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敬上第一杯茶，你是一个陌生人；再奉第二杯，你是我们的朋友；第三杯茶，你是我的家人，我将用生命来保护你。一个人，一个承诺，一段艰辛漫长的旅程，许许多多人的爱心，最终有了圆满的结局。摩顿森把一次旅行化作了一个生命的承诺，从而改变了他在路途中所遇见的人的命运。在《三杯茶》里，他通过文字将看似不相干的人拉在一起，娓娓道来，他朴素的心很快便让你跳进了一个友情世界里，令你也仿佛嗅到了茶的清幽香味。这是一趟非比寻常的旅程，其中不仅有他的脚步，也可以有你我的脚步……《三杯茶》讲述的是一个关于承诺的感人故事，被誉为是继《追风筝的人》、《灿烂千阳》之后描述阿富汗与巴基斯坦的最动人之书。限于篇幅，小编将分两期为大家奉上《三杯茶》的精彩篇章，敬请关注。
Greg Mortenson（葛瑞格·摩顿森），1958年出生在美国明尼苏达州，3个月大时随父母到坦桑尼亚，十几岁又回到美国。他原是登山家，1993年，为纪念早逝的妹妹克莉丝塔，他决定攀登世界第二高峰乔戈里峰（K2）。不料，途中发生意外，其后被巴基斯坦的巴尔蒂人救起，从此就与当地人结下了不解情缘。为兑现给巴基斯坦穷困的村庄建学校的承诺，他辛苦奔走，历时12年，在巴基斯坦和阿富汗地区兴建了60余所学校。2006年，他将自己这段经历，以及十多年来的所见所闻整理成书，令千百万不同肤色的读者为之动容。凭借此书，葛瑞格·摩顿森获得了2007年第11届桐山环太平洋图书奖。
David Oliver Relin（大卫·奥利佛·瑞林），是个游历世界的专栏作家，其作品获奖无数。
From his base in Haji Ali’s home, Mortenson settled into a routine. Each morning and afternoon he would walk briefly about Korphe, accompanied, always, by children tugging at his hands. He saw how this tiny
1)oasis of 2)greenery in a desert of dusty rock owed its existence to 3)staggering labor, and admired the hundreds of irrigation channels the village maintained by hand that diverted 4)glacial meltwater toward their fields and orchards.
Off the Baltoro, out of danger, he realized just how precarious his own survival had been, and how weakened he’d become. He could barely make it down the 5)switchback path that led to the river and there, in the freezing water, when he took off his shirt to wash, he was shocked by his appearance. “My arms looked like
6)spindly little 7)toothpicks, like they belonged to somebody else,” Mortenson says.
8)Wheezing his way back up to the village, he felt as 9)infirm as the elderly men who sat for hours at a time under Korphe’s 10)apricot trees, smoking from
11)hookahs and eating apricot kernels. After an hour or two of 12)poking about each day he’d 13)succumb to exhaustion and return to stare at the sky from his nest of pillows by Haji Ali’s hearth.
The nurmadhar watched Mortenson’s state carefully, and ordered one of the village’s precious chogo rabak, or big 14)rams, slaughtered. Forty people tore every scrap of roasted meat from the skinny animal’s bones, then cracked open the bones themselves with rocks, stripping the 15)marrow with their teeth. Watching the 16)ardor with which the meat was devoured, Mortenson realized how rare such a meal was for the people of Korphe, and how close they lived to hunger.
At first, in Korphe, he thought he’d stumbled into a sort of 17)Shangri-La. Many Westerners passing through the place had the feeling that the 18)Balti lived a simpler, better life than they did back home in their developed countries. Early visitors, 19)casting about for suitably romantic names, 20)dubbed it “Tibet of the Apricots.”
The Balti “really seem to have a 21)flair for enjoying life,” Maraini wrote in 1958, after visiting Askole and admiring the “old bodies of men sitting in the sun smoking their 22)picturesque pipes, those not so old working at primitive 23)looms in the shade of
24)mulberry trees with that sureness of touch that comes with a lifetime’s experience, and two boys, sitting by themselves, removing their 25)lice with tender and
26)meticulous care.
“We breathed an air of utter satisfaction, of eternal peace,” he continued. “All this gives rise to a question. Isn’t it better to live in ignorance of everything—
27)asphalt and 28)macadam, vehicles, telephones, television—to live in bliss without knowing it?”
Thirty-five years later, the Balti still lived with the same lack of modern conveniences, but after even a few days in the village, Mortenson began to see that Korphe was far from the 29)prelapsarian paradise of Western fantasy. In every home, at least one family member suffered from 30)goiters or 31)cataracts. The children, whose 32)ginger hair he had admired, owed their coloring to a form of 33)malnutrition called
34)kwashiorkor. And he learned from his talks with Twaha, after the nurmadhar’s son returned from evening prayer at the village mosque, that the nearest doctor was a week’s walk away in Skardu, and one out of every three Korphe children died before reaching their first birthday.
…
Often during his time in Korphe, Mortenson felt the presence of his little sister Christa, especially when he was with Korphe’s children. “Everything about their life was a struggle,” Mortenson says. “They reminded me of the way Christa had to fight for the simplest things. And also the way she had of just persevering, no matter what life threw at her.” He decided he wanted to do something for them. Perhaps, when he got to 35)Islamabad, he’d use the last of his money to buy textbooks to send to their school, or 36)supplies.
Lying by the hearth before bed, Mortenson told Haji Ali he wanted to visit Korphe’s school. Mortenson saw a cloud pass across the old man’s 37)craggy face, but persisted. Finally, the headman agreed to take Mortenson first thing the following morning.
After their familiar breakfast of chapattis and cha, Haji Ali led Mortenson up a steep path to a vast open
38)ledge eight hundred feet above the Braldu. The view was 39)exquisite, with the ice giants of the upper Baltoro 40)razored into the blue far above Korphe’s gray rock walls. But Mortenson wasn’t admiring the scenery. He was 41)appalled to see eighty-two children, seventy-eight boys, and the four girls who had the 42)pluck to join them, kneeling on the frosty ground, in the open. Haji Ali, avoiding Mortenson’s eyes, said that the village had no school, and the Pakistani government didn’t provide a teacher. A teacher cost the equivalent of one dollar a day, he explained, which was more than the village could afford. So they shared a teacher with the neighboring village of Munjung, and he taught in Korphe three days a week. The rest of the time the children were left alone to practice the lessons he left behind.
Mortenson watched, his heart in his throat, as the students stood at rigid attention and began their “school day” with Pakistan’s national anthem. “Blessed be the sacred land. Happy be the 43)bounteous realm, symbol of high resolve, land of Pakistan…” they sang with sweet
44)raggedness, their breath steaming in air already touched with winter. Mortenson picked out Twaha’s seven-year-old daughter, Jahan, standing tall and straight beneath her headscarf as she sang. “May the nation, the country, and the state shine in glory everlasting. This flag of 45)crescent and star leads the way to progress and perfection.”
After the last note of the anthem had faded, the children sat in a neat circle and began copying their multiplication tables. Most scratched in the dirt with sticks they’d brought for that purpose. The more fortunate, like Jahan, had 46)slate boards they wrote on with sticks dipped in a mixture of mud and water. “Can you imagine a fourth-grade class in America, alone, without a teacher, sitting there quietly and working on their lessons?” Mortenson asks. “I felt like my heart was being torn out. There was a fierceness in their desire to learn, despite how mightily everything was stacked against them, that reminded me of Christa. I knew I had to do something.”
But what? He had just enough money, if he ate simply and stayed in the cheapest guest houses, to travel by jeep and bus back to Islamabad and catch his flight home. In California he could look forward to only 47)sporadic nursing work, and most of his possessions fit in the trunk of “La Bamba,” the 48)burgundy 49)gas-guzzling 50)Buick that was as close as he had to a home. Still, there had to be something.
Standing next to Haji Ali, on the ledge overlooking the valley, with such a 51)crystalline view of the mountains he’d come halfway around the world to measure himself against, climbing K2 to place a necklace on its summit suddenly felt beside the point. There was a much more meaningful gesture he could make in honor of his sister’s memory. He put his hands on Haji Ali’s shoulders, as the old man had done to him dozens of times since they’d shared their first cup of tea. “I’m going to build you a school,” he said, not yet realizing that with those words, the path of his life had just 52)detoured down another trail, a route far more
53)serpentine and 54)arduous than the wrong turns he’d taken since retreating from K2. “I will build a school,” Mortenson said. “I promise.”
住在哈吉·阿里家时，摩顿森养成了一个习惯。每天早上和下午他都会在科尔飞周围散步，身边跟着一群孩子，都抢着牵他的手。这个如沙漠中的绿洲的小山村让他体会到在岩石遍布的荒凉山区求生的艰难。尤其是全凭人力挖出的上百条渠道，这些沟渠将冰冷的雪融水引到田地和果园里，令他惊叹不已。
走出巴托罗冰川、脱离险境，摩顿森才意识到自己能活下来是多么不容易，而他也变得无比虚弱，几乎没办法沿着曲折的山路走到河边。当他终于来到河边，脱下衣服准备在冷冰冰的河水里洗个澡时，差点被自己的外表吓坏了。“我的双臂瘦得简直像两根细牙签，根本不像我自己的手，”摩顿森回忆道。
气喘吁吁地回到村里，他觉得自己孱弱得就像村中的老人一样。那些老人们在科尔飞的杏树下一坐就是好几个小时，抽着水烟袋，吃着杏仁。结束每天一两个小时的散步后，摩顿森就会筋疲力尽地回到哈吉·阿里家那炉火旁的被窝里，然后仰望天空。
科尔飞的“努尔马得哈尔”（巴尔蒂语，指村长）把这一切都看在眼里。一天，他下令把村里一只珍贵的“邱可拉巴”（大山羊）给宰了。四十个人合力将烤好的山羊瘦骨间的碎肉都剔了下来，然后用石头把羊骨敲碎，并用牙齿刮出骨髓。看到村民们吃羊肉时狼吞虎咽的样子，摩顿森意识到这顿大餐对他们来说是多么的弥足珍贵，他们近乎生活在饥饿之中。
来科尔飞之初，摩顿森以为自己闯入了一处世外桃源。许多路过此地的西方游客都会有这样的感觉——认为巴尔蒂人的这种生活，比遥远的发达国家更加简单美好。早期的西方游客还为这儿取了个颇具浪漫色彩的名字，称之为“杏色西藏”。
巴尔蒂人“真有享受生活的天赋”，1958年，（意大利登山队成员）法斯
可·马瑞尼造访艾斯科里村后，赞叹地写道，“老人们坐在阳光下抽着独特的水烟管，中年人则在桑树荫下操作着原始的织布机，那份沉稳熟练源自从小积累的经验。还有两个孩子面对面坐着，温柔细心地为彼此清理身上的虱子。
“我们感受到全然满足、永恒安详的氛围。”他继续写道，“这一切不禁让人疑惑：生活在无知中——不知道有柏油碎石路、汽车、电话和电视的存在，不是一件更美好的事情吗？就如同生活在极乐之中而不自知？”
在马瑞尼造访艾斯科里三十五年后，巴尔蒂人依旧过着传统闭塞的生活。不过，在村中呆了几天后，摩顿森就开始明白，科尔飞并非西方人想象中的伊甸园。村里每户人家中，至少有一位成员患了甲状腺肿大或白内障；马瑞尼所羡慕的孩子们的姜黄发色，其实是一种被称为“严重营养不良症”所造成的结果。每天，村长的儿子塔瓦哈从村里的清真寺晚祷回来后，摩顿森会和他聊天，从而得知离科尔飞最近的医生远在斯卡都，至少得走一个星期的路才能到。而村里有三分之一的新生儿活不到一周岁。
……
在科尔飞时，摩顿森时常觉得他的小妹妹克莉丝塔就在身边，尤其是当他和村里的孩子相处时。“生活处处是挣扎求存。”摩顿森说，“他们让我想起克莉丝塔。就连最最简单的事情，她都必须通过努力挣扎才能做到。还有她的坚忍，不管生活给予她什么样的考验，她都安然接受。”他决定要尽量多为他们做点事情。也许，等他回到伊斯兰堡时，他可以用最后剩下的钱买些课本送给他们的学校或者给他们买些生活用品。
睡前，摩顿森躺在炉火旁，告诉哈
吉·阿里，他想去参观一下科尔飞的学校，却看见老人那布满皱纹的脸上掠过一丝阴霾。然而，拗不过摩顿森的坚持，村长终于同意第二天一早带他去看学校。
用过熟悉的早餐“恰巴帝（薄煎饼）”与茶后，哈吉·阿里带着摩顿森走上了一条陡峭的山路，来到布劳渡河上方800英尺（约244米）一处开阔的岩石平台上。景色美极了，布劳渡河上游冰雪覆盖的巨峰耸立在科尔飞那灰色的岩壁上方，直入苍穹。但最让摩顿森惊叹的不是风景，而是八十二个孩子——七十八个男孩和四个胆敢加入其中的女孩——正跪在户外霜冻的地面上。哈吉·阿里回避着摩顿森的目光，解释说，村里没有学校，巴基斯坦政府也无法提供老师，雇用一位老师每天需要一美元，而村里没有能力负担这笔费用，只好和毗邻的曼琼村合请了一位老师。这位老师一个星期到科尔飞村教三天书。其他时间，孩子们就自己练习老师布置的功课。
摩顿森看着孩子们，心紧紧地揪着。他们立正站好，认真地唱起了巴基斯坦国歌，准备开始今天的“上课日”。“祝福这神圣之地，丰饶之国，坚忍的象征，巴基斯坦国土……”他们用甜美的童音稚拙地唱着，呼出的气息在寒冷的空气中弥漫成白雾。摩顿森看到塔瓦哈七岁的女儿嘉涵，包着头巾的她一边笔直地站着，一边唱道，“愿这民族、国土、国家在永存的光辉中闪耀。愿星月旗引领进步和完美之路。”
唱完国歌，孩子们围成一个圆圈坐下，开始抄写乘法表。大部分孩子都专门带了小木棍来上课，好在泥土上写字。比较幸运的孩子，像嘉涵，则有块小石板，能用蘸了泥水的棍子在石板上写字。“你能想象在美国一个小学四年级的班级里，没有老师，学生们会自己坐在那里安静地做功课吗？”摩顿森问道，“我觉得心都碎了。他们热切渴望学习，不管这一切对他们来说有多么困难。这让我想起了克莉丝塔，我知道我必须为他们做些什么。”
但是能做什么呢？他的钱已所剩无几，即使他省吃俭用，住最便宜的旅馆，也只够他坐吉普车和大巴回到伊斯兰堡，然后搭飞机回家。在加州，他能期待的只有零星的护理工作，他的家产更是少到可以全部塞进那辆“拉班巴”的后备箱里。这辆耗油的紫红色别克轿车可以说是他的唯一“房产”。尽管如此，摩顿森仍相信，一定有办法的。
和哈吉·阿里并排站在俯瞰河谷的岩石平台上，摩顿森可以清楚地看见那些高峰——那些让他飞越半个地球来考验自己的高峰。爬上乔戈里峰，把克莉丝塔的项链放在峰顶，突然之间对他来说已不再重要；他可以用一种更有意义的方式来纪念妹妹。他把手放在哈吉·阿里的肩上，自从他们共饮第一杯茶后，老人常这样手扶他的肩膀。“我要给你们盖一所学校，”他说。他完全想不到，这句话彻底改变了自己的人生。他所踏上的路途，也远比他离开乔戈里峰时走错方向的漫漫征途更为曲折艰辛。“我会盖一所学校，”摩顿森说，“我保证。”
（译文参考吉林文史出版社出版的《三杯茶》一书，有改动。）
Greg Mortenson（葛瑞格·摩顿森），1958年出生在美国明尼苏达州，3个月大时随父母到坦桑尼亚，十几岁又回到美国。他原是登山家，1993年，为纪念早逝的妹妹克莉丝塔，他决定攀登世界第二高峰乔戈里峰（K2）。不料，途中发生意外，其后被巴基斯坦的巴尔蒂人救起，从此就与当地人结下了不解情缘。为兑现给巴基斯坦穷困的村庄建学校的承诺，他辛苦奔走，历时12年，在巴基斯坦和阿富汗地区兴建了60余所学校。2006年，他将自己这段经历，以及十多年来的所见所闻整理成书，令千百万不同肤色的读者为之动容。凭借此书，葛瑞格·摩顿森获得了2007年第11届桐山环太平洋图书奖。
David Oliver Relin（大卫·奥利佛·瑞林），是个游历世界的专栏作家，其作品获奖无数。
From his base in Haji Ali’s home, Mortenson settled into a routine. Each morning and afternoon he would walk briefly about Korphe, accompanied, always, by children tugging at his hands. He saw how this tiny
1)oasis of 2)greenery in a desert of dusty rock owed its existence to 3)staggering labor, and admired the hundreds of irrigation channels the village maintained by hand that diverted 4)glacial meltwater toward their fields and orchards.
Off the Baltoro, out of danger, he realized just how precarious his own survival had been, and how weakened he’d become. He could barely make it down the 5)switchback path that led to the river and there, in the freezing water, when he took off his shirt to wash, he was shocked by his appearance. “My arms looked like
6)spindly little 7)toothpicks, like they belonged to somebody else,” Mortenson says.
8)Wheezing his way back up to the village, he felt as 9)infirm as the elderly men who sat for hours at a time under Korphe’s 10)apricot trees, smoking from
11)hookahs and eating apricot kernels. After an hour or two of 12)poking about each day he’d 13)succumb to exhaustion and return to stare at the sky from his nest of pillows by Haji Ali’s hearth.
The nurmadhar watched Mortenson’s state carefully, and ordered one of the village’s precious chogo rabak, or big 14)rams, slaughtered. Forty people tore every scrap of roasted meat from the skinny animal’s bones, then cracked open the bones themselves with rocks, stripping the 15)marrow with their teeth. Watching the 16)ardor with which the meat was devoured, Mortenson realized how rare such a meal was for the people of Korphe, and how close they lived to hunger.
At first, in Korphe, he thought he’d stumbled into a sort of 17)Shangri-La. Many Westerners passing through the place had the feeling that the 18)Balti lived a simpler, better life than they did back home in their developed countries. Early visitors, 19)casting about for suitably romantic names, 20)dubbed it “Tibet of the Apricots.”
The Balti “really seem to have a 21)flair for enjoying life,” Maraini wrote in 1958, after visiting Askole and admiring the “old bodies of men sitting in the sun smoking their 22)picturesque pipes, those not so old working at primitive 23)looms in the shade of
24)mulberry trees with that sureness of touch that comes with a lifetime’s experience, and two boys, sitting by themselves, removing their 25)lice with tender and
26)meticulous care.
“We breathed an air of utter satisfaction, of eternal peace,” he continued. “All this gives rise to a question. Isn’t it better to live in ignorance of everything—
27)asphalt and 28)macadam, vehicles, telephones, television—to live in bliss without knowing it?”
Thirty-five years later, the Balti still lived with the same lack of modern conveniences, but after even a few days in the village, Mortenson began to see that Korphe was far from the 29)prelapsarian paradise of Western fantasy. In every home, at least one family member suffered from 30)goiters or 31)cataracts. The children, whose 32)ginger hair he had admired, owed their coloring to a form of 33)malnutrition called
34)kwashiorkor. And he learned from his talks with Twaha, after the nurmadhar’s son returned from evening prayer at the village mosque, that the nearest doctor was a week’s walk away in Skardu, and one out of every three Korphe children died before reaching their first birthday.
…
Often during his time in Korphe, Mortenson felt the presence of his little sister Christa, especially when he was with Korphe’s children. “Everything about their life was a struggle,” Mortenson says. “They reminded me of the way Christa had to fight for the simplest things. And also the way she had of just persevering, no matter what life threw at her.” He decided he wanted to do something for them. Perhaps, when he got to 35)Islamabad, he’d use the last of his money to buy textbooks to send to their school, or 36)supplies.
Lying by the hearth before bed, Mortenson told Haji Ali he wanted to visit Korphe’s school. Mortenson saw a cloud pass across the old man’s 37)craggy face, but persisted. Finally, the headman agreed to take Mortenson first thing the following morning.
After their familiar breakfast of chapattis and cha, Haji Ali led Mortenson up a steep path to a vast open
38)ledge eight hundred feet above the Braldu. The view was 39)exquisite, with the ice giants of the upper Baltoro 40)razored into the blue far above Korphe’s gray rock walls. But Mortenson wasn’t admiring the scenery. He was 41)appalled to see eighty-two children, seventy-eight boys, and the four girls who had the 42)pluck to join them, kneeling on the frosty ground, in the open. Haji Ali, avoiding Mortenson’s eyes, said that the village had no school, and the Pakistani government didn’t provide a teacher. A teacher cost the equivalent of one dollar a day, he explained, which was more than the village could afford. So they shared a teacher with the neighboring village of Munjung, and he taught in Korphe three days a week. The rest of the time the children were left alone to practice the lessons he left behind.
Mortenson watched, his heart in his throat, as the students stood at rigid attention and began their “school day” with Pakistan’s national anthem. “Blessed be the sacred land. Happy be the 43)bounteous realm, symbol of high resolve, land of Pakistan…” they sang with sweet
44)raggedness, their breath steaming in air already touched with winter. Mortenson picked out Twaha’s seven-year-old daughter, Jahan, standing tall and straight beneath her headscarf as she sang. “May the nation, the country, and the state shine in glory everlasting. This flag of 45)crescent and star leads the way to progress and perfection.”
After the last note of the anthem had faded, the children sat in a neat circle and began copying their multiplication tables. Most scratched in the dirt with sticks they’d brought for that purpose. The more fortunate, like Jahan, had 46)slate boards they wrote on with sticks dipped in a mixture of mud and water. “Can you imagine a fourth-grade class in America, alone, without a teacher, sitting there quietly and working on their lessons?” Mortenson asks. “I felt like my heart was being torn out. There was a fierceness in their desire to learn, despite how mightily everything was stacked against them, that reminded me of Christa. I knew I had to do something.”
But what? He had just enough money, if he ate simply and stayed in the cheapest guest houses, to travel by jeep and bus back to Islamabad and catch his flight home. In California he could look forward to only 47)sporadic nursing work, and most of his possessions fit in the trunk of “La Bamba,” the 48)burgundy 49)gas-guzzling 50)Buick that was as close as he had to a home. Still, there had to be something.
Standing next to Haji Ali, on the ledge overlooking the valley, with such a 51)crystalline view of the mountains he’d come halfway around the world to measure himself against, climbing K2 to place a necklace on its summit suddenly felt beside the point. There was a much more meaningful gesture he could make in honor of his sister’s memory. He put his hands on Haji Ali’s shoulders, as the old man had done to him dozens of times since they’d shared their first cup of tea. “I’m going to build you a school,” he said, not yet realizing that with those words, the path of his life had just 52)detoured down another trail, a route far more
53)serpentine and 54)arduous than the wrong turns he’d taken since retreating from K2. “I will build a school,” Mortenson said. “I promise.”
住在哈吉·阿里家时，摩顿森养成了一个习惯。每天早上和下午他都会在科尔飞周围散步，身边跟着一群孩子，都抢着牵他的手。这个如沙漠中的绿洲的小山村让他体会到在岩石遍布的荒凉山区求生的艰难。尤其是全凭人力挖出的上百条渠道，这些沟渠将冰冷的雪融水引到田地和果园里，令他惊叹不已。
走出巴托罗冰川、脱离险境，摩顿森才意识到自己能活下来是多么不容易，而他也变得无比虚弱，几乎没办法沿着曲折的山路走到河边。当他终于来到河边，脱下衣服准备在冷冰冰的河水里洗个澡时，差点被自己的外表吓坏了。“我的双臂瘦得简直像两根细牙签，根本不像我自己的手，”摩顿森回忆道。
气喘吁吁地回到村里，他觉得自己孱弱得就像村中的老人一样。那些老人们在科尔飞的杏树下一坐就是好几个小时，抽着水烟袋，吃着杏仁。结束每天一两个小时的散步后，摩顿森就会筋疲力尽地回到哈吉·阿里家那炉火旁的被窝里，然后仰望天空。
科尔飞的“努尔马得哈尔”（巴尔蒂语，指村长）把这一切都看在眼里。一天，他下令把村里一只珍贵的“邱可拉巴”（大山羊）给宰了。四十个人合力将烤好的山羊瘦骨间的碎肉都剔了下来，然后用石头把羊骨敲碎，并用牙齿刮出骨髓。看到村民们吃羊肉时狼吞虎咽的样子，摩顿森意识到这顿大餐对他们来说是多么的弥足珍贵，他们近乎生活在饥饿之中。
来科尔飞之初，摩顿森以为自己闯入了一处世外桃源。许多路过此地的西方游客都会有这样的感觉——认为巴尔蒂人的这种生活，比遥远的发达国家更加简单美好。早期的西方游客还为这儿取了个颇具浪漫色彩的名字，称之为“杏色西藏”。
巴尔蒂人“真有享受生活的天赋”，1958年，（意大利登山队成员）法斯
可·马瑞尼造访艾斯科里村后，赞叹地写道，“老人们坐在阳光下抽着独特的水烟管，中年人则在桑树荫下操作着原始的织布机，那份沉稳熟练源自从小积累的经验。还有两个孩子面对面坐着，温柔细心地为彼此清理身上的虱子。
“我们感受到全然满足、永恒安详的氛围。”他继续写道，“这一切不禁让人疑惑：生活在无知中——不知道有柏油碎石路、汽车、电话和电视的存在，不是一件更美好的事情吗？就如同生活在极乐之中而不自知？”
在马瑞尼造访艾斯科里三十五年后，巴尔蒂人依旧过着传统闭塞的生活。不过，在村中呆了几天后，摩顿森就开始明白，科尔飞并非西方人想象中的伊甸园。村里每户人家中，至少有一位成员患了甲状腺肿大或白内障；马瑞尼所羡慕的孩子们的姜黄发色，其实是一种被称为“严重营养不良症”所造成的结果。每天，村长的儿子塔瓦哈从村里的清真寺晚祷回来后，摩顿森会和他聊天，从而得知离科尔飞最近的医生远在斯卡都，至少得走一个星期的路才能到。而村里有三分之一的新生儿活不到一周岁。
……
在科尔飞时，摩顿森时常觉得他的小妹妹克莉丝塔就在身边，尤其是当他和村里的孩子相处时。“生活处处是挣扎求存。”摩顿森说，“他们让我想起克莉丝塔。就连最最简单的事情，她都必须通过努力挣扎才能做到。还有她的坚忍，不管生活给予她什么样的考验，她都安然接受。”他决定要尽量多为他们做点事情。也许，等他回到伊斯兰堡时，他可以用最后剩下的钱买些课本送给他们的学校或者给他们买些生活用品。
睡前，摩顿森躺在炉火旁，告诉哈
吉·阿里，他想去参观一下科尔飞的学校，却看见老人那布满皱纹的脸上掠过一丝阴霾。然而，拗不过摩顿森的坚持，村长终于同意第二天一早带他去看学校。
用过熟悉的早餐“恰巴帝（薄煎饼）”与茶后，哈吉·阿里带着摩顿森走上了一条陡峭的山路，来到布劳渡河上方800英尺（约244米）一处开阔的岩石平台上。景色美极了，布劳渡河上游冰雪覆盖的巨峰耸立在科尔飞那灰色的岩壁上方，直入苍穹。但最让摩顿森惊叹的不是风景，而是八十二个孩子——七十八个男孩和四个胆敢加入其中的女孩——正跪在户外霜冻的地面上。哈吉·阿里回避着摩顿森的目光，解释说，村里没有学校，巴基斯坦政府也无法提供老师，雇用一位老师每天需要一美元，而村里没有能力负担这笔费用，只好和毗邻的曼琼村合请了一位老师。这位老师一个星期到科尔飞村教三天书。其他时间，孩子们就自己练习老师布置的功课。
摩顿森看着孩子们，心紧紧地揪着。他们立正站好，认真地唱起了巴基斯坦国歌，准备开始今天的“上课日”。“祝福这神圣之地，丰饶之国，坚忍的象征，巴基斯坦国土……”他们用甜美的童音稚拙地唱着，呼出的气息在寒冷的空气中弥漫成白雾。摩顿森看到塔瓦哈七岁的女儿嘉涵，包着头巾的她一边笔直地站着，一边唱道，“愿这民族、国土、国家在永存的光辉中闪耀。愿星月旗引领进步和完美之路。”
唱完国歌，孩子们围成一个圆圈坐下，开始抄写乘法表。大部分孩子都专门带了小木棍来上课，好在泥土上写字。比较幸运的孩子，像嘉涵，则有块小石板，能用蘸了泥水的棍子在石板上写字。“你能想象在美国一个小学四年级的班级里，没有老师，学生们会自己坐在那里安静地做功课吗？”摩顿森问道，“我觉得心都碎了。他们热切渴望学习，不管这一切对他们来说有多么困难。这让我想起了克莉丝塔，我知道我必须为他们做些什么。”
但是能做什么呢？他的钱已所剩无几，即使他省吃俭用，住最便宜的旅馆，也只够他坐吉普车和大巴回到伊斯兰堡，然后搭飞机回家。在加州，他能期待的只有零星的护理工作，他的家产更是少到可以全部塞进那辆“拉班巴”的后备箱里。这辆耗油的紫红色别克轿车可以说是他的唯一“房产”。尽管如此，摩顿森仍相信，一定有办法的。
和哈吉·阿里并排站在俯瞰河谷的岩石平台上，摩顿森可以清楚地看见那些高峰——那些让他飞越半个地球来考验自己的高峰。爬上乔戈里峰，把克莉丝塔的项链放在峰顶，突然之间对他来说已不再重要；他可以用一种更有意义的方式来纪念妹妹。他把手放在哈吉·阿里的肩上，自从他们共饮第一杯茶后，老人常这样手扶他的肩膀。“我要给你们盖一所学校，”他说。他完全想不到，这句话彻底改变了自己的人生。他所踏上的路途，也远比他离开乔戈里峰时走错方向的漫漫征途更为曲折艰辛。“我会盖一所学校，”摩顿森说，“我保证。”
（译文参考吉林文史出版社出版的《三杯茶》一书，有改动。）