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.
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