The night begins with a bonfire
This Tuvan village is built along the course of the river valley, with no streets or alleys, a few wooden houses scattered across the valley, and a wilderness of gossamer flowers linking the 80-odd Tuvan families, with a north-south village road being their only connection to the outside world.
After getting off the bus at the head of the village, I dragged my luggage along as I searched for the Gersatu family's wooden house, "Woemu A21", which was to be my shelter for the night. "There was a ranger in the village of Hormu, I forget his name, who one year took part in a national mountaineering and skiing competition, a hiking competition to climb a snowy mountain, and easily won the trophy ......", a man in the back seat said to his female companion before getting out of the car, and I heard it too. A forest ranger competing in a professional race and winning it? I was sceptical about that.
It was nearly midnight, and the sound of outsiders' footsteps was diluted by the vast night sky and the silence of the mountains, leaving only the sweet scent of dew and grass in the air. Not far away, however, a bonfire is still burning, with coloured lights flickering around it, and music and the smell of roast meat wafting through.
Near the end of the village, west of the village road, I finally found WoW A21.
A light was on under the eaves. There are wild flowers sticking out of the cracks in the wooden trestle in front of the door. The outside of the trestle is wild and the smell is intensified by the sweet aroma of dew and grass.
A pile of wood is stacked next to the fire and two men in robes are too busy in front of the fire to raise their heads as they grill skewers for the guests. A long-haired man, clutching his guitar, leans against the woodpile smoking a cigarette, empty bottles of wine lying at his feet. Sitting by the fire, playing his mouth flute, an old man seems to be dwelling on his memories, the sound of the flute like the wind whistling through the birch forest, lingering and lingering. The two dancing Tuvan girls, both with slender waists and clear, bright eyes, were like two flowers in full bloom, swaying to the sound of the flute. I didn't know much about Tuvan life, just as I didn't know that the old man was playing not a mouth flute but a traditional Tuvan instrument, the sul, which is the only instrument that can produce such a low, deep sound, like a priest preaching a sermon, each sound long and high, until it reaches the pine forest outside the village and echoes, like The call of one man to another.
The night breeze was cool. In addition to the scent of pine coming down from the hills, the wind also carries the smell of cow and sheep dung. The two people over the fire look at each other without speaking, and I can feel the sticky, twisting, volcanic lava flow of love tumbling through them, even if the glass of wine in front of me is lonely at the moment.
With my drink in my hand, I went back to bed. It was already ding-dong night, the dew was thicker, and under a low chestnut tree I collided with it, and it patted my hair and shoulder affectionately, like an old friend reunited. Covered in dampness and cold fragrance, I lay down in my clothes on the pine bedpan. Outside of the village of WoW, apart from the silence of the mountains, was the sound of the river. I imagined myself as an ancient man, stepping out of my hut and into the mountains to talk to the birds and animals, or to listen to the wind and the snow and walk home in the moonlight - if one is simple and pure, then all things are not complicated, except love.
"Spring has passed, but I still miss ...... it very much" Behind the chalet, the WoW river rushes on, the rocks are flying fast, and so is the bird, as is the sound of my youth falling into this night.
Time in the Woods
As the sun rises, the sunrise watchers descend the hill. The honeyed wisps of fog that had been floating over the village of Harvest also gradually lifted. As the sky turned blue and the temperature rose, I took off my cotton shirt and sat on the grass, my limbs stretching freely as if I were a flower in the grass. A butterfly flies over to me, flaps its wings and hovers over my shoulder, eventually resting on my right arm, and I raise my left hand to squeeze it before it flies away.
From the other end of the Haddon platform, I headed down the hill. The narrow steps were occasionally obscured by overgrown shrubs, and it was often necessary to bend down to get through them. There are many wild roses on the hill, mostly white and yellow, with slightly smaller flowers. There is another species of Kanzo thornbush, except for the yellow flowers, which are of a more vibrant rose-red colour. "Don't trample on the rosy wildflowers at your feet, for the fragrance of love is not easy to come by." Humming an improvised song, I returned alone to the Wo Mu River.
A birch forest grows on the right bank of the River Woosel. Birch trees that had fallen down due to insects, disease and lightning strikes were everywhere in the woods. Deep in the woods, I saw a bush of wild strawberries, a few tiny red ones clean and fresh. Half crouched on the ground, I took a few close-ups with my macro phone before plucking the red fruit and popping it into my mouth, the sweet and sour feeling of an adolescent love affair.
She understands that one does not die for love. There had been a great time in her life to give her life for love. However, she did not die in Nevers, and from then until today, in Hiroshima, where she met this Japanese man, she remembers the only chance she had to decide her fate as if she had been granted a reprieve, with a "faint sadness".
Suddenly, I remembered the way Riva was grieving over her dead first love in Hiroshima Love. At that moment, I was alone in the woods, not far from the flowing waters of the river Wo Mu, a shadow always following me through the woods, staring at me, making me tremble. Outside the woods, people were flowing in and out, but what I heard was not a noise, not a sound, what I heard was a memory and an illusion, they were not here, they were "there". There, the constant heat does not ignite hope in despair, but on the contrary, it penetrates between the clouds and the shadows, creating a continuous rain of lust. I was in and out of the room with a shadow, cowardly and humble, tentative and backward, no matter how optimistic or desperate, at least in front of people, we were talking and laughing; when the long-standing feelings that had been building up in my heart over time were rolling like thunder in the clouds, I escaped to this place for a while, seeking freedom from speaking in the midst of a strange crowd. By now, half-summer has passed, the birch woods are empty, my footprints in the grass twisting and turning soon fade, and after a bird or two, the forest grows silent.
At the edge of the woods, two date horses stood silently in the wind, a garment hanging from the fork of a tree, but no one was around, and the sound of the river came from a short distance away, so I decided to step out of the woods and go to the river.
What river in the world is not an object of confession? For the passionate, for the disillusioned, for the happy or the sad, every river is the best company. I know where the magnificent Wo Mu River comes from and where it is going - the invisible glacial lake and ice bucket over the snowy peaks visible when you look up must be the source of the Wo Mu River. At a place called Kuihan, it merges with the Kanas River coming from the north to form the Burqin River, twisting and winding all the way, and with the Kara Ertzis, Kran, Haba and Berezhek rivers rushing out from the depths of the mountains, converging to form the unruly Ertzis River, roaring out of the Altai Mountains and gushing towards the Gobi, the oasis, the mountains... ...where it comes from and where it is going, I do know. The direction of one's emotions, however, is always wavering and always difficult to grasp.
The process of ageing is cold and unforgiving. I have watched ageing creep up on my face, eroding it little by little, changing all the relevant parts of my face, my eyes becoming bigger and bigger, my gaze becoming bleak and lifeless, my mouth becoming more fixed and rigid, and my forehead being carved with deep cracks.
Today, I am finally intimidated by time, unable to read the ravages of ageing on my face with the same interest as Duras, as if I were reading a book with great interest. But I understand that fate has treated me well, and if I can miss someone by waiting, then I don't want to lose them by hurting them just yet.
Fences is a metaphor
Hargeisa map and his family lived in a log cabin east of Village Road, the western end of the house stood some tables and chairs under an open shed for travelers to rest or meal. He is the owner of this small restaurant. There are also several wooden houses for rent in Gesatu. The Hemu A21 I booked online is one of them. Before lunch, I was walking outside the fence of his head of the patriarch. There was a path full of wildflowers at my feet. The stream emerged from nowhere and where it was going. On the hill of the village head, a small tourist train is climbing to the top of the mountain diagonally. Looking into the depths, the mountains in the distance seem to be endless. Although it is summer, the sun is very good, but there is no hot air at all. The sun is like growing out of the field, with a faint breath of grass permeating it, covering people and nature-all the mysteries of life are hidden In nature.
In Hemu Village, the long streamlined fence is a must-read sight. The Tuva people attach great importance to the fences in front of their houses: the fences in front of their houses enclose their yard, and the yard is full of wildflowers. The names of those wild flowers are difficult to distinguish, so they have to be collectively called Gesanghua; the fence behind the house is used as a cattle pen. Ge Satu’s family opened a small restaurant, perhaps with limited manpower, no grazing, and only one white horse standing alone in the herd, looking lonely.
With regard to fences, Tuva people have their own particulars. They never cut down live trees to make fences. They go to the pine forest to find dead pine trees, pull them to their door, sawn into pieces, and lay them one by one. The jaws were then stuck one by one, and a beautiful fence was quickly completed.
The fence is a fence rather than a shielded or completely isolated city wall, because although the fence is isolated, the eyes can still penetrate it.
The fence is a metaphor, implying that Tuva people are slightly wary, and it also means that they have not given up their desire and dream for a better vision. I have realized this in loneliness, that is, the commonality of human emotions has not yet been obtained. Understand that the existence of some feelings is still a begging for unanswered.
At the edge of the vegetable field, I saw a green snake wrapped around the fence at a glance, scaring me to flee with my head. When I was young, I saw a small snake in the backyard of my grandmother's house. My grandmother said that a snake is a supernatural thing and will protect the family and herald good luck. But I have a natural fear of snakes crawling silently. There are also geckos. The cold air on them often makes me shudder. No matter what my grandmother says, I don't want to see their cunning figures.
It's past noon. Enter the Gesartu’s house to have a meal through the movable door in the middle of the fence. When passing by the main house, the door is open. On the wall facing the door, a tapestry looks a bit old. On the canvas there are portraits of figures, trees, stones, rivers and sky, as well as birds and mountain eagles. . Together, they used euphemistic voices to introduce Tuva people into the track of modern life, but the rain fell on the earth, vegetation, milk wine and Sur, which are closer to the essence of Tuva people's existence.
After a brief lunch, go back to the house and rest.
When I woke up, the sun was already westward. Take out a pinch of white tea from the luggage, sit on the wooden plank road in front of the door with a tea cup, ready to spend the evening light with wild flowers. I still remember Wang Shishen, a painter in the Qing Dynasty, who only used three types of water to make tea: mountain spring water, flower beard water and snow water. The Hemu River naturally comes from the snow-capped mountains. The white tea is soaked in the snow water, and the faint tea mist rises one after another, like the holy dance of a Tuva girl.
The setting sun went down. The day of purity, purity and beauty in Hemu Village is coming to an end. Flowers and plants, wooden houses, paths outside the fence, and the approaching night all exude a sense of tranquility. Going back to the house to retrieve a book, I walked towards the river. There is a cafe there, and I am going to have a drink.
Song Café
Cafe in Hemu River left. In the morning, I went to the Harden platform to watch the sunrise, and I found it quiet and quiet at a glance.
At this time, there are not many pedestrians on the village roads, the villagers have not returned from grazing, travelers are still wandering in the mountains, and the lanterns in the cafes have not yet been lit. When I walked to the door, the words "Zaoan Café" reminded me of the French literature I used to love, George Sand, Emile Zola, Marcel Proust, Roman Rowland and Dumas, of course And Marguerite Duras, they all seem to have written or communicated in cafes on the left bank of the Seine. Therefore, coffee implies an invisible spirit in my subconscious, representing a deep humanity. Temperament and love are also lingering in it. Sartre and Beauvoir are examples.
——One night in 1929, Sartre and Beauvoir entered into a frank and vulgar contract. The premise of the contract is that the love between them is indispensable in life. On this basis, First, allow each other to have "incidental love", that is, each other reserves the right to fall in love with others; second, never deceive or conceal each other. Sartre also added: "If someone turns back someday, then send a registered letter to the other party." This contract was maintained for more than half a century until Sartre's death. "His death separates us, and my death will make us meet again." Six years after Sartre passed away, Beauvoir followed, and the two were buried together, together forever.
As a woman, Beauvoir has created a new equal relationship with Sartre as a man in a partnership that transcends marriage, and she has become a person with her own history and future as she wishes. And I suddenly understood at this moment that being myself is more important than getting love.
The Saan Cafe has a large space inside. The pine beams are exposed. The white-ash-painted fireplace is filled with wood blocks, the floral patterned tablecloths and the rust-proof iron chandeliers, operating in the retro style of the industrial age, and soft saxophone music. Indoors, if you heard me correctly, this is the song "Wang Chun Hua", "Climbing over that mountain after mountain, I want to return to your side, the fragrance of flowers tempts me, happiness is in sight..." At the east wall of the cafe With a door open and the door panel wide open, you can see that the small courtyard outside is full of wild flowers, just like the courtyard of a villager's house.
Except for me, there are only two guests in the cafe. One is looking at the phone in the corner, and the other is in a daze under the north window. I sat down by the window in the west. The window in Linhe is very wide open, and the Hemu River and the birch forest on the other side of the river have a panoramic view. In Dante’s "Divine Comedy", there is a sentence "in the middle of the journey of life"-in the middle of the journey of life, I walked into this cafe, how guided I was in the dark, and what did the lonely and mysterious situation mean, I didn't care at all; it didn't surprise me to see the horses running in the mountains so rhythmic, and to see the sun shining on the hemu and the sun shining on us is different.
I'm alone, everything sank into pretense.
To spend a lifetime-not to walk through the wilderness.
The verses of Boris Pasternak are suitable for all living beings, including me. "Except for love, I'm all with my life." Unfolding Andre Gide's "Food for the World", I wrote in the header. Gide regrets that in his youth, he valued the fictional and despised the reality, and regretted that he had deviated from life, so that at the age of prosperity, from the soul to the body, he was unhappy. I sometimes do what I want, such as at this moment.
Outside the window, the Hemu River rolled by, and countless eyes in the birch forest were about to go away.
I ordered two cheese tarts and a plate of cashews, and returned to my seat to continue reading.
Human beings come to the world for happiness, and all things in nature give such guidance. It is precisely because of striving for joy that plants sprout, honeycombs make honey, and human hearts are full of kindness.
Gide writes his roaming experience in North Africa and Italy as a heavy "Food for the World", sings life and freedom on paper in the form of a monologue, reminding readers: Don't let go of any possibilities in life. Gide is walking on the ground, but his mind is in the sky and by the sun. How dare I believe him.
It was completely dark. The scenery outside the window was submerged. I don’t know when the music in the cafe was changed to pop songs. I heard a familiar voice: "You have been looking at the window for many years, and you see how old you look in the window, your eyes are tearful, and you have to wear That floral dress..."
When coming out of the cafe, the moonlight on Hemu River was shining and the place was shining brightly, and the reflection of the birch forest was like ink pouring. The night of Hemu Village extends beyond the mountains, and the recesses of the jagged peaks and ridges shine into the light of another world.
