Writing
Words Are Powerful. Words Are Timeless. Those Are My Words on Cultures, Casually
1
What has changed in my state of mind compared to before? I can’t understand it. But as I embark on this journey once again, I find myself at a loss for words—my fingertips tapping on the tablet, my thoughts sluggish and unresponsive, and before the mountains, a genuine sense of confusion arises within me.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry! The me of the past let out a terrible wail; you shouldn’t have abandoned me! You shouldn’t have cast reality far behind! You will pay for all your mistakes, and no repentance can suffice!
I don’t understand—when did you become so indifferent? When your feet touch this damp land, you seem to have thought of nothing at all. I should look at the bright yellow flowers blooming on the hills, should observe the shapes of the black goats, should notice the tender green moss growing on the dull gray stones beneath my feet. So I started to think, even though my thoughts were muddled. At this moment, I realized the things that people gradually lose while growing up. I don’t want to become boring and lifeless; I cannot lose the ability to think and write. I should write—otherwise, when tomorrow's sun rises, the hypocrisy and numbness of the night will vanish into the shadows, disguised as if they had never existed.
The mountains of Yunnan are not sharply undulating; from afar, their contours flow slowly like waves, with serpentine mountain roads lying across the land. The window in the back of the van we’re riding in is even hand-cranked, and there’s no air conditioning. Rolling the window down, cool wind rushes in, kissing my right cheek with the dampness of the earth. I can’t hear the chatter of my companions; I only watch as the vehicle navigates one bend after another, gliding along the spine of the earth.
Building roads in Yunnan must be difficult. Broken rocks and clay accumulate along the sides of the road, and the old van we’re in sweeps past obstacles, jostling but maintaining speed. The place I’m in is close to the cold zone; poisonous insects are not as rampant as in the rainforests of Xishuangbanna. I like it here—cool and mild, the mountains are quiet, and everything is still.
I have to say that traveling with others influences my perception of the surroundings—while focusing on conversation, I can only ignore the scenery around me. Unconsciously, I have become too fatigued to think effectively, only knowing that I should follow.
Yunnan is a great place. Perhaps it’s a stereotype of the region, but I always feel that the people in Yunnan won’t overcharge customers; the villagers I meet are all my friends. Their eyes shine brightly, and the wrinkles on their faces when they smile show no signs of intentionality or fatigue. Looking back at them through the eyes I brought from the city, my dusty gray eyes only feel ashamed at this moment. Clearly, I am so much younger than they are, but I can’t provide a reasonable explanation; my subconscious tells me: I don’t want this sad answer.
I thought the Dongba of a village would be a mysterious figure. I was wrong. This Dongba guide, shouldering a suitcase that weighs about half of what I do, walks briskly to the inn while holding the hand of his five-year-old daughter, leaving the awkward city dwellers behind, stumbling on the village's muddy slopes. I have many more impressions to add about this guide, but I’ll tell them slowly; I don’t have the mood for it now.
At night—I stand wide-eyed on the rooftop, straining my neck backward, trying to align my face parallel to the sky. The stars flicker across my retina, leaving me momentarily speechless. In the night sky of a big city, the flight indicator lights outnumber the stars. Here, the stars cluster into a spindle shape, and the Milky Way spreads magnificently overhead, shimmering silently. I don’t know how to describe the stars; I’ve seen too few, and my ignorance only blurs my feelings and joys. I only know that the moment I step out of my room, unable to endure it any longer, I can indulge in the fantasy that these stars are welcoming me: congratulations for lifting your head. Countless points of light scatter across the pitch-black sky, unattainable. My eye sockets stretch to the limit, the muscles around my eyes sharp with pain, the eyeballs dried by the cold night wind, nearly in tears—but I don’t want to close my eyes. My dark eyes reflect the current dark sky and the countless shining stars. Palpitations? Shock? I don’t know. I only know that in this moment, the world is muted, leaving behind me, who is even less significant than a speck of dust, and a night full of brilliant stars.
Continuing. Growing more fearful and ashamed—since when did writing become a task I needed to assign to myself?
2
July 5
Accommodation in Kuitun
——— Flight
I flew from the southeast to the northwest, catching a glimpse of the landscape from high above. The sky was clear of clouds, and I could distinctly see strips of farmland, gently colored to divide the undulating highlands into crisscrossing fragments. This colorful tapestry intertwines and separates the fractured hills, weaving in directions that extend to an unreachable horizon, almost making me dizzy. I was astonished by the vastness of the land; visually, it achieved synesthesia, and as I observed those dancing strips, I heard the heartbeat of the land. After returning to my non-window seat, the abstract yet stunning images flickered in my mind. The book "Corners of Altay" in my hands seemed to faintly glow, burning with my anticipation.
——— Urumqi
Dust rose from the highway in Urumqi as heavy trucks passed by. The changing sky of Xinjiang, gray and white clouds do not seem to press down but rather lay flat in the distant sky. Dark green cotton fields stretch out, extending to the shadow of the Tianshan Mountains in the haze. This segment of the Tianshan Mountains lies in silence, the dark brown shape quietly resting on the earth of Xinjiang. And on the distant peaks, which I cannot see, there may still be tiny snowflakes silently falling on the eternal ice and snow. A cloud drifts from the Kunlun to the Tianshan, and a snowflake falls from the celestial realm to the mortal world, crossing countless tribulations, scarred, to kiss the exposed stones at the mountain's summit. I find myself in disarray, imagining this scene on a section of road at the foot of the mountains.
——— Kuitun
By the time I arrived in Kuitun, it had started to drizzle. The temperature was cool, and the wind hit my face like a cold touch. Walking down the street in the evening, every ten meters there was a streetlight, casting an orange hue over the silence before the night. Shadows layered behind me, making even existence feel vague. A Uyghur vendor selling dried fruits passed by on a tricycle, singing an unknown tune under the restaurant window. Inside were people drinking and chatting, while outside, soldiers of the Corps stood silently with their guns, like stone statues merging into the night, merely watching the peaceful city with sharp eyes. The sound of footsteps was clearly audible on the brick road; at this moment, it was hard to entertain noisy thoughts.
July 6
Accommodation in Horgos
——— Dushanzi Canyon
After crossing a low hill, the view opened up on both sides. The sky gradually brightened; the gray blanket of clouds wove with saturated lace, a streak of golden red brushing against the black-brown rock layers. Morning clouds settled at the bottom of the sky, slowly flowing with color. Upon reaching the canyon, it appeared as a crack between the mountains; the slopes break off, yet the depths remain unseen. Unable to resist the urge to explore, I walked down step by step, where the plains between the mountains were filled with blooming lavender and rapeseed flowers, purple and yellow mingling vividly. The wind passing through the flower fields seemed romantic, carrying pure colors. Moving forward, the ground suddenly collapsed, nearly falling vertically into the abyss. I stood at the edge of the cliff; the sounds and colors around me vanished. No more gentle purple or yellow winds, only gray, brown, and black rocks, and the silent, murky flow of a desolate river. On the layered rock faces, pebbles nestled silently against the mountain wall. At this moment, the world was quiet; a solitary bird circled silently over the canyon. The canyon remained silent, and I stood quietly beside it, suddenly hearing the sound of a copper bell striking against cow bone.
——— Sayram Lake
The vehicle moved along the road, and I saw the white of the cloudy sky gradually fading from top to bottom, as if being wiped away from a blue canvas, leaving fragments that fell onto the distant peaks, transforming into a blanket of pure white snow. At some point, a line of blue came into view, expanding as I approached. This signaled that Sayram Lake was near. After getting out of the car, surrounded by mountains, I stood before the last drop of the Atlantic Ocean, the long-desired Say Lake. At this moment, the sky was completely clear, yet the vast expanse of water stretched out, even bluer than the pure sky. Walking step by step across the floating bridge to the small island in the lake, the water surged beneath the bridge, creating a gentle sound of waves. In the ups and downs, I felt the breath of Say Lake. The scene before me was like a dream; I saw the blue water spread endlessly toward the horizon, with splashes of sunlight dancing across the surface, twinkling and brilliant. I watched as the reflections of snow-capped mountains rippled in the lake. A gentle wind stirred, and I realized I was slowly entering the moment. I couldn't help but step forward; the water's coolness caressed my feet, and I felt a refreshing sensation radiating throughout my body. I am here, here, at Say Lake, and every moment is beautiful.
——— Horgos
I arrived at the city of Horgos, and the dark night sky descended again. The wind carried the scent of earth. The streets seemed to glow under the streetlights; every shadow cast a different texture. I walked down the road, unsure of my destination. The stars began to twinkle; in the distance, silhouettes of mountains stood tall. I paused for a moment to look up—yes, I had finally arrived at the edge of the earth. I should be ready for whatever the next moment brings.
July 7
Accommodation: Qingyuan
——— Princess of Relief Garden
Driving towards the lavender garden, I listened drowsily to the tour guide recounting the story of the Princess of Relief. The sky remained gloomy, and the abundant rainfall in the Ili River Valley brought layers of clouds and blocked sunlight. As I walked through the flower fields, I found a vast expanse of dull gray-green, shattering the last bit of hope in my heart. Only a small patch of flowers near the woods retained a faint purple haze, merely floating lightly on the green leaves, making the gray-green even grayer. This tiny remnant of purple, filled with people of various colors and shapes, struck me as comical, and I couldn't help but laugh. Since this dreamlike paradise had turned into a mirage, I quickly left, purchasing only a sachet and taking a few photos as proof of my visit to this place.
——— Yining
Outside the bus window, the lively sounds of people gradually filled the air. I looked up and realized that the bus had unknowingly become entrenched in a current of moving fruit stalls and the shouts of vendors. This vivid scene instantly invigorated me, my gaze catching the furrowed brows of people squinting in the sunlight and the brightly colored fruits on carts. I felt that this was the heart of the valley. Walking along the road in Kazanchi, the sound of horse-drawn carts jingled by, with horses draped in colorful blankets and sequined fabrics, their hooves clattering on the asphalt. Above, pigeons of various colors flew by silently, merely flapping their wings to land on the windmills at fur shops, the stone walls of clear ditches, the handles of red tricycles, or pecking on the grass by the roadside. Turning into a small alley, I saw a Uyghur man painting a somewhat faded door a bright blue. I took a photo of him, and he noticed but casually turned back. On both sides of the alley, fruit trees and flowers bloomed, with cheerful yellow wildflowers and unknown fruits adorning the scene. Two beautiful little girls sat on a cool bench at the door, playing, and shyly posed and smiled when they noticed me raising my camera, softly complimenting my pure white embroidered dress. At the crossroads, an older man was soliciting tourists. I didn't ride in his cart but managed to capture a photo of him. He grinned widely, clumsily making a peace sign, with wrinkles crinkling on his face.
No matter how many times I see their eyes, I'm amazed by their brightness and beauty. Exiting the blue alley, I saw a large group of pigeons rise into the air, soaring on the wind.
——— Qingyuan
I checked in early again and went out in search of food. Eventually, I humorously chose hot pot, but it was indeed distinctive; the meats and vegetables from Xinjiang were irresistible, and a quick dip brought out unparalleled freshness. On the way to digest, I accidentally wandered into a square where a crowd was singing and dancing. People of all ages and ethnicities were dancing to Xinjiang's steps, flowing and swirling in the square. This could no longer simply be called a square dance; every bend and sway exuded composure and elegance. I couldn't resist joining in; although my steps were not the same as the locals, I was welcomed. As I moved through the crowd with my small steps, I genuinely felt the joy of the people in this remote place and marveled at how the country had truly become prosperous.
July 8
Accommodation: Bayinbuluke
——— Nalati
I set out early, departing under the pink dawn. I boarded a shuttle bus, weaving through the mountains, winding around the peaks, traversing the world of wildflowers and fir trees. The clouds gradually thinned under the sun, illuminating the grasslands above. The tender green pastures softly enveloped the mountains, extending higher, with distant, hazy peaks cloaked in year-round snow, indistinct. Dots of wildflowers—purple, pink, yellow, white—adorned the tranquil grassland, bringing it to life. On either side of the road, there were yurts for tourists to visit, with camels and saddled horses lying down or standing quietly. On the gently undulating terrain, cows and sheep grazed, scattered across the grassland, vivid and pure. Riding a brown horse, I trotted across the grassland, where the cattle did not shy away from the passing horses; they merely glanced up, basking in the sun. Above, golden eagles circled, and crows perched on wooden posts, croaking hoarsely. As excitement faded, gazing at the snow-capped peaks, I felt pure joy.
——— Bayinbuluke
The journey to Bayinbuluke Grassland was winding, with the return trip taking an hour. But upon reaching Swan Lake, I felt the effort was well worth it. The weather was very clear, similar to the brightness of Guangdong in the afternoon, and equally sunny. I bought some skewers of lamb to fill my stomach and headed towards the glistening lake. On both sides of the road, gulls perched on the grass, waiting for tourists to throw pieces of naan and breadcrumbs, occasionally taking off in groups, chirping in the sky. There were also many birds gliding gracefully over the lake, though I didn't see any swans. Suddenly, I heard exclamations, and looking over, I finally spotted the elegant creatures frolicking in the water. Their soft necks dipped into the water to forage, then emerged, shaking off droplets. Their pure white wings spread wide, fluttering and then retracting against their sides.
I raised my camera, intending to capture the moment, but found that no matter how I shot, I couldn't recreate their beauty, so I reluctantly left. It is said that Bayinbuluke Grassland is most famous for its "nine curves and eighteen bends" at sunset, yet upon reaching the viewing platform, I found myself surrounded by people, all armed with cameras, making it feel suffocating. Due to my lack of skill and my inability to squeeze into that crowd, I decisively gave up on vying for the best shooting spot and took a couple of photos from the side. After descending the mountain, I enjoyed some delicious lamb skewers, naan, and yogurt, and finally captured a glimpse of the golden-red sunset in the parking lot. On the return trip, as evening approached, I couldn't help but marvel that my retina had turned green from the grassland.
July 10
Heavenly Lake is not highly praised by locals; there's even a saying that goes, "Whoever sees Heavenly Lake will regret it." Though it's commonly said, I didn't see any tourists passing by without visiting. I was still feeling unwell at noon but suddenly had an unwavering desire to see Heavenly Lake in the afternoon. When I arrived, I felt it would be a pity not to see it. Perhaps everyone thinks this way, and I am no exception. Thus, after a grueling journey, I reached the bottom of the lake, dragging my weary body the last 800 meters to the shore. Heavenly Lake is indeed beautiful, displaying a serene blue rather than the bright, lovely sky blue of Say Lake, presenting a tranquil greenish-blue. Nearby, Ma Ya Mountain is capped with pure white snow, merging elegantly with the petals of roses, while the graceful Heavenly Lake silently listens to the various sounds arriving from all directions. The temperature at this altitude is refreshing but not cold; inexplicably, my spirits were lifted, and my legs no longer trembled. Taking advantage of my good condition, I followed the guide to Wolong Pond to see the waterfall. Although the drop wasn't very high, the water flow was spectacular, with white mist rising to wet the rocks, revealing their original reddish-brown color, and green moss peeking out under the rushing water. In the mist, there were two rainbows arcing through. The descent was easy, but I was surprised that the ascent was also effortless; my illness seemed to have quickly healed, and I felt light as a swallow. Descending the mountain at off-peak hours, I saw fellow travelers still struggling in line for the shuttle at the top, so I borrowed a bench from the driver and leisurely waited for the next departure with my instant noodles.
