同“游牧哲学家”去旅行

我喜欢人在旅途的感觉，好像只有经历过风尘历练的生命才是丰富的。与陌生人在地球的某个角落不期而遇，我总被他们身上的某些东西打动，在陌生人身上，我常常可以找到友情，发现勇气，获得慰藉，看见希望。

我对每一个在路上遇到的人，都心怀感激。我感谢旅途上每一个有缘相逢的人，也记录下短暂相逢中那些让我欢笑，让我悲伤，让我成长，让我思索的故事。

小德是个美国人，他的名字叫David Youkey。“小德”是我给他起的中文名，他对这个名字很满意。他是学哲学的，不过很多中国人听到“哲学”这两个字都会张开嘴巴，仿佛哲学是什么神秘莫测的东西，可是小德让我觉得哲学没什么大不了。就好像当他第一次跟我提出“我们来写本书吧!”之时我垂着头，说不清自己有没有妙笔生花的能力，小德却鼓励我说“海明威用最简单的文字写书。”

于是我们写就了这本《同游牧哲学家去旅行》，它是我们共同旅行的一本对话录，我在这里摘出我写的部分片断。

闯入富人的度假地

放暑假了，小德要开车去东海岸的鳕岛给一个老教授修房子，约我同行。见我犹豫，小德百般说公路之旅(Road Trip)如何独具美国特色，对体验美国文化是何等必不可缺。终于，我钻进了小德的汽车。

5天多的风餐露宿，我们终于到达了美国新英格兰区的鳕岛，这里是富人旅游度假的宝地。

我和小德开着车，穿过高高的吊桥，跨越海峡，闯入了富人领地。可我们没有比基尼、太阳镜、防晒霜，汽车里塞满了乱七八糟的工具。小德是来做木匠的，我不过是个小工。

那是一幢油漆斑驳的两层小木屋，许久没人去过，到处是灰尘和蜘蛛网，地上积了很多水，木楼梯快烂掉了。在今后的一个月里，这就是我们的家了。第二天开工，小德对付那些颤巍巍的木板，我的工作是粉刷天花板和窗框。工作固然辛苦，生活却充满情趣。

有一天一位住在隔壁的老婆婆请我去做客，闲聊中我听到了一个曲折浪漫的爱情故事：时光倒回半个多世纪前法国的大学校园，一个扎金色发辫的女学生抱着她最爱的诗集在阳光中穿行。她不喜欢化学，可化学系那个俊朗的男孩却吸引了她，他们相爱了。男孩想去哈佛读最好的大学，于是他们来到了美国。此时二战爆发，他们与家里断了联系。几年后，一封来自美国的电报送到法国女孩的家中，上面写着：“我们有了一个女儿。”坐在我面前的老婆婆就是故事中的女孩。

透过爬满皱纹的脸，我发现老婆婆年轻时一定非常漂亮，再看看一直站在旁边微笑着听故事的老爷爷，真有一种无法言说的感动。我好像突然明白，每个活在这个世界上的人，其实都是有故事的。

离开小岛前，我和小德最后一次去了海滩，我知道我注定是要怀念这里的，怀念这里的壁炉、沙滩、星光、烟火，怀念满身油漆的味道，怀念每天睡到日头高照的慵懒，怀念每天醒来时的电钻声，还有小德煮好的咖啡……

美国年轻人像“蒲公英”

为了拜访布莱恩，我和小德踏上了西部之旅。

布莱恩是小德以前的学生，受梭罗《瓦尔登湖》的影响，他丢掉所有的家当，住进了自己的汽车，并在汽车里完成了自己的学位。毕业后，布莱恩搬到了怀俄明，独自住在小镇凯利(Kelly)的一座木房子里。

亨利・戴维・梭罗(Henry David Thoreau，1817―1862)是美国思想史上一个非常有创建的人物。他在1845年离开喧嚣的都市，来到马萨诸塞州的森林里，在瓦尔登湖畔盖了一所9平方米的小木屋，开荒、种地、打猎、伐木，过着原始却安宁的生活。后来梭罗回到城市，发表了那本著名的《瓦尔登湖》(Walden)，他呼吁人们：生活应该Simplify simplify(简单化，简单化)。

小镇凯利的一端是为旅游者建造的漂亮的旅店，而我们是在另一端所谓“实验房屋”的“贫民区”找到了布莱恩的小木屋。

20年前，凯利还是个荒凉的小镇，后来有个嬉皮士在这里建了露营地，人们从四面八方来到这儿住了下来，又引得愈来愈多的人涌向这里，还搭建了诸如蒙古包、帐篷等各式各样古怪的建筑。

布莱恩个子小小的，脸上总带着随和的微笑。他告诉我，这间小木屋原本是一顶大帐篷。时间久了，帐篷破烂不堪，他就用废木头在外面包上了一层。布莱恩引以为傲的破帐篷比梭罗在瓦尔登湖畔的小木屋还要小，没有自来水也没有电。怀俄明的冬天特别冷，暴风雪来临时，小木屋就被大雪埋得严严实实，布莱恩只是靠一只简陋的小炉子驱走严寒。

布莱恩大学打工的那家餐馆都是墨西哥贫困的非法移民，他定期给他们带去一车车募捐的食物和衣服。当村民们穿上印有“科罗拉多大学”字样的T恤时，也都对这个善良的美国小伙子心怀感激。

第二天早晨，布莱恩和我们挥手告别。汽车开出很远，他依旧默默地伫立着，伫立在这样一个只有200幢房子的小镇边缘，守望着绵延100多英里的旷野和无语的落基山脉。

美国年轻人有一种我们不能理解也无法接受的东西。他们就像蒲公英，飘到哪就在哪个角落生长。蒲公英也有梦，追梦艰难却透着自在。美国许多年轻人看上去缺少关爱，却也没有被过分关爱的负累。蒲公英为自己而活，活得更加快活。

神奇诡异的尼泊尔

小德受聘到尼泊尔教书，他说尼泊尔是全世界最美的地方，问我愿不愿意去看看。我决定去，这在一生中都是难得的体验。

上世纪五六十年代，随着“垮掉的一代”和“嬉皮士”的出现，美国年轻人开始抛弃父辈传统的生活方式，他们梦想在远行中找到自己的位置和人生的坐标，尼泊尔就成为他们心中神奇而充满魔幻色彩的圣地。

那时候，年轻人往往先去欧洲买辆破汽车，开上1.5万公里或更远的路，穿过土耳其、伊拉克、伊朗、阿富汗、印度，最终抵达尼泊尔。这就是当年嬉皮士走过的路，而这条路的终点，就是加德满都一个叫塔密尔(Thamel)的地方。

今天的塔密尔仍然是全世界“背包客”的大本营，这里聚集着一群四海为家的人，无论国籍、种族甚至语言，都叫“塔密尔人”。不管来自东方还是西方，只要说一句“那玛斯带”(你好)，便会赢来善意的微笑。

加德满都杜尔巴广场(Durbar Square)林立着50多座庙宇宫殿，南面是女活佛库玛莉的神庙。库玛莉是处女神，活佛必须从尼瓦尔族(Newas)中姓释伽的女孩中挑选。尼泊尔刚刚迎来新的库玛莉，虽然只有6岁，却经历了一次从人到神的过程。小活佛一旦初潮来临就会被新的库玛莉接替。上任库玛莉是1993年她4岁半的时候入宫的，现在已经回家读小学。她又经历了一次从神到人的转变。

在加德满都街头，小德一把拽住我：“躲开这两个人。”

前方迎面走来两个男人，他们手持花篮，穿着艳丽的黄袍，裹着同样颜色的头巾，身上挂着黄花串起的花环，极力谦逊友善地冲我微笑。尼泊尔有很多出家修行的苦行僧，被视为神圣的人。但这两个是冒牌的，小德说，他们只在你头上点一颗红痣就要200卢比。

后来在一个庙宇前，我忽然发现身后坐着一位披着黄袍却几乎的长者，在那分外鲜艳的面孔上铺排着醒目颜色，还留着一拖到地的胡子。

毫无防备的我张着大嘴半天说不出话来，呆呆地愣在了那儿。而那个长者也目不转睛地注视着我。我不知道他是谁，只觉得他周身发散着神秘的力量。他一定看出了我的惊讶和慌张，坦然地笑着，还颇有几分优雅地对我挥挥手。

回去后，我把那情形描述给小德。他说：“这回你是见到真正的苦行僧了。”

还有一次在出租车上，我见到不远处有4个小伙子扛着一副担架，担架上躺着一个人，用白布和黄布包裹，还撒了很多黄色的小花。小德说，那是在出殡，他们要到帕斯帕提那(Pashupatinath)去。帕斯帕提那是尼泊尔印度教徒的圣地，他们死后就在那里当众火化，再把骨灰撒进巴格马提(Bagmati)河。巴格马提河在印度汇入恒河，是尼泊尔人的圣河，人们用巴格马提河水洗去今生的罪恶，在来世成为更好的人。

终于看到珠穆朗玛峰

尼泊尔是山的国家，这样一个狭长的小国，囊括了世界十大最高峰中的8座。每个到尼泊尔来旅游的人，是一定要去看山的。

如果说尼泊尔是户外爱好者的天堂，卢卡拉就是天堂的入口。从这里步行一两天，就是萨岗马撒(Sagarmatha)国家公园，萨岗马撒翻译过来就是珠穆朗玛。

第一天我们从早上一刻不停地走了7个小时到达Monjo，这里是萨岗马撒国家公园的入口，再翻过一座大山，就是海拔3440米的南奇镇(Namche)。

说实在的，翻山越岭并不浪漫，山路似乎永无止境。第二天我们用了3个多小时才走到南奇镇(Namche)，坐在村口吃了一个炸面包，把奶茶一饮而尽，我们又上路了。在一个峰回路转的地方，小德突然指着前方覆盖着白雪的顶峰说：“那就是珠穆朗玛峰!”我惊讶得跳了起来，哇，我真的看见了珠穆朗玛!

晚上睡不着，心跳加速，头疼得厉害，想起高山反应的警告，我有点害怕。

可是第二天早上不到8点，喝了一杯热奶茶，塞了几片蜜桃饼干，又背起背包和小德上路了。我奋力地从3250米的Phunki Tenga攀上了海拔3860米的天波齐(Tangboche)，幻想自己是一头任劳任怨的牦牛。

从天波齐到庞波齐(Pangboche)的路并不长，可就在快到的时候，山风吹得我的头痛欲裂，山路仿佛依旧无望地延伸，突如其来的绝望让我哭了起来。我想让生命多一些体验，却摆脱不开贪图安逸的念头。

后来，当我们终于坐上飞机回到加德满都冲向塔密尔，那感觉真好像重返人间。短短几天，山教给我很多东西，除了坚韧和勇敢，还教我用另一种眼光去审视和欣赏这个世界。我真有点迫不及待地想问问小德：“咱们下次什么时候出发?”

链接：于苗，北京人。中国农业大学国际学院毕业，经济学学士。2001年赴美国科罗拉多大学留学，攻读传媒与交流(Communication)专业，获文学学士学位。

几年来，在各大报刊发表文章50余篇，作品曾两次被收录进《中国大学生年度最佳散文选》。今年1月，中国青年出版社出版了她的《同“游牧哲学家”去旅行》一书。带着不一样的眼光旅行，才会发现生活中的不同价值的多姿多彩。

小德(David Youkey)美国人，毕业于科罗多拉大学，哲学博士，曾在美国、中国、蒙古、尼泊尔4个国家7所大学教过书。像古希腊及古老的东方哲学家一样，喜欢旅行，梦想做一个云游四方的哲学家。

Vistas

Traveling with a Nomadic Philosopher

Story and photographs by Yu Miao

I like what I feel on a trip. Rich is a life full of journeys through the world. On a trip, I meet strangers and find myself touched by something in them. I find friendship, courage, solace, and hope in the people I have never met before.

When David Youkey asked me to co-write a book about our travel, I hesitated, doubting that my pen was good enough. But David encouraged me by saying,“emmingway wrote books with simple words.”So we wrote a book together. The following is part of my contribution to the book.

The summer vacation was approaching. David would drive to the east coast to repair a house for a professor. He asked me to come along. A road trip is a way of life for Americans and the best way to learn about the American culture. I was persuaded to join him. After five days?drive, we reached an island in New England. I learned that it was a resort for rich people. But we were there not for a holiday. Our car was filled up with tools. David would work as a carpenter and I a help.

The two-story house was full of dust and cobwebs. Paint peeled off. The floor had pools of water. The wood stairway was about to collapse. David dealt with the heavy wood boards and my job was applying paint to ceilings and window frames.

We were there for a month. It was hard work and it was fun. One day a couple from next door asked me over. I heard a romantic story. More than half a century ago, a girl on the campus of a French university walked in the sunshine holding a book of poetry. She fell in love with a young man majoring in chemistry. The would-be chemist wanted to go to Harvard. So they traveled to the United States. Then World War II broke out and they lost contact with their families. Years later, a telegraph reached the girl’s family in France. “ee had a baby girl,”it announced the happy news laconically. The French girl who loved poetry in the story was the granny sitting in front of me. She still looked beautiful. The grandpa smiled. I suddenly realized that everyone in this world has some story to tell.

Before we left the island, David and I visited the beach for the last time. I knew I would miss the place, its beach, starlight, fireworks, the odor of the paint, and the hearth. I would miss the mornings when I slept in the noise of the electric drill and the aroma of the coffee David made.

David and I went westward to visit Brian. Brian was a student David once taught. Influenced by Walden Pond, Brian moved his belongings into a van and finished his college studies there. He moved alone to Kelly, a small town in Wyoming. The small town is divided into two parts. One is hotels for tourists, and the other is full of xperimental houses?among which Brian’s small house was located. His house used to be a large tent. Then he wrapped the tent up with second-hand wood boards. He proudly compared his small house with Thoreau’s hut on the Walden Pond. It didn have tap water or electricity. When the small house was buried under the heavy snow, Brian used a simple burner to warm himself. He waved us off the next morning. I looked back at him when we were driving away. He stood alone, very small against the small town of about 200 houses, the wilderness of a hundred miles and the silent Rocky Mountains.

David would teach in Nepal. I went there with him. In the 1950s and 1960s, Nepal began to attract the young hippies from all over the world. They bought a second-hand car in Europe and then drove all the way through Turkey, Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, and India to Nepal. The end of the long journey is Thamel, Katmandu. Today, it is still a place full of backpackers from all over the world.

Around Durbar Square in Katmandu stand more than 50 temples. Once by accident I saw an old man outside a temple. He sat there almost naked, but wrapped with an orange gown. His beard was so long that it touched the ground. Speechless, I stared at him for a long time. He looked at me. I didn know who he was, but felt that he emitted a kind of mysterious energy. Noticing my surprise and nervousness, he smiled and waved to me gracefully. David later explained that the man was a monk who performed ascetic practices. One day in a taxi, I saw four young men in the street. They carried a stretcher. A man in it was wrapped up in white and yellow cloth, strewn with tiny yellow flowers. I later learned that it was a funeral procession to Pashupatinath for cremation before the ash was scattered into a river called Bagmati.

Nepal is a country of mountains. Eight of the tallest mountains in the world cluster there. Mountains are a must for tourists. Seeing mountains means trekking. On the first day, we trekked for 7 hours before we reached Monjo, the gateway to Sagarmatha State Park. Namche, a town at 3,440 meter above sea level, is beyond another mountain. The next day we walked about 3 hours before we saw Mount Everest towering in the heaven. It was an endless journey in the mountains. I almost lost my courage.

When we flew back to Katmandu and rushed to Thamel, I felt as if I was finally back to this world. The journey of experiencing mountains during just a few days taught me how to view and examine this world in a new way. Already I was almost impatient to ask David,“hen will our next journey begin?”

(Translated by David)