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Things on the Road (Last year, a certain issue of "Travel Insider" magazine changed it to something like "Adventure for how many years")
Tax Xiaojie
The "Traveler" magazine assigned me to sort through old travel photos and write an essay. When I looked, there were quite a few, but it was hard to achieve the desired feeling of compiling a private travel chronology that the editors hoped for. Most were digital photos from recent years; very few or overly verbose ones were from the film era.
Many photography enthusiasts don't like taking pictures of themselves, and I am the same. Besides, back then, each roll of film in my backpack was precious and heavy, so I didn't want to waste them. My first long-distance trip had no photos because conditions did not allow it. I initially borrowed a camera from my father—an old 120-foldable one—but unfortunately, due to excessive curiosity, I dismantled it and managed to reassemble it. However, after recalculating, it was during the winter break of 1985 when I was either in the first or second year of high school, legally still a minor. The route was from my hometown, Zhouzhi County in Shaanxi Province, to Shiyan in Hubei Province. Riding a dilapidated bicycle, wearing a military overcoat, I set off without hesitation. During the journey, while crossing the Qinling Mountains, I saw snow so vast and enormous that I had never seen before, which excited me to the point of euphoria.
Now, whenever I recall that Spring Festival, I can't remember any scenes of celebrating the New Year. What I do remember is that, as a young teenager at the time, I met people who would chat with me while I pushed my bicycle up steep slopes and gave me walnuts and persimmon cakes. In Jia Pingwa's hometown, Danfeng County, I drank a lot of unforgettable wine. Reflecting now, that trip was filled with wonderful memories. Along the way, I always seemed to find myself in situations where help came just in time. This might naturally be due to the accumulation and burial of many memories. Of course, it could also be that there were more good people in that era.
I remember the latter part of that journey when I turned from Henan to the Danjiangkou Reservoir in Hubei, now the water source for the central route of the South-to-North Water Diversion Project. On the vast reservoir, I boarded a large ship, jumping around in excitement. Although now it seems like just a small passenger boat, at the time, in my growing body, it felt like an incredibly massive vessel. Despite the freezing winter wind, sitting on the boat, my brain was overheated, thinking only about going to even farther places. As a result, in the year I graduated from high school, I didn't take the college entrance exam. Instead, I went to see the sea. About that youthful journey, many details have become impossible to recall, but sometimes, in unexpected moments, some forgotten trivialities suddenly pop up somewhere, all warm and comforting things. The greatest harvest from that trip should be that I no longer felt inferior about my slim physique and began to trust my physical strength. More importantly, I gained a certain level of confidence in my endurance or perseverance.
The following trips were not pleasant, nor pure travels anymore, but rather involuntarily like nightmares. I don't know what happened, but in my third year of high school, I became a materialist, extremely rebellious against school, full of twisted logic, and once debated with a veteran party worker, the father of a classmate, almost making him spit blood. Subsequently, you can imagine, a half-grown child with nothing but impractical wild fantasies, fearlessly poor, couldn't possibly have a good outcome. Result: stranded in Hainan Island, almost joining the mafia—it's too painful to revisit. Regarding that scorching southern island, one incident etched in my mind was this: once, unable to eat for many days, I relied on drinking tap water everywhere to fill my stomach. At night, I would sleep in the Su Dongpo Memorial Park beside Haikou in Qiongshan with a bloated belly. It was cold in the dead of night in Hainan too, and I could only keep warm by running, secretly, because at the time, there was a rumor that if vagrants like me were caught, they would first be sent to quarry stones for three months before being deported home. For a while, I was with a kid from northern Shaanxi. He was rich, younger than me, stronger in appearance, and theoretically, I should have been the older brother. However, the situation was reversed: every dawn before sunrise, when we shivered while running in the Su Gong Shrine in Qiongshan, we would argue about who should wear his shirt for warmth? At that time, my entire outfit was a pair of super-short shorts and a tank top; he, richer than me, had a shirt in addition to the shorts and tank top. After each argument, that sweat-stinking shirt ended up mostly on me. His reasoning was always that he was stronger and more resistant to cold, and besides, I couldn't beat him in a fight.
Later, this child found work before me, tending pigeons on a farm. After that, we never saw each other again. Now, I can't even remember his face. This makes me feel like I might be someone who lacks integrity. Shameful. Calculating, it has already been twenty years ago. During those days, my mind was preoccupied with food alone. Being able to eat was the only motivation. Even admiring cattle, horses, pigs, and dogs... How nice it would be not to be hungry or cold! What is happiness? Not being cold or hungry. The most important thing in life is being able to eat and drink enough to live. That year's trip to Hainan cured my then obsessive materialism. Amidst the overwhelming confusion and pain, I began to seriously ponder profound questions like "Where do we come from, and where are we going?"—of course, I couldn't think of anything. Later, after admiring cattle, horses, pigs, and dogs, facing the haggard face of my father who had endured hardships searching for me across thousands of miles, I instantly lost my defiance, having committed countless wrongdoings, and obediently followed my parents to move to Shiyan City, Hubei Province, to work as a factory worker. During holidays, I would ride my dilapidated bicycle and wander around. A far trip involved crossing the Shennongjia area to Yichang and then riding back. In the factory, I started out humble and eager to learn, striving to be a production model, contributing nuts and bolts to the great Dongfeng car. After manufacturing millions of screws, covered in grease, my inherent laziness took over again. This wouldn't do; I needed to find a less strenuous job. With no other options, I thought about retaking the university entrance exams. But with a weak foundation, the best I could do was draw a few days of sketches under the threat of my father, who used to paint when I was little. So, I decided to take the art exam. After working night shifts for six months, I took the exam and, surprisingly, passed. In 1990, I entered the Art Department of Shiyan University, but my goal was never to study art. I just wanted to pass and get better food. However, the major I studied made it easy to feel like an "art youth," and under the guise of experiencing life or sketching, I traveled freely everywhere. Back then, university students still held some status. Over several holidays, under the banner of social practice, I organized several long-distance training exercises: the Ten-Thousand-Li Bicycle Ride for University Students, the Ten-Thousand-Li Quality Inspection Ride for University Students' Spring Wind Cars, and the Ten-Thousand-Li Hope Project Ride for University Students, writing articles for newspapers along the way. Around this time, I bought my first camera, the Haiou DF2.
The first photo I found was taken during a ten-thousand-li ride in university, located in Shennongjia. It was the first summer vacation. I seemed to always be wearing slippers.
Throughout my university years, I didn't focus much on painting but instead wandered around interviewing, acting like a journalist. After graduation, my dream came true, and I joined the News Section of the Publicity Department of the Shiyan Municipal Committee, specifically writing articles.
Factory life was somewhat monotonous, making me feel depressed. Looking back, I retook the university entrance exams, studying art but ending up as a journalist. Not long after, a sudden hike began to change my youth. I remember that day, wandering aimlessly like a headless fly down the streets, when Mr. Zhang Ouya from the newspaper called me to join a dinner gathering. Upon arrival, it turned out to be a farewell banquet for Wang Qing, a reporter from the "Shiyan Youth Daily," who was embarking on a "Hiking the Han River" journey. I immediately requested to join, and the organizers, concerned about Wang's safety traveling alone, readily agreed. I rushed home, grabbed my camera, packed my bag, and set off without eating.
This three-month trek along the Han River was my first long-distance continuous hike. Professionally speaking, it made me realize the significance of hiking for in-depth interviews. For example, many things you won't see unless you walk there, and experiencing places by foot versus by machine can be entirely different—"To ascend nine heavens and catch the moon, to dive five oceans and catch turtles," Chairman Mao's poetic vision seems achievable by humans, yet much of the unknown on this small planet still relies on two legs.
This Han River hike left me elated. The next year, a group of us brothers conceived a grander plan—"Hiking the Yangtze River." Initially smooth, it later developed in ways both unexpected yet predictable, complex and indescribable. From 1995, unknowingly, it extended until 1998, our title transforming into the super-lengthy—"Hiking Yangtze River Reporting and Investigation Team of China Three Gorges Engineering Newspaper and Hubei Shiyan Youth Journalists."
Hiking through the lofty snow-capped mountains and vast canyon forests of the upper Yangtze River for months on end, some things became increasingly firm, others increasingly fragile. In the prime of my youth, bursting with energy, easily moved, and easily confused, my emotions mirrored the events themselves—fluctuating wildly, knowing only that persistence was the sole correct path. I vividly remember adopting two month-old Tibetan mastiffs in the abandoned county seat of Quemaile, Qinghai. Arriving at the new county seat of Quemaile, a friend's workplace had a litter of puppies, half wolf-dog and half Tibetan mastiff. Since the friend was a leader, they asked for one on our behalf, and the owner graciously selected the best one for us. Just as we were about to take it, the burly man, aged thirty or forty, teared up, saying, "You must treat it well... If you abandon it, find it a good home, never leave it behind..." Months later, overwhelmed by natural and human disasters, when I reached Manigango, the last puppy named "Zamao" was tragically lost there.
After losing the first two puppies, "Zamao" became my constant companion, sleeping beneath my bed or beside my sleeping bag at night. Thinking about raising them day and night, their eyes lingered in my memory for a long time.
"Zamao" was the ugliest among them, with a peculiar habit of biting my shoelaces, often loosening them without me noticing, which irritated me greatly. After it lived alone, every morning it crowed like a rooster, barking incessantly under the bed. Naturally, I retaliated with punches and kicks, and soon it quieted down. No more morning barks, it instead circled under the bed like a donkey grinding grain. It dared to nibble on my shoelaces only when I was in a good mood, cooing and cuddling...
After entering Sichuan from Qinghai, my companion had to return inland. We arrived at Manigango to hitch a ride separately. I thought: from now on, continuing along the Jinsha River would only be me and "Zamao." Feeling melancholy yet warm, the farewell atmosphere left me feeling empty. Back then, rides weren't easy to find. I sat by the road waiting for a vehicle while my companion ventured into the outskirts for convenience. I watched "Zamao" follow lazily. Soon, my companion returned, but "Zamao" didn't. Shocked, my companion said, "I saw it follow me a few steps, then turn back to find you!" We searched inside and outside the town several times, to no avail. Meanwhile, the vehicle for my companion's inland journey arrived. After bidding farewell, I frantically dumped my luggage somewhere and continued searching... Still no results...
Kind-hearted people from Manigango said, "You don't need to search anymore. Someone must have liked it and taken it away; you won't find it..."
Eventually, I couldn't find it and set off on my solitary journey again...
Later, on the banks of the Jinsha River, I dreamed of "Zamao" several times. Later, I reproached myself countless times for not treating "Zamao" better, for hitting it, for being so harsh...
Months later, I walked along the Jinsha River to Zhongdian in Yunnan, then known as "Shangri-La," where tourism was just starting, and journalists were treated exceptionally warmly. Unbelievably, I stayed in a three-star hotel. Such luxury was almost paradise, and I struggled to adapt after enduring outdoor living. Three-star hotels were truly excellent, warm as spring even in the coldest months. I sent my dirty clothes to the laundry room, easy for down jackets and various items, but a sweater worn close to my skin required three dry cleanings to barely be clean. I may have set a record at the hotel—I couldn't believe a journalist from the mainland could make their clothes so dirty.
Busy days of interviews were fine, but at night, I suddenly felt unbearably lonely. "The code of chivalry is gone, no one around can be trusted..."—a line from the Hong Kong movie "A Better Tomorrow" playing on TV echoed the words of a mafia boss. Strangely, these words made me cry...
At this point, our "Hiking the Yangtze River" project had become a solo endeavor. Everything was distant, beyond reach. Everything felt strangely unfamiliar yet impossible to let go. I had no complaints, just endured. I wondered why I cried. Thinking, if I must cry, then let me cry. I'm a man; there's nothing wrong with crying. Anyway, no one sees...
That night in the three-star hotel, I lay awake, restless, unable to sleep. At 3 a.m., the movie on TV made me tear up. I found it strange how vulnerable I had become at that moment. Prior to this, I harbored narrow prejudices against Hong Kong films. Later, I realized that classics exist there too, such as "A Better Tomorrow" and "Sweetheart Candy," which moved me to tears, and "A Chinese Odyssey" wasn't bad either. Perhaps at that moment, I understood that I'm not a "lone ranger"; I desire camaraderie...
Years of hiking the Yangtze River led me to a "realm of freedom" known only to myself, actually fiercely battling another self. Temptations were everywhere, primarily the hollow feeling of suddenly leaving a system after years of education... These issues aren't worth discussing. Those years, photography became my psychological balance remedy or poison...
Wandering between mountains and wilderness, I gradually abandoned the habit of carrying a knife, and the weighty camera began giving me a sense of security. Over time, I grew to prefer cameras and lenses with metallic textures, holding them felt like wielding weapons. More importantly, personally, some crucial things became increasingly clear, such as my belief in Confucius's "human nature is inherently good" rather than Western theories of inherent evil.
Whenever I recall those glorious years hiking along the upper Yangtze River with a large backpack, I am always filled with gratitude. Countless kind people—many teachers, colleagues, and friends remain close, more have lost contact, and many whose names I cannot recall or never knew—without them, I can't imagine how I could have faced those mountains and rivers... Whenever I think of this, it warms my heart and adds infinite strength.
The mighty Yangtze River spans 6,380 kilometers. From the snowline of Jianggudiru Glacier at Geladandong Snow Mountain at 5,820 meters above sea level, the section upstream of Yichang in Hubei Province stretches 4,504 kilometers, the middle reaches from Yichang to Hukou in Jiangxi Province cover 955 kilometers, and the downstream section from Hukou to the mouth of the Yangtze River near buoy No. 50 measures 938 kilometers. The contrast is intriguing. Over several years of our Yangtze River hike, we only walked 3,464 kilometers from the source to Yibin in Sichuan, covering only the upper reaches that interested me most. The section from Yibin to Yichang was mainly by boat, and below that, I only visited a few major cities. The Yangtze River is truly immense, and its grandeur made me curb some arrogant thoughts. Thereafter, I abandoned long-distance hikes and preferred staying longer in interesting places, such as the mountainous patrilineal tribe in Baiyu County on the banks of the Jinsha River. I spent several more months there, wrote a book, and still felt it wasn't enough, constantly reminiscing...
My most arduous hike wasn't during the prolonged Yangtze River expedition; it remains a proud experience that partially altered my worldview. In 1998, Yang Yong, an old friend from the Yangtze River, organized a drift down the Yarlung Tsangpo River and was the team captain. Fortunately, I joined the group. The final segment was the famous Great Bend of the Yarlung Tsangpo River. Following instructions from relevant authorities, we ceased drifting and switched to a month-long hike through the region.
By chance, in the perilous depths of the Grand Canyon, Tibetan brother Min Sang and I formed a two-person third team, relying solely on each other. At that time, numerous exploration teams entered this "last frontier of humanity" in southeastern Tibet, attempting to unveil the mysterious veil of the canyon confirmed as the world's deepest, surpassing the Colorado Grand Canyon in the U.S. and the Colca Canyon in Peru. We crossed the "no-man's land" ahead of a "national team's" second team, viewed a waterfall "discovered" by the first team, and upon nearing the exit, observed another waterfall "discovered" by the third team of the "national team." These two newly "discovered" waterfalls added nearly twenty days to our canyon journey, leaving the latter half of the time with us constantly short of food. Several times, in a semi-starved state, we encountered real danger, prompting Min Sang to swear he'd never return to this accursed place. He followed the stubborn me, continuing what he considered a reckless act risking his life, solely because we had become good friends. By then, the employer-employee relationship was irrelevant. Due to exceeding the original plan duration, the latter half of the journey saw me, the employer, spending his money.
In fact, Min Sang only mentioned something when we finally reached Zhaqu at the top of the canyon after a month of walking. According to our pace, we were just one day away from reaching the comfortable life on the Sichuan-Tibet highway, but I insisted on continuing along the river to look for waterfalls. He said, "Both our parents are alive. Why should we die? Why must we go? Can we not go?" I replied that it was work, and I couldn't help it, so he focused on how we could reach the destination and survive. That day, he insisted I shouldn't use a knife to clear the way, as the terrifying fall I took with the knife at the previous waterfall, witnessed by him, was probably more shocking than what I experienced. Thus, he was always more cautious than me.
That fall could only be attributed to luck or Buddha's protection. I fell just a few meters before a pine tree stopped me. To my dismay, my top-tier Canon EOS1 camera, which had accompanied me through many trials and tribulations, was damaged, while I only suffered minor abrasions from my cheekbone to my calf. Besides lamenting the loss of my beloved camera and thanking heaven, I didn't feel much else. However, witnessing the lucky process where I didn't cut my own face in half with the meter-long knife I wielded, Min Sang developed a psychological shadow about seeing me with a knife thereafter. Min Sang had been a Bon monk for two years. I had photographed the Rikaze Dazhuka Temple where he practiced meditation on the漂流boat. Those days of repeatedly facing dire straits and finding salvation made me almost believe in his theism. Back in the city, I naturally reverted to being a materialist. Nonetheless, this Tibetan brother taught me many principles about life in the canyon, warming my often-cold urban heart and reminding me to preserve kindness and love. This was one of my biggest gains from that year's "exploration" of the world's highest river, the Yarlung Tsangpo.
During those days, people "discovered" that the legendary grand waterfall indeed existed in the canyon, which was a significant piece of news. In that green canyon that still gives me chills today, when my Tibetan brother Min Sang and I climbed another large mountain and curled up in a tent on the summit, famished and sleepless, the whole nation learned about the waterfall from CCTV before we did. Days later, when Min Sang and I, with bruised cheeks and grotesque appearances, stood before the authentic waterfall, drenched in mist and deafened by roaring waves, we didn't expect that for this miraculous waterfall, like the Yarlung Tsangpo Grand Canyon, in early 1999, a dispute arose over who discovered it first, even involving national dignity. Everything was so thought-provoking... I wonder, how much honor does contending for such a "first" bring to our suffering nation? Many of my friends and I believe that using the term "discovery" here is laughable, reminiscent of Columbus sentencing Native Americans to death in the Americas. Perhaps, for a recently awakened Chinese exploration, sincere courage to confront oneself is more important.
It's painful, but speculative essence is more beneficial to the progress of our nation. Speaking boldly, mature exploration spirit helps uphold our national dignity. This should be unrelated to personal aspirations and sensational effects. Some things should be commercialized, while others shouldn't. Exploration requires more than just courage and reasons; it demands sincerity and courage.
Two months before our canyon hike, an American perished near the waterfall. Years earlier, a tall Japanese man