Pickup Breaks Down on Sichuan-Tibet Highway, Tibetan Waves Me Down to Borrow a Light, I Decide to Help!

It was the third day of the Lunar New Year. I got up at seven and started from Baxoi. The route would take me over the 72 Turns, through Zogang, over Dongda Mountain. Today, I had originally planned to stay in Litang or Batang, but during the pandemic, things didn't go as planned; more on that later.

This time, I was going the opposite way on the 72 Turns, starting from the Nujiang Grand Canyon, climbing all the way to the top of Yela Mountain. After descending, about 30 kilometers past Bangda, I spotted someone waving from a distance. He wore a red leather jacket, his face lit with a bright smile under a felt hat, exuding a rugged, highland charm. It was a Tibetan man, waving both arms. I pulled over. In halting Mandarin, word by word, he gestured a smoking motion. I figured he wanted to borrow a light.

I asked, "Has your car broken down, or what?"

He nodded, "Uh-huh, yes."

I said, "Let me go take a look for you."

So I got out and went over to the pickup with its hood already open. The owner was freezing; inside it was all ice, but it looked like crushed ice. It hadn't frozen solid; theoretically it wasn't cracked, and the engine could still start.

I asked him to start it up. The temperature gauge was low—normal for winter—and the fan was running. I figured driving another 20 or 30 kilometers should be fine, without causing major damage.

So I asked, "Where are you heading?"

He said, "Bangda."

I said, "That's pretty far. Where did you come from?"

He said, "The village up ahead."

I said, "Then go home first, get the car sorted, and then go." He seemed to understand.

So I got back in and started to drive off. He waved; I rolled down the window and waved back. Then he ran over again, gesturing and talking for a while, trying to ask if he could hitch a ride.

I asked, "Where to?"

He said, "Zogang, to buy New Year's goods."

Alright, sure! But he needed to ride his motorcycle first to his village, leave it there, then hitch a ride with me to Zogang. It took about five minutes for me to fully understand what he meant.

Later, I realized: someone from his village had been driving the pickup to Bangda, and midway it started spewing steam. They called this guy—the elder brother—to come help. He had ridden his motorcycle over. The spot was only about ten kilometers from their village. They drove the pickup back, and I waited at the village entrance for him.

He didn't go all the way to Zogang; he got off at a town ahead, saying he needed to find a mechanic to fix the car.

Before getting off, he said to add each other as contacts and invited me over for butter tea. Ever since, from time to time, he'd send me a greeting, asking where I was and when I'd visit his home.

This summer, in September, I went to his home. I saw their living conditions, the hygiene in the house, the cattle and sheep they kept. But I come from the countryside myself, and this place was more rural than what we would usually call rural. Don't believe the internet when it says Tibetans are all wealthy and that you should ask how many yaks they own—that's a joke.

In reality, many Tibetans live in dire poverty. They truly lack food and clothing. If anyone with a kind heart could sort through their used clothes and send some to them, they would be deeply grateful. That's the real picture. Why do I say this?

When I get a chance, I'll tell you all about that visit, what I saw and heard, without passing any judgment. As I write this, my heart softens. Facing these vast disparities, do we have an obligation to help them, and if so, how?

After he got off, I drove on. This stretch had no snow, the road was easy, all the way to Zogang county town. In winter, there were hardly any cars or people; the road was empty, with an occasional vehicle. But what stayed in my memory was that low wall.

I'm from Zhangjiakou, which has a nickname, Zhangyuan. "Yuan" means low wall. As a child, I often saw earthen walls, whether at home in the countryside or later in other towns. These low walls became a symbol of Zhangjiakou, so I have a special fondness for them. Seeing those low walls by the road gave me an indescribable feeling—not nostalgia, not a story, just a sense of closeness that words can't express.

Going further, I reached Dongda Mountain. In Zogang, there were places to eat, but they didn't allow us to stay overnight. However, it was still early, not yet noon. The only thing I did in Zogang was to find a trash can and quickly dump the pile of garbage from my car, then continue the journey.

Based on past experience, the road ahead was full of unknowns. As it turned out, these unknowns surpassed anything I'd encountered before. Why? Wait for the next entry, and I'll tell you slowly.