassland, and the male sheep proudly raised a pair of beautiful horns. I don't know if the souls of these wastelands will come to Sonam Dajie's grave in the early morning. Sonam Street has long been integrated with this wasteland, and the sky is very big, an unbreakable and insoluble blue. The sun is near, the wind is still cold, but the skin is cold. That's the sad song of Sonam's elder sister.
1952 In September, Che grava returned to his hometown after traveling in South America for eight months, and wrote in his diary: "The people who wrote these diaries died when they set foot on Argentine land again. I am not me anymore. " Just like the tragic story of Sister Sonam, the guerrilla hero who fought for democracy, fairness and ideals in South America was shot after being betrayed by his comrades-in-arms, so the tragic car marks were branded on the long road between the Andes forever.
The train finally arrived in Weifang and changed to a taxi. In the new year, northern Shandong was silent. Bright dark silver is young poplar, rough dark is middle-aged willow, and light dark green in the field is wheat. This is my way of teaching novelty. However, I forgot which country road leads directly to my village entrance. Every intersection on the yellow land seems to be waiting silently, but I have to ask the oncoming fellow villagers where my home is.
Finally, I saw all the familiar things: red mud tiles, blue brick walls, and beautiful newly painted doorways, which read "Houfu". As for the Red Spring Festival couplets, I remember that a few years ago, there were such kind words as "plum blossoms in the world, snow falling in the jade, dry and Kun", but now they are all bold pursuits of wealth, such as "a thousand treasures enter the treasure land, and a thousand treasures are full of treasures." The yard is still humble, the snow under the south wall is still thick, and a new pear tree is planted to see the roses in front of the eaves. Mother heard the sound and her fingers were still dripping with water. The village road is not as neat as it was a few years ago, and the familiar dry riverbed is about to be buried by garbage. At the intersection, a group of old people sit or stand, enjoying the sunshine in the middle of winter and watching strange cars pass by.
Hoh Xil Frozen Spring Protection Station. Three cyclists. A short rest. A 28-inch family bike and a traveling tent were bundled in the back seat at random, wearing winter clothes, with a dark red face, bloodstained cheeks and chapped lips. An old man sat on a stone and drank water from a coke bottle. He squinted and enjoyed the midday sun in Hoh Xil. Knowing that he is 58 years old, they came to Lhasa from Gansu.
Grava, a car with his boots hidden in cowhide, calmly walked by the Qinghai-Tibet Highway in front of the station, and I watched him disappear into the dazzling light. Suddenly I don't want to ask again. Some questions are not suitable for asking in Hoh Xil, especially wearing shiny leather shoes and brand-name suits and sitting in a Toyota off-road vehicle with superior performance. He may not know Che grava, or have so many wonderful dreams. He just suddenly thought one day: I want to ride my bike from Gansu through Hoh Xil to Lhasa before I turn 60!
Back in Shanghai, I chose to start from Qingdao, the starting point. When passing Weifang, the corridor was crowded with luggage and people, making it difficult to walk. When we drove into the dusk of Xuzhou, the car was already full of sardines. I was going to read the third issue of Novel Monthly in 2008 quietly. Chi Zijian's novel, like this train, slowly tells a sensational love story that happened on the Mongolian grassland.
Hoh Xil means blue mountain ridge in Mongolian, which can be translated into beautiful girl according to different pronunciations, but I have no chance to explore whether there are ancient myths and legends. When Toyota stopped again, it was already the Sonandajie protection station in Hoh Xil. A small showroom. The rescued young Tibetan antelope.
There are many kinds of specimens of protected animals in Hoh Xil, such as huge bison skulls, and the walls are covered with signatures in various languages, so I signed them and donated 100 yuan. There are two rescued Tibetan antelopes in the backyard, such as deer. Light brown, short stature, stumbling, with a coded license plate around his neck. We walked into the fence and tried to express some kind of love with a sokcho. First it ran away, then it got a few steps closer, and then it ran away. His eyes are bright, but his eyes are confused. He doesn't understand. Someone skinned his mother and someone saved him. Now, this group of people are sneaking around with grass and a beautiful Canon digital camera. What do they want?
The train stopped for a long time, as if falling asleep with all the passengers. A sleeping child burst into tears and was heartbroken. The young father gently coaxed the child and looked around the carriage apologetically. Someone opened his eyes, changed his sleeping position, and then continued his dream trip.
After a sleepless night, after reading the small world of the novel monthly report, the sunshine in the south of the Yangtze River rises outside the window. Before the snow melted, the broken branches of camphor trees held white wounds, quiet ponds, yellow reeds and white walls retreated rapidly in the symphony of cars and rails, and the prosperity of Jiangnan began to come.
The journey is coming to an end and life is about to return to the original staggered and orderly track. There was some commotion in the carriage, and Shanghai arrived. I closed the monthly novel, and Che grava and Sonanda Jie disappeared quietly. I just took a closer look, and the cover of the magazine was painted with exquisite windows, exquisite dining tables under the windows and exquisite tableware on the dining tables-suggesting a luxury pursuit of the middle class.
Is there any chance to hit the road?
I can only buy a T-shirt with Che grava's head on it, and let his melancholy eyes accompany me in this bustling city-I think.