Narrative prose on the road

February 9, 28, the third day of New Year's Eve. The whole carriage is falling asleep. The window is full of darkness and monotonous wheel-rail collision, and the sparse lights approach and drive away through the misty window. The excitement of the first long-distance trip was finally coming to an end, and we lay across our double seat and began to sleep.

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, kneeling, curled up in an S shape, snoring like thunder, tilting his head and opening his mouth, and even the girl who has been reserved all the way finally rubs her black hair and bends over the small chair. I, on the other hand, am wide awake. I just sent a short message to my long-awaited family: On the way.

On December 29th, 1951, Che grava got on a Norton motorcycle made in 1939, and the motor began to roar. With his humble luggage and the wind blowing his hunting clothes, the dust kept rising all the way. The Andes was just a silent and vigorous background waiting to be crossed. This is Che grava on the road.

on September 8, 27, I turned from Xining to Golmud and went deep into Hoh Xil. The details are no longer clear, only remember that Qinghai Lake is an ancient jade hanging high, blue on the right; Green pastures, white felt bags and scattered sheep are on the left, and in the distance, the continuous brown Kunlun Mountain meets the dark blue sky.

When driving into the Gobi, it seems that green will never decorate this boundless yellow and brown again. The Qinghai-Tibet Highway is a green snake winding in the sand sea, moving forward and forward. Years of camel thorns seem to occupy small sandbags and raise a faint yellow and green in the wind. However, more was blown into a yellow and loose ball and quickly rolled across the road. Aesthetics stops here, and even the Toyota off-road vehicle with excellent performance seems to be instinctively westward and westward. On the far mountain, prayer flags suddenly appear, either white or red, and the long three or five are connected in series to form a pyramid, shaking in the wind of the plateau, and it seems deserted nearby. Quietly watching it turn out from the foot of the mountain, and then slowly turn into the foot of the mountain, flapping or wind, or heart?

We slowly overtook a smoothly moving motorcycle, with its rider's cotton cap, wide goggles, heavy Tibetan robe and dusty cowhide boots. Desolate desert, continuous mountains, the sky is like washing, a road with no end. Is that Che grava on the road? !

the train stopped again with loud noise and vibration. I don't understand why the train stopped again, in an unknown place. Outside the window is just a small platform, the dim light cuts like the darkness of water, and there is no voice.

On the way, Che grava will also stop, take out his military kettle, take a sip of the Andean mountain spring, take a nap under the tree and light a Havana cigar. He already has a light beard, and the light melancholy in his eyes flies in the Andes with the light smoke.

When a coach stopped, a lean middle-aged man got off the road, and there was a small mud-colored room at the far end of the hill. It's just that I can't imagine the simplicity or warmth of the hut, and I watched him soon be thrown into a small black spot on the Gobi Desert.

Our Toyota SUV also stopped in front of a row of dirty and crude brick houses (it is said that it was left by the garrison who built the Qinghai-Tibet Highway), and middle-aged couples from Sichuan warmly greeted us. Mushrooms in grassland after rain are delicious and thick as milk. There was a low roar from the backyard, and it was found that it was two Tibetan mastiffs, with dirty fur and locked chains under their necks. A strong man must have crossed the sea, and at a glance, he would be like an old monk; The few have fierce eyes, moving upper lip, heavy voice at the bottom of throat and jagged white 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 obviously I didn't get the point. Similarly, when I got off the Toyota off-road vehicle again, I was at 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 made it stagnate at that moment-that is the Sonam Dajie Monument. Simple granite, Sonam Dajie's eyes in black and white photos are deep and melancholy, looking into the distance at the entrance of Hoh Xil. "It is difficult for a few people who don't die in China to attract social attention. If you need a dead person, let me die in the front." -This is Sonam Dajie's words. Tragedy and desolation began to flood my whole body like water.

In front of Sonam Dajie, Wulan Wula Mountain faces south, and Kunlun Mountain faces north, so there is an endless expanse of Hoh Xil, with low and shallow hills on the left and right, streams on the alpine grassland, lakes like mirrors, and Kunlun Mountain stretches the snowy peaks above the blue sky. A lonely wild donkey stands still on a distant hillside, three or five white-tailed Tibetan antelopes are pacing leisurely, and the rare Tibetan antelopes are slowly moving forward like a string of brown dots on the yellow-green grassland, and the male sheep proudly raises a pair of beautiful horns. I don't know whether these spirits of the wasteland will come to Sonam Dajie's grave in the early morning, or maybe not. Sonam Dajie has long been integrated with this wasteland, and the sky is very big, a kind of unbreakable and insoluble blue. The sun is very close, and the wind is still cold but the skin is cold. That is Sonam Dajie's sad song whistling by.

In September 1952, Che grava returned to his hometown after eight months of traveling in South America, and wrote in his diary: "The people who wrote these diaries died when they set foot on Argentine soil again. I am no longer me. " Just like Sonam Dajie's tragic story, the guerrilla hero who fought in South America for democracy, fairness and ideals was shot after being betrayed by his comrades-in-arms, so the tragic car marks were forever branded on the long road between the Andes.

The train finally arrived in Weifang and changed to a taxi. In the New Year, there is silence in northern Shandong. The bright and clean dark silver is young poplar, the rough dark color is middle-aged willow, and the faint dark green in the field is wheat. This is how I teach the novelty. However, I forget which country road leads directly to my village entrance. Every intersection on the yellow land seems to be waiting in silence, but I have to ask the oncoming fellow villagers where my home is.

I finally saw all the familiar things: red mud tiles, blue brick walls, and the newly painted beautiful doorways with the words "thick and rich" written on them. As for the bright red Spring Festival couplets, I remember that a few years ago, there were beautiful words like "Plum blossoms in the world, snow falls on the jade and dried up", but now they are all bold pursuits of wealth, such as "Thousands of treasures enter the treasure land, and thousands of blessings are full of precious doors". The small courtyard is still simple, the residual snow under the south wall is still thick, and a new pear tree is planted to look at the rose in front of the eaves. Mother heard the sound, and her fingers were still dripping. 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 unfrozen spring protection station. Three cyclists. A short rest. A 28-inch family bicycle and a traveling tent were bundled in the back seat at random, dressed in winter, with a black and red face, bleeding spots on the cheeks and chapped lips. An elderly man sat on a stone and drank from a coke bottle. He squinted and enjoyed the midday sunshine in Hoh Xil. I learned that he is 58 years old this year, and they came from distant Gansu to distant Lhasa.

Che grava with cowhide and hidden boots passed by the Qinghai-Tibet Highway in front of the station quietly, and I watched him disappear into a dazzling light. Suddenly, I don't want to ask any more questions. Some questions are not suitable to be asked 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 beautiful dreams. He just suddenly thought one day: I have to ride a bike from Gansu across Hoh Xil to Lhasa before I turn 6!

when I returned to Shanghai, I chose to start from Qingdao, the starting point. When I passed Weifang, the corridor was crowded with luggage and people, making it difficult to walk. When driving into the twilight of Xuzhou, the carriage was already a canned sardine. I was prepared to read the third issue of Novel Monthly in 28 quietly. Chi Zijian's novel is just like this train, slowly telling a sensational love story that happened in Mongolian grassland.

In Mongolian, Hoh Xil means blue mountain ridge, 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 the Sonandajie Protection Station in Hoh Xil. A small showroom. The rescued young Tibetan antelope.

There are many kinds of specimens of animals protected in Hoh Xil in the exhibition room, including huge bison skulls, and the walls are covered with signatures in various languages, so I signed them and donated them to 1 yuan. There are two rescued Tibetan antelopes in the backyard, such as deer. Light brown, small, staggering, with a coded number plate around his neck. We walked into the fence, trying to express some kind of love with a bunch of grass. It first ran away, then took a few steps closer, and then ran away again. His eyes are bright, but his eyes are confused. He doesn't understand that someone stripped his mother's fur 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 again, as if it had fallen asleep with all the travelers. A sleeping child suddenly 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 little world of Novel Monthly, the sunshine in the south of the Yangtze River rises outside the window. The snow has not yet melted, the broken branches of camphor trees hold white wounds, quiet ponds, yellow reeds and white walls retreat rapidly in the symphony of cars and tracks, and the prosperity of Jiangnan begins to come.

The journey is coming to an end, and life is about to return to its original crisscross and orderly track. There was some commotion in the carriage, and Shanghai arrived. I closed the Novel Monthly, and Che grava and Sonanda Jie quietly disappeared. Only then did I look closely, 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 in the middle class.

is there any chance to hit the road?

I can only buy a T-shirt with Che grava's head printed on it, and let his melancholy eyes accompany me in this bustling city-I think.