The Lost Heart of Asia
The following passage is an extract from The Lost Heart of Asia by British travel writer Colin Thubron. In this book，Thubron travels through the countries of Central Asia shortly after the collapse of the Soviet Union. In this extract，Thubron describes his first evening in the city of Mari，in Turkmenistan.
下面这段文章选自英国游记作家科林？萨布伦撰写的《亚西亚失落的心》一书。
本书描述了萨布伦在苏联解体后不久游历中亚诸国的经历。在这个节选片段中，萨布伦叙述了他在土库曼斯坦马雷市度过的第一晚的见闻。
Eastward from Ashkhabad my train lumbered across a region of oases where rivers dropped out of Iran to die in the Turcoman desert. In one window the Kopet Dagh mountains lurched darkly out of haze，and repeated themselves in thinning colours far into the sky. Beyond the other rolled a grey-green savannah，gashed with poppies. Over this immensity the sky curved like a frescoed ceiling，where flotillas of white and grey clouds floated on separate winds.
我乘坐的列车由阿什哈巴德驶出，一路向东，在土库曼沙漠中的绿洲地区中缓慢行驶，源自伊朗的数条河流便在这里汇集。透过一扇车窗，可以看到考匹特塔克山脉在黑色的迷雾中蜿蜒前行，若隐若现，其颜色随着山势的增高而变得模糊起来。另一扇车窗中，灰绿色草原绵延不绝，四处是凌乱的罂粟。天空在无垠的大地上盘旋曲折，仿佛是一个刻有壁画的天花板，密集的白云和灰云在空中随着阵风飘移。
Once or twice under the foothills I glimpsed the mound of a kurgan，broken open like the lips of a volcano the burial-place of a tribal chief，perhaps，or the milestone of some lost nomad advance. Along this narrow littoral，a century ago，the Tekke Turcomans had grazed their camels and tough Argamak horses，and tilled the soil around forty-three earthen fortresses. Now the Karakum canal ran down from the Oxus through villages with old，despairing names such as“Dead-End”and“Cursed-by-God”，and fed collective farms of wheat and cotton.
在山麓小丘之下，我瞥见了一两个坟头，坟头已经裂开，样子与火山口相仿――也许，它是部落首领的埋葬之地，或者就是某个迷失的游牧开拓者的一座里程碑。一个世纪之前，在这个滨海地区的沿岸，提基亚土库曼人用泥土建立起43个堡垒，他们在周围放牧骆驼和凶悍的阿葛马克马，并耕种土地。如今，卡拉库姆运河自阿姆河顺流而下，穿过那些以“死角”和“天谴”等古老、绝望的名字来命名的村子，灌溉着那些种有小麦与棉花的集体农场。
The train was like a town on the move. In its cubicles the close-tiered bunks were stacked with Russian factory workers and gangs of gossiping Turcomans. Grimy windows soured the world outside with their own fog，and a stench of urine rose from the washrooms. But a boisterous freedom was in the air. Everyone was in passage，lightly uprooted. They gobbled salads and tore at scraggy chicken，played cards raucously together and pampered each other“s children，until the afternoon lunch-break lulled them into sleep. Then the stained railway mattresses were deployed over the bunks，and the corridor became a tangle of arms and projecting feet in frayed socks. From a tundra of sheets poked the beards of Turcoman farmers，and the weathered heads of soldiers resting on their caps. Matriarchs on their way to visit relatives in the next oasis lay mounded under blankets or quilted coats，and young women curled up with their children in their arms and their scarves swept over their faces.
这列火车就像一个移动的城镇。车厢单间内，上下铺位间的空间狭窄，上面全都挤满了俄罗斯工人和成群唧喳不停的土库曼人。污秽的车窗布满了雾气，使外面的景色模糊不清，洗手间更是飘来了小便后的恶臭。但空气中弥漫着放纵喧闹的气氛。人们全都是在旅行，似乎有点漂泊在外的味道。他们大口吞咽着沙拉，撕啃着骨多肉少的鸡，一起大声吆喝着玩着扑克，互相哄弄着彼此的小孩，直到下午，午休时间才使他们安静下来，开始睡觉。之后，铺位上纷纷铺起污迹斑斑的列车床垫，走廊里顿时到处都是胳膊和露在外面、穿着破袜子的脚丫子。所有被单仿佛就是一片苔原，土库曼农民把他们的胡子露在了被单外面，而枕着帽子的士兵则把他们那饱受风霜之苦的脑袋露了出来。去下一个绿洲地区看亲戚的老妇人们躺在毛毯里或棉大衣中，好似一座座小山丘，而年轻的妇人则蜷着身子，怀里抱着孩子，并用她们的头巾盖住了自己的脸。
Two hundred miles east of Ashkhabad，where the soil shelved into ridges of scrub-speckled sand，a harsh wind sprang up. It whined against our windows and liquefied the plain and sky to a single，yellowed light. Suddenly ploughed tracts and irrigation channels appeared，and the glisten of flooded rice-fields；and cranes preceded the suburbs of Mari. I had time for a spy“s glimpse into backyards a view of cherished private plots and straggling geese before we jolted to a halt.
在阿什哈巴德以东200英里处，土地变成了长有稀松灌木的梯形沙地，狂风即时而起。风沙击打着车窗，把平原和天空融合成一道昏黄的光线。刹那间，犁耕田和灌溉渠出现了，水稻田也在闪闪发亮；到达马雷市郊区之前还看到了一些起重机。在我们的列车摇晃着停下来之前，我还来得及迅速瞥一眼居民的后院――看到的是妥善照料的自耕地和乱窜的鹅。
Mari was a scrawl over the oasis，built piecemeal in a pallid，dead brick. Between flat-blocks and bungalows I tramped towards a heart which was not there. I found a bleak hotel. Towards evening，sitting in its hall before a black-and-white-television，I heard that Najibullah had been deposed in Afghanistan. But there was nobody in the lobby with whom to share this；and the news went on. With a dim dissociation，as if I were receiving reports from a distant planet，I heard that the Danes had rejected the European Exchange Rate Mechanism and that there was to be a memorial concert for Freddie Mercury at Wembley.
马雷市是绿洲地区中一座凌乱的城市，是用白色的、死气沉沉的砖块一块块堆垒起来的。我在居民楼和平房中大步行走，寻找一个原本不存在的市中心。我找到了一家景象凄凉的旅馆。快入夜的时候，坐在大厅中黑白电视机前的我听到了纳吉布拉（原阿富汗总统）在阿富汗被免职的消息。但是，大厅中空无一人，无法与人分享这个消息；新闻还在继续播送。我有点迷失，仿佛我正在一个遥远的星球接收报告，我听到丹麦人否决了欧洲汇率机制，以及要为弗雷迪？摩克瑞（“皇后乐队”主唱）在温布利举行纪念演唱会的消息。
But nothing from the outlandish present seemed real that night. It was the past which impinged. Somewhere on the fringe of this unlovely town lay the ruined caravan-city of Merv，lodestar of the Silk Road for two thousand years，and capital of the gifted and tragic Seljuk Turks：a rich city，sometimes cultivated and benignly powerful，which had nurtured its heterogeneous citizens in a common passion for trade.
但是那晚，在那个奇异的现实中似乎没有一点是真实的。回荡着的只是过去。在这个丑陋的城镇边缘的某个地方，坐落着已沦为废墟的驿站城市――莫夫城，它作为丝绸之路的一颗明珠已有2000年的历史了，而且是拥有天赋、命运悲惨的塞尔柱突厥人的都城：一座富裕的城市，在某段时间里曾拥有过文明并且恃强而不凌弱，城中生活着对贸易有着同样激情的各族居民。
I wandered out into the warm night of Mari. The few street-lamps shed down squalor. The only open restaurant served coarse vegetable soups，with lumps of mutton and goat in sticky rice. I padded down unlit alleys towards a thread of music，and emerged beneath flat-blocks to see a floodlit wedding feast. The guests were sitting at long trestle tables under a ceiling of vines，or dancing in a clearing of beaten earth. I watched them from the darkness. They seemed to be celebrating with an isolated fragility. They danced all together with their arms dangled above their heads. They might have been actors on a faraway stage. Nothing seemed solid. Distance muted the gorging and tippling at the table to an elfin conviviality. The speeches and the clash of toasts dwindled to murmuring and tinkling. The women shimmered in claret-coloured velvets and harlequin headscarves，and the young men flaunted black bomber-jackets and flared jeans.
我出了门，在马雷市温暖的夜晚中漫步。大街上为数不多的路灯投下了昏暗的灯光。唯一一家尚在营业的餐馆提供的是做工很差的羊肉块蔬菜汤，以及拌有羊肉的粘米饭。我跟随着隐约听到的音乐走进了漆黑的巷子，突然在居民楼之下出现了灯火通明的婚宴。宾客们要不围坐在有藤顶遮盖的长折叠桌旁，要不就在一块土质夯实的空地上跳舞。我在黑暗处观察着他们。他们似乎是在一个尘世之外、虚无的世界中庆祝着。他们跳舞时全部都在头上挥舞着手臂。仿佛就是在远处舞台上表演的演员。一切都看似虚幻。由于距离远，所以餐桌上的大吃大喝变成了无声的精灵欢宴。而致辞声和觥筹交错的祝酒声也变小了，成了嘟囔和叮当作响之声。女人们穿着深红色天鹅绒，头戴花格头巾，神采奕奕，而穿着松紧口夹克和阔摆牛仔裤的小伙子们也很招摇。
Adding to the strangeness，there were Russians among them：big，blond men who danced，and affectionate young women kissing their Turcoman friends. They swayed and sang faintly to the plangent music Turc and Slav together in a tableau of fairytale unity.
更不可思议的是，俄罗斯人加入了他们中间：高大的金发男子在跳舞，热情洋溢的年轻姑娘在亲吻着他们的土库曼朋友。在一个童话般团结的戏剧性场面中，他们――土库曼人和斯拉夫人――伴随着凄切的音乐在摇摆和轻声歌唱。
I wanted to believe in this unity. The material divide between conqueror and conquered had always been slim here，so that the poorer people，I thought，might painlessly integrate. But the Russian“s conviction of their cultural superiority，and the Turcomans”deep conservatism，①played havoc with this hope. Safar had told me that it was almost unknown for a Turcoman family to yield its daughter to a Russian man. So，as I watched，the feasting and dancing assumed the make-believe of an advertisement，and I was not surprised when the Russian guests departed early，their presence a fleeting token，while the Turcomans danced on into the night.
我想相信这种团结是真的。征服者与被征服者之间在物质上的差异在这里总是显得渺小的，所以我认为，更加贫困的人们可能会愉快地团结到一起。但俄罗斯人认定，他们的文化是优越的，而土库曼人是非常保守的，这极大地破坏了这一意愿。萨法（作者在土库曼斯坦认识的一位朋友）曾告诉我，土库曼家庭中几乎很少有人把女儿嫁给俄罗斯人。所以，正如我所看到的，这里的晚宴和舞会好似广告一样是虚假的，当俄罗斯宾客早早地离去――他们的存在转瞬即逝，而土库曼人则一直跳到深夜时，我并没有感到吃惊。
Comments
Colin Thubron is a highly praised travel writer whose works are admired for their originality and depth of knowledge. In The Lost Heart of Asia he explores Central Asia at a time of transition and uncertainty. With the dazzling glories of its past seemingly abandoned and its future in doubt，the region is a fascinating destination which Thubron not only deeply understands，but also manages to capture so masterfully in words.
科林？萨布伦是一名受人推崇的游记作家，其作品的新意和知识深度备受赞誉。在《亚细亚失落的心》中，他描述了在中亚的过渡和动荡期中游历此地的见闻。虽然过去那令人眩目的荣耀似乎已经消逝，而未来也尚不明朗，但这一地区仍是一个令人着迷的目的地，萨布伦不仅对此深有体会，而且还设法用文字极其巧妙地表达了出来。
Thubron has an impeccable grasp of the history of the region and its relevance to the present day. More importantly，he has the uncanny skill of being able to convey this knowledge to the reader in a way that is so casual that it does not disrupt the fluidity of the prose and，somehow，this history doesn“t lose its sense of mystery and romance in the process.
萨布伦毫无偏差地抓住了这个地区的历史脉络以及它与今天的联系。更重要的是，他的手法高超，能用一种极其随意但又不会破坏散文流畅性的方式来向读者传递这一认知，并巧妙地使这段历史在叙述过程中保留了其神秘和传奇的色彩。
In this extract，we get a taste of this style. As he gazes out of the train window his observations takes the reader on a journey from the nomadic tribes of the past to the industrial landscape of the present.
在这个节选片段中，我们就领略了这一手法。当他透过列车车窗凝视窗外时，其观察点引领读者完成了一个由过去游牧部族到今日工业场景的游历之旅。
Thubron is a true traveler. He is detached from the environment he is voyaging in and relates it to the reader in a way that makes reading his words more akin to watching these scenes in front of our own eyes. On the train，we observe the other passengers as if through a camera. The wedding feast is a perfect example of this. Standing afar and in the dark，Thubron observes the scene and presents it to us so vividly that long after reading it the image stays fresh in the mind.
萨布伦是一名真正的旅行家。他超然于他正在游历的环境，并通过一种阅读其文字就更像亲眼见证这些场景的方式把它与读者联系到一起。在列车上时，我们仿佛就是通过摄像机观察到了其他乘客。而婚宴就是这种方式的一个完美示例。萨布伦远远地站在暗处观察着，并把这一场景呈现给我们，如此传神，以至于读过良久之后这一场景仍然记忆犹新。
The Lost Heart of Asia is an example of a style of travel writing that is original and intense. Few of its contemporary counterparts can come close.
《亚细亚失落的心》阐释了一种新颖浓厚的游记笔触。当代的同类作品中很少有哪本书能够出其左右。
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