英文版：从【双乳峰】到【水木清华】

剑桥博士HimalayaSoft

读中文时，我往往一眼扫过，而读英文，才能品味其优雅。来，让我们一起在我的英文中慢游，也可以欣赏一下中国人写的英文到底是啥样的。

I’m always amazed that I was able to write something so engaging and beautiful—I can almost hear the lyrical flow of the words, like a folk song playing in my head. It was my first story—and quite possibly my best—born from an eruption of emotion and memories buried deep within.

和大家分享这些生活经历，源于我对养育我的家乡的一份感激之情。谢谢大家的支持！

请阅读第二章：英文版：从【水木清华 】到 【剑桥河畔】 (Part 1: 逃离铸铁厂)

Buyi (布衣) girls singing beneath the Twin Nipple Peaks (双乳峰), photographed by me in 2017.

作者亲自朗读，请试试【边听边看】。可以前后跳，点哪听哪。

Last night, I woke up in a cold sweat, haunted again by the memory of my four-day journey to Tsinghua University — a journey that forever shaped my youth and lingers in my dreams even after five and forty years.

Situated near the base of 双乳峰 in Guizhou province, my small hometown thrived in serene isolation, a patchwork of a few hundred families surrounded by the vibrant cultures of 苗 and 布依 minority villages. The only transport, a 供销社’s four-horse cart, brought in essentials from the 18-kilometers-away county seat.

My mom, dressed in traditional Miao (苗) attire, 1973.

The cart could only transport goods, so to get anywhere people relied on their two legs. Although a new middle school had been built, I spent more than two years there without understanding even the most basic concepts. So I was sent to the county seat for my last year of middle school and beyond. Twice a month, I walked home and only occasionally would I take the expensive long-distance bus to give my legs a break.

Only one bus passed by the edge of our town each day, and usually it was packed. Often, the driver would stop at unmarked locations to offload passengers before quickly speeding away to avoid the crowds waiting to board.

Me with the Revolutionary Song and Dance Team (文艺宣传队) of my elementary school, July 1975.

As a young boy, pushing through the crowd of adults to board the bus was hopeless. Once, I climbed through a window, scraping against a prickly bush. A one-inch-long thorn pierced my arm and stayed there for two weeks before it was noticed. Most times, I watched the bus drive away, resigned to the dusty three-and-a-half-hour walk.

Fortunately, a few months before my journey to Tsinghua, my family moved to the county seat. From then on, we lived in a place with buses that departed from one fixed location and at pre-set times. No longer had I to chase after the bus.

Me with the Class of 1980 on graduation day, Zhengfeng County First High School.

On August 29, 1980, just two months after I turned sixteen, I was on my way to Beijing, seated right next to the driver, in the best seat. The entire bus was informed that this young boy was going to 北京 (清华) 大学 university. Nobody knew what 清华 was, so 北京 was added to the name to make it sound more impressive.

The journey to the train station, 150 kilometers away, started early in the morning. By 9:30, we reached 北盘江’s south side, where countless mountain peaks stretched endlessly ahead. Descending toward the river, the bus moved cautiously, brakes squealing and smoking as water flushed over them for cooling. Halfway down, the driver shouted, “Time to add water for the brakes. Feel free to give yourself some relief!”

By 10:30, we reached the river and crossed a 50-meter-long stone bridge. Eight years later, I crossed the same bridge before leaving for Cambridge. Looking up from the bottom of the gorge, I pictured our little bus struggling to crawl out of the endless mountains towering above. Fearing some mythical force might trap me there forever, I chose to escape the rugged terrain by flying over the mountains, leaving behind the train journey through their treacherous embrace.

北盘江 (Bei-Pan-Jiang River), photographed by me in 2023. “Back in 1988, as I crossed the river on my way to Cambridge, I pictured our little bus struggling to climb out of the endless mountains towering above.”

Years later, on another trip across this bridge, I noticed something protruding from the mountain’s peak. The driver casually mentioned, ‘They’re building a bridge.’ At the time, it was hard to imagine how such a tiny structure could one day extend to span the miles-wide gorge. Yet today, the same river is crossed by some of the world’s most spectacular bridges.

After crossing the bridge, our bus crawled slowly up the mountain on the other side, and we all dozed off until it suddenly stopped. ‘花江狗肉!’ a woman shouted to the driver, who, having delivered a bus load of customers, would always get his lunch for free.

After a hearty lunch, the views seemed dull. The excitement of descending 北盘江 had passed, and the meal quickly lulled us into sleep. Around 2:30, the bus passed through a tiny town. Someone said, “哦, 黄果树到了.”

“I leaned to my right and saw a small river suddenly drop off a cliff.” Huang Guo Shu (黄果树) Waterfall (Photo from the Internet).

I leaned to my right and saw a small river suddenly drop off a cliff. The waterfall — while more voluminous than the one behind my home — was underwhelming at first glance. In a few seconds, it was behind us.

By 4:30, the bus finally pulled into 安顺. To me, it was the gateway to civilization and the world beyond. Most people in my hometown had never heard the roar of a train engine or felt the earth shake as a train passed by. Whenever an airplane flew overhead, we kids would stop whatever we were doing to watch it pass. I still remember one summer afternoon by a lake, gazing at an airplane gliding silently through the sky until it disappeared behind the peaks. How I longed that one day I too could fly over those peaks to see what lay beyond.

Me at a hometown lake, 1973. “I gazed at an airplane gliding silently through the sky until it disappeared behind the peaks. How I longed that one day I, too, could fly over those peaks to see what lay beyond.”

That night I stayed in 安顺, waiting for the next day’s train to arrive. Once a day, a train departed from 昆明, reaching 安顺 in 12 hours and finally Beijing after another 50 more. Since 安顺 was not the train’s starting point, I bought a stand-only ticket. I was advised to make friends with fellow passengers; the kind-hearted ones might let me know when they were getting off and offer me their seat.

A few hours later, I managed to get a window seat. Excited, I opened the window fully and stretched my neck out to breathe the fresh mountain air. Suddenly, a puff of black smoke blasted my face and filled my throat. My fellow passengers laughed and advised me to lower the window to block the steam engine’s smoke.

Steam engine train on the new Gui-Zhou to Hu-Nan (湘黔) railway (Photo from the Internet)

The view from my window soon turned monotonous: mountainsides, pitch-black tunnels, or valleys and bridges. The excitement faded, and sleep overcame the passengers, each finding whatever way they could to rest. In the morning, a student from Beijing University whispered into my ear that I could use the makeshift bed he had created on the floor under our seat. Crawling underneath felt like heaven — a chance to stretch my body with a soft pillow for my head. But as I breathed in deeply, the overwhelming odor of unwashed feet had me suffocated. I learned to hold my breath, taking in just enough air to survive. But after an hour, I could endure it no more.

Each finding whatever way they could to rest (Photo from the Internet)

Two years later, on the same train in the summer, I dozed off, my head resting on the small table by the . I woke to find a pair of legs resting on my lap. Dazed, my eyes followed the legs up to a pair of tight red shorts. Beyond, her chest rose and fell gently in peaceful sleep. It took me a while to realize that the senior student in the middle seat had disappeared underneath the bench to let his girlfriend lie flat on the seat. Somehow, her legs ended up on my lap. I froze, holding her legs in place, afraid to disturb her sleep. No matter how she adjusted herself, her long legs always found their way back to my lap.

Passengers squeezed through open windows (Photo from the Internet)

As China’s economy opened and more people started traveling, our train often could not take in all the passengers at some stations. Passengers squeezed through open windows, cramming every inch of space — even the toilets. I learned to drink and eat as little as possible. Miraculously, I was often amazed that my body generated almost no solid waste until a day after I got back to Tsinghua campus.

After my second journey back to Tsinghua, I swore that I would never again endure the entire journey in one stretch. I would break it up into sections to tour and rest in some places.

One such stop was in the summer of 1981 at 武汉, where I visited the famous 长江大桥 bridge. As children, we would imagine massive trampolines guarding it, bouncing missiles back at enemies.

The muddy waters of the Yangtze surged toward me from the horizon, nearly reaching the power lines.

I was disappointed to find no trampolines protecting the bridge. Instead, we found soldiers armed with rifles and bayonets. Rain obscured the view, and yellow-muddy water surged from the horizon, threatening to engulf the bridge at any moment. A soldier with a bayonet warned us not to approach the bridge, but I couldn’t resist snapping a photo of myself standing at its edge. Almost immediately, the soldier rushed over, threatening that my camera must be confiscated. After some pleading and more pleading, he finally relented, allowing me to keep it only if I opened the back of the camera to have the film exposed.

Huashan Train Station (华山站, Google Earth image, 2011). “After getting off the train, I found no one else on the platform but myself. I crossed the tracks and slid down a dusty slope to the street.”

Another stop was at 华山 in the summer of 1982. After getting off the train, I found no one else on the platform but myself. I crossed the tracks and slid down a dusty slope to the street. I found a room in one of the three small inns and had a bowl of 兰州拉面 for dinner at one of the two noodle soup tents. I also bought a few hard-boiled eggs and some bread for the next day’s meals, along with a few tomatoes to supplement my water supply carried in a military canteen (军用水壶). At 4:30 in the morning, I crossed the train tracks again and began my ascent, accompanied by a group of 40 or 50 fellow climbers, all advised to start very early in the morning. I wore sandals, while the woman ahead somehow managed in white high heels. As we spread out across the mountain, I soon found myself alone with no one else.

HuaShan (华山) Alone: I wore sandals, while the woman ahead managed in white high heels.

By noon, a light drizzle settled over 长空栈道. Suddenly a gust of wind tore a plastic bag out of my backpack. I watched it spiral into the sky, vanishing against the distant peaks, as I clung tightly to the chains on the cliff and trembled in the lonely cold. I retreated and decided to climb down 鹞子翻身 instead. Hanging sideways, with the jagged terrain below blurring into the mist, I felt a chill of certainty — if I slipped, I would never be found again. After climbing down, I discovered it led to a dead end, and the only way back to safety was to return to the cliff. Desperate, I shouted, ‘有人吗,’ hoping someone above might hear and send help. As my voice faded into the steadily harder rain, I realized I was truly alone. After hesitating for about twenty minutes, I decided I would rather die trying than waiting. When I finally pulled myself up, I lay on the ground panting for several minutes, more scared than exhausted, before regaining the strength to stand up.

An exhausted me at the Terracotta Army, the day after climbing Hua Shan

Over the years at Tsinghua, I made many such train stops. But 华山 remains the most unforgettable stop of my life. It was not just the best climb in China but the most thrilling adventure I have ever undertaken. Of course, no one will ever relive the same solitude and raw thrill I felt in 1982 as the mountain passes have been made easier and safer for the endless tourists.

After fifty grueling hours, our train finally arrived. The initial excitement of reaching Beijing was replaced by quiet reflection as I observed Tsinghua’s surroundings: farmland stretching into the horizon, a seamless blend of rural simplicity and the quiet prestige held within its gates.

Outside the Wall of Tsinghua University, photographed by me in 1987

One of my most vivid memories of the villages around Tsinghua is how untouched they remained in the shadow of the university. Their simple rhythms continued undisturbed, until at least as late as 1987, when my girlfriend and I strolled along the river one summer evening. As we climbed over the wall that divided the farmers from the students to the other side, a group of farmer kids chased after us, their voices chanting in unison, “公狗拉母狗，打死不分手” (“Mating dogs, never to be separated!”). My girlfriend blushed and immediately let go of our linked hands. We hurried away and never ventured over that wall again.

For the twenty-four years I lived in China, I spent the last eight years traveling on trains, twice a year, for days at a time. Even now, I always prefer trains when I visit China. The moment I stretch out fully in my own bed on a train, I remind myself: “Young man, you have come a long way, and now you can stretch as far as you wish.” Quickly, I fall asleep to the train’s rhythmic rumblings.

The young boy is coming home once again.

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请阅读我的更多文章：

《从清华到剑桥——八十年代的中国》

英文版： 梦回清华八十年代

Your Clock Forever Young

从【双乳峰】到【剑桥大学】

第一章 ：我的外婆妈妈（英文版）

第二章 ：外婆家的大院（英文版）

谢谢阅读