|
| 阅读上一个主题 :: 阅读下一个主题 |
| 作者 |
 50年后, 一位得國記者, 在中國坐火車, 穿越中國之旅的遊記 |
 |
飞云
加入时间: 2004/02/14
文章: 4072
经验值: 434
|
|
|
作者：飞云 在 罕见奇谈 发贴, 来自 http://www.hjclub.org
穆哈默所驾驶的火车是一堆烂铁, 一串生锈的后备机件所组合, 在40年前出厂, 早已超过了使用年期的老旧美制发动机拖动着. 车头的档风玻璃, 早已老化得脆弱不堪, 驾驶室裡所有仪表都不能正常运作, 当车速到其最高时速25公里时, 整輛列车就像一位超胖肚皮舞娘, 在跳舞摇摆動荡. 皮域士笑着说: "很抱歉, 不可以再快了, 否則火车会出轨的." 但我并不介意, 我要依靠它来完成我的横跨巴基斯坦到印度之旅, 观览令人难忘的景色, 穿过像月球表层一样地势--俾路支沙漠, 到苍翠繁茂的热带印度东北, 同时穆哈默还让我坐在驾驶室, 让我按动火车的响号.
所有从查闽到厥达的火车都是由這类衰老的火车头拉动. 车上所有个原装配件, 从衣钩到烟灰缸, 都已剥落或掉失, 或被一层厚厚的尘垢覆盖. 在印度, 女性承客有自己的分隔车厢, 所以我同车的旅伴都是男人. 车厢中有一位正在回家途中, 满手水泡的泥水工; 有一位满面胡子的青年人, 傻笑着对我说, "我来自于阿盖达", 但他的朋友说他是一位肥皂销售员; 有一位读了些马列著作的化工学生, 他自认是进步派. 还有六位手持俄制步枪, 俾路支当局委派来负责保护我人身安全的警察. 可想而知, 这个大沙洲的治安之差, 人们都是无法无天的. 查闽是一个离阿富汗边境几公里, 乱杂动荡的地方. 在路上, 见到一条满载着粮食的车龙, 正在馴流向阿富汗. 在阿富汗和巴基斯坦边境處, 巴方守兵用鞭抽打和驱赶那些来自於阿富汗的男女老幼, 他們都带着一些破旧瓶罐和破铜烂铁, 希望能从收购废物商人手上换几个卢比. 然而这使人伤惑的场面背后, 也有令人鼓舞的趋势, 自从塌利班被推翻后, 已有一百多万阿富汗难民回去自己的家乡, 还有几百万也正准备回去. 当一股猛烈的沙漠陣风, 把难民帐蓬的帐门吹起, 看到帐蓬內是空空的.
当火车离开查闽时, 驾驶员皮域士咏诵着: "至仁至慈的主, 阿拉". 火车很快就吃力地滚动著, 並穿过一遍死寂的, 热气弥漫的平原. 西南有一地方叫查桂, 1998年巴基斯坦在那里进行了第一次核试. 核试的振荡, 至今依仍能感. 在旅程开始之时, 印度和巴基斯坦为争议了半世纪的喀什米尔, 发动了战争动员令, 双方都暗示, 使用核武器是选项. 在旅途之中发现, 两国之间除了原有问题外, 他們内部也笼罩着分裂的阴影. 建国五十年过去, 巴基斯坦还在贫困腐败, 种族冲突, 以及陷在为政府是否支持美国反恐战争的争论中, 挣扎着找寻国家定位. 在印度, 印度民族主义者对穆斯林的暴行, 破坏了印度现世, 进步, 和宽容的国家形象. 同时, 分裂份子在活动, 使东北印度地区, 像喀什米尔一样充满著死亡陷阱. 当我串过这个七万二千公里的辉煌铁路系统, 慢游着这庞大的南亚次大陆时, 感觉到气氛紧张.
长期以来, 冲突与这个次大陆是同义. 由上世纪英国人建造, 从查闽到厥达的铁路, 當年用来运载帝国将士和武器到西部前线. 為达成目標, 英国人要建造壮观的Khojak隧道与路轨, 串过三公里长的山脉. 今日巴基斯坦五元卢比能增色不少, 就是这条由英国人所組織的世界团队, 在100多年前, 由1889年至1891年建造的世界級宝贝, 英女皇皇冠级的隧道. 当年英国人从喀布尔, 干达哈, 斯哇达, 卡菲尔, 西藏高原, 非洲桑吉巴码头等地招来劳工, 在英国工程师监督下建造. 据说, 在附近一个叫纱拉巴的车站, 是纪念当年为铁路建筑工人跳舞娱乐的舞蹈员纱拉而得名. 一位五十二岁, 在Khojak当了三十年维修工人的力格穆哈默说: "现在已经不再修建这类型隧道了." 他并展示了一个非常精巧, 用来检查隧道的照明系统, 一个庞大的旋转镜, 架设在道轨上, 反射一道宽而亮, 并能照出尘沙飞扬的阳光束, 射进了黑暗的隧道, 把一半隧道照得光亮. 我问了一个蠢问题: "如何照亮另一半隧道呢?" 那工人回答说: "当然在隧道另一边也用同样的镜."
火车哗啦啦地穿过了乾枯的河床和越过了在远景外轮廓清晰的泥屋村庄. 观览了多个简陋的土堆墓地, 见到尘灰遮盖了墓碑, 见证了当地环境恶劣. 过了厥达, 火车进入由"印度峡谷铁道公司", 自1880年以来不断地扩建的壮观布兰地段. 当火车在下坡时, 皮域士烂车快到极了, 它竟然可达到令人敬畏的五十公里时速. 以这种传奇性火车, 在破爛的路轨行驶, 简直是令人難以置信. 据说在这里的超慢火车, 慢到你可從車頭跳下车, 放松自己, 悠闲地在路邊喝杯一茶, 然后再跳上车尾, 继续前行, 完成你的旅程.
没有空调的车箱, 在行驶时车门大开. 我站在车门口的位置上, 超级酷热的沙漠闷风, 吹擦着我的脸, 就像被沙纸打磨一样難受, 有着微刺的感觉. 在布兰路段, 感觉上就如乘坐过着山车. 火车急速下降并转湾进入堡垒式的隧道, 隧道浮现出持续前迎的狭境; 出洞后, 見到一群由大自然雕刻出來的石骆驼, 闻风不动地站立在貌似柳条状的石丘上. 並见到一个不知名的村庄, 一座土筑的小清真寺, 和一个令人生畏的名字--叫做"逝水之处"; 又见突然其来的高山耸立, 与山上参差不齐的楔石, 就像是巨大的石化海浪.
日落后, 我到达了施比城. 这是一个最佳的时机; 皆因可感受到巴鲁城唯一出名和值得自豪的东西, 酷热. 在整个南亚次大陆, 它是热中之热. 次日早上10时, 在忙乱的市集买了个温度計, 在太阳照射下, 它已标升至51度. 正午时分, 市集上的人群逐渐稀疏, 他们好像蒸发了. 温度计內水银柱串过了55度, 水银针管都暴了. 我站在那里, 那讨厌的汗水像瀑波般流出, 迷惑地想着, 我为什么还没有热死呢? 我租了一量辆在施比城的主要交通工具--二轮小马车, 在英国人建造的, 曾是兵营城区, 保存得尚算完好的马路上, 开始一个注定是要失败的旅程, 找寻一家有空调的旅館, 那当然是找不着了. 我在城內唯一的旅店住下, 房中的墙壁, 还散射着日间的那杀人热力. 但在那摇晃欲坠的天花吊煽吹助下, 总算在夜间, 温度降至谢天谢地的心凉48度.
在施比城, 主要消磨时间方法就是在蔽荫的茶店下, 觀看印度翻版影片. 虽然观看印度影片, 是逃避緊逼气氛的最好方法 (一位愤怒的巴基斯坦专栏作家是这样写的), 但巴基斯坦政府最近禁止了电视台播放印度娱乐节目. 我问一位施比人, 在此时此刻观看印度电影是不是不爱国? 他说: "看看也无所谓, 但我们已准备好随时与印度人战斗."
在施比城, 唯一见到有女人的地方, 是在小镇上殖民时期建造的邮政局前, 在排队领取政府一年发放两次, 每次一千卢比救济金的寡妇. 他们主要是来自于拔地部族, 他们灰棕的头发, 被七彩围巾包起, 有时不经意地露出了穿著银环的耳朵. 听说, 拔地人的族規非常严厉, 如有不知耻的女人, 敢与丈夫以外的男人有染, 一定要被吊死. 如此不宽容惩罚是被视为激进回教律的伸延. 但实际上, 很多拔地传统是伊斯兰兴起之前的就有习俗, 如"火神判决法" , 若有人犯了杀人罪, 盗窃罪, 他們会被强制在烧红的火炭上步过, 如果他的脚被烧伤起泡, 证明他有罪. 我以为如此古老的习俗会逐渐消退, 但一位拔地部族酋长介绍说, "火神判决法"不仅是日常法典, 而还在巴鲁支士坦部族中流行起来. 酋长解释说: "所有案件在一周内可解决, 如果受害人想从政府法庭处寻找公义, 当他进了坟墓, 未必排到政府法庭的审判期."
這是2002年, 美国时代记者巴基斯坦至印度的火车遊記.
Mohammed Pervez's train was a heap of junk, a rusting pile of squabbling spare parts dragged by a 40-year-old American engine way past its retirement age. The windshield was shattered, none of the gauges worked, and even at its top speed—25 km/h—the whole train shimmied like an overweight belly dancer. "Sorry," grinned Pervez, "but if I drive any faster, it falls off the track." Not that I cared. Why? Because he was taking me on the first leg of a 5,000-kilometer journey across Pakistan and India, from the haunting moonscape of the Baluchistan desert to the lush tropics of the Indian northeast. And because Mohammed Pervez let me ride up front and blow the horn.
The Chaman to Quetta train pulled a single carriage of similar decrepitude. All the original fittings, like coat hooks and ashtrays, had been stripped away or had simply fallen off, to be replaced by a thick layer of grime. The women had a compartment to themselves, so all my fellow passengers were men. There was a migrant bricklayer returning home with blistered hands; a bearded youngster who smirked, "I'm from al-Qaeda," although his friends said he was a soap salesman from Pishin; a chemistry student who had read Karl Marx in his native Pashtu and called himself "progressive"; and half a dozen Kalashnikov-toting policemen to protect me from all of the above. The police were assigned to this duty by the Baluchistan authorities—an admission of just how lawless this vast desert state could be. Chaman itself lay only a few kilometers from Pakistan's border with Afghanistan. It was chaos there. An endless stream of trucks piled high with sacks of grain thundered into Afghanistan. Pakistani border guards lashed out with canes at Afghan men and boys trying to enter Chaman to sell tank tracks and shell casings—any old iron that would fetch a handful of rupees from the town's scrap merchants. Yet this pitiful scene belied a more heartening trend. Almost a million refugees had returned to Afghanistan since the ouster of the Taliban, with a million more expected to follow soon. When a ferocious dust storm blew through a nearby refugee camp and lifted the flaps of the tents, I saw they were all empty.
"In the name of Allah, the beneficent, the merciful," intoned Mohammed Pervez as we pulled out of Chaman. Soon the train was trundling through a lifeless plain stretching off to heat-blurred horizons. Somewhere to the southwest, in a district called Chagai, Pakistan had conducted its first nuclear tests in 1998. The vibrations are still being felt today. As my trip began, India and Pakistan had once again been mobilizing for war over disputed Kashmir, with both hinting that nuclear weapons were an option. But as I would discover on my journey, the futures of both countries are also clouded by internal divisions. Over 50 years after its creation, Pakistan is still struggling to find a national identity amid poverty, corruption and ethnic unrest, and is split over the government's support of the U.S.-led war against terrorism. In India, Hindunationalism has led to violence against Muslims and shattered the nation's cherished imageas a secular, progressive state. Meanwhile, separatist activity has made northeast Indiaalmost as deadly as Kashmir. I couldn't fail to sense these tensions as I made my wayslowly along the subcontinent's immense railway network—a 72,000 kilometer system that ranks among the greatest engineering feats on earth.
I arrived in Sibi just after sunset. This was good timing, since this Baluch town has only one claim to fame: it is the hottest place on the entire subcontinent. By 10 the next morning, a thermometer bought in the bustling bazaar read 51°C in the sun. By noon, as the market crowds began to thin—began, it seemed, to evaporate—the mercury edged past 55°C and then shot off the scale. I stood there, a hideous Niagara of perspiration, idly wondering why I was not dead yet. I rented a pony and a trap—Sibi's chief form of transport—and set off through the well-kept streets of the British-built cantonment area on a doomed quest for an air-conditioned hotel. There wasn't one. I settled for a guesthouse where the walls still radiated the day's ferocious heat, but where—with the aid of a violently wobbling ceiling fan—the nighttime temperature dipped to a positively chilly 48°C.
The main (male) pastime in Sibi is watching bootleg Indian videos in shaded tea shops. Pakistan's government recently banned cable operators from offering Indian entertainment channels, even though (as one outraged Pakistani columnist noted) watching Bollywood movies was the best way "to escape the tension of an ever-imminent war." I asked a man at one Sibi establishment if he thought it unpatriotic to watch Indian films at this time. "Just watching is O.K.," he replied. "But we are mentally prepared to fight India at any time." Mental preparation, in this case, consisted of studying two pneumatic Bollywood babes jiggling in bath towels.
The only other women to be seen in Sibi were widows lining up at the town's colonial post office for a twice-yearly government stipend of 1,000 rupees. They mostly hail from the Bugti tribe, their gray, henna-streaked hair draped in colorful scarves that sometimes slipped to reveal ears pierced by countless silver rings. Among the Bugti, I had read, tribal law is so strict that an honorable woman must hang herself if she is spotted with a man other than her husband. It was tempting to view such unforgiving codes of conduct as an extension of radical Islamic law. In fact, many Bugti traditions probably predate Islam—like the "ordeal by fire," in which a man charged with a serious crime, such as murder or theft, is obliged to walk across hot coals. If his feet blister, he is guilty. I thought such medieval practices would be dying out. But according to Shaheed Bugti, a clansman I met in Quetta, ordeals by fire are not only routine but increasingly popular among other Baluchistan tribes. "No case takes more than a week to be settled," he explains. "If a plaintiff seeks justice through a state court, he will go to his grave before he gets it."
State control in such remote districts is almost nonexistent. For many tribespeople, the government's authority—and even the authority of the local mullah—pales beside that of their sirdar or clan leader, whom they imbue with almost supernatural power. The head of the Bugti was Nawab Akbar Bugti, educated at Aitchison College in Lahore—"the Eton of Pakistan"—and still known as the "Tiger of Baluchistan," even at 76 years of age. His remote seat of power, a place called Dera Bugti, lies some 130 kilometers to the east, in a region rich in oil. It is currently besieged by hundreds of state troops, sent there to halt a series of attacks on oil installations by unnamed Bugti "terrorists," whom the government suspects the Nawab of harboring. I called a Dera Bugti number that Shaheed Bugti had given me, and to my great surprise the Nawab himself answered. "It's very hot up here," he said in a clipped British accent. "A lot of natural heat, as well as—you know—the man-made variety." Helicopters were circling his house, and his water and electricity had been cut off. "And the phones are tapped too," the Nawab added—at that point the line went dead. When I rang back, nobody answered.
作者：飞云 在 罕见奇谈 发贴, 来自 http://www.hjclub.org |
|
|
| 返回顶端 |
|
 |
| |
|
|
您不能在本论坛发表新主题
您不能在本论坛回复主题
您不能在本论坛编辑自己的文章
您不能在本论坛删除自己的文章
您不能在本论坛发表投票
您不能在这个论坛添加附件
您不能在这个论坛下载文件
|
based on phpbb, All rights reserved.
|
