The first time Jiang Wanju met Chen Zhouren was during a road trip along the Northern Xinjiang Grand Loop.
Jiang Wanju’s father became obsessed with self-driving tours at the age of 40. He researched off-road vehicles, bought gear, mapped out routes, and spent two intense months discussing plans on travel forums. After nearly a year of preparation, he finally set off with his family at the tail end of July, embarking on their first journey to conquer the northwest.
Jiang Wanju was the unfortunate “daughter” dragged along for the ride.
For first-time road trippers, unexpected mishaps were inevitable—especially in the vast northwest. Getting lost, motion sickness, veering off course, sudden car troubles—the list went on.
Wanju suffered from terrible motion sickness. She was constantly nauseous, threw up multiple times, and couldn’t stomach lamb meat. Most of the time, she lay sickly in the car, feeling like this trip was pure torment.
She would rather stay home and do ten practice exams a day than continue this so-called “carefree adventure through the northwest.”
She had just finished her high school entrance exams and was about to start a new chapter in life. While her peers were out celebrating their newfound freedom, some were already being packed off to tutoring classes by their parents. Following the “win at the starting line” philosophy, many students had already bought high school textbooks and enrolled in prep courses, hoping to get a head start in the cutthroat competition ahead.
Jiang Wanju’s parents had differing views on this. Her father believed in a relaxed approach, and once he learned she disliked cram schools, he never brought it up again. Her mother, on the other hand, worried that Wanju would fall behind. Seeing all her coworkers sending their kids to extra classes, she insisted that Wanju should do the same. The argument between them escalated from this minor disagreement into an all-out battle over past grievances. The trip had barely begun, and they were already bickering nonstop. By the time they left Ürümqi, their voices filled the car.
Jiang Wanju, fed up, buried her head under a pillow.
This trip felt like a mistake.
Especially in the beginning, where there was nothing but endless straight roads, barren deserts, and monotonous landscapes stretching as far as the eye could see. The scenery was repetitive and dull, devoid of any aesthetic appeal.
She traced their route on the map, following Highway G217 northward, leading them into Altay Prefecture. Her father’s plan revolved around visiting places with enticing names—Ghost City, Kanas Lake, Koktokay, Five-Colored City, and Tianchi Lake. These were the only things keeping her going.
From the Wukuai Expressway, they headed west, then north, entering the Kuiai Expressway. By the time they reached Karamay, Wanju’s motion sickness finally eased, and she started to feel like she was actually on a vacation.
The high-altitude sun was intense, and her mother chased after her with sunscreen. The thought of the upcoming military training dampened Wanju’s already low spirits.
At least lunch was a relief—no more lamb. They ordered pigeon noodle soup. The pigeon meat was finely chopped, fried until crispy and fragrant, with bones soft enough to chew through. The noodles were coated in rich broth, accompanied by a plate of steamed vegetables dipped in oil and vinegar. The meal included crystal-clear “glass crisp” fruit, rice pomegranates, Xizhou melons, and white figs.
For the first time in days, Jiang Wanju’s stomach felt at ease.
Her father, in high spirits, bought more fruit before they left, stuffing the car to the brim. As they returned to Junggar Road and rejoined Highway G217, Wanju caught sight of a sign for Bai Jietan.
This stretch of road was far from ideal—just a two-lane highway, riddled with potholes left behind by heavy trucks.
Perhaps it was the vast, desolate expanse of Bai Jietan that stirred some lingering poetic sentiment in her father. He suddenly called out, “Wanju, what was that poem again? The one by Ai Qing—”
“Karamay,” she murmured, resting against the backseat, her voice indifferent. “A beauty in the desert.”
Her father frowned. “Not the last line—I meant the part before that. The most desolate place, yet holding the greatest energy, the deepest layers—”
His poetic moment was cut short when he failed to notice a massive pothole. The car jolted violently, nearly making Wanju throw up again.
Then came her mother’s voice, sharp and scolding. “See? That’s what you get for showing off! Focus on the road!”
Wanju winced, rubbing her head where it had hit the car door.
Her father attempted to drive out of the pothole a few times but failed. At first, he remained confident, brushing off her mother’s complaints. But when he realized his phone had no signal, his confidence wavered.
The midday sun blazed overhead, and Wanju stepped out to take a look. Her mother quickly shooed her back into the car, worried about her getting sunburned. From the window, Wanju watched as yet another argument erupted between her parents.
She was used to it by now.
As a child, hearing adults fight used to make her uneasy. But as she grew older, she realized that for some couples, arguing was just a part of their daily routine. Not every family was happy and harmonious, and not every marriage stayed loving and respectful.
Wanju put on her headphones and flipped through a book. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her father step onto the road, trying to flag down passing cars for help.
Not a single vehicle stopped.
Up ahead was the Ghost City, its landscape shaped by relentless winds. Who knew if the person waving on the roadside was a stranded traveler or something more ominous?
Wanju sighed. She had seen enough. Taking off her headphones, she pushed open the car door and stepped out.
“Dad, don’t waste your time. No one’s going to stop here—”
Maybe fate just liked going against her.
The moment Jiang Wanju finished speaking, a large off-road vehicle pulled up steadily by the roadside.
A tall man in a black T-shirt and black pants stepped out. His skin wasn’t pale, but it wasn’t dark either. His tone was relaxed as he asked Jiang’s father, “Having some trouble?”
His voice was pleasant.
Jiang Wanju raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, squinting as she looked up. Against the light, her gaze met a pair of deep, intense eyes.
For a moment, she thought he smiled. Or maybe he didn’t.
That was the first time Jiang Wanju met Chen Zhouren.
She had just turned fifteen. He was about to turn twenty-four.
At that time, Chen Zhouren could still be called a “good man.”
Author’s Note:
“The most desolate place holds the greatest energy.
From the deepest layers surges the most precious fluid.
The most silent warrior has the strongest heart.
Karamay, you are the beauty of the desert.”
— Ai Qing, “Karamay”