Westward, Toward the Faraway

My surname is Zhong. I'm twenty-seven, a travel writer who measures the country one step at a time, and I like to crack a joke now and then.

Qi Yucheng is twenty-four, an urban journalist who's been knocked around by reality. We met at a cheap inn in Lhasa, Tibet. When he asked, “Can I come with you?” it set us off on a road trip with no destination.

We set out from Tibet for distant places, and by chance, we “picked up” a third traveling companion in Kashgar, Xinjiang: Zhang Longsheng, a rich second-generation kid from Beijing. He used to be a director and made plenty of awful movies, though he refuses to admit it.

The three of us carried on with our wandering life. Someone once summed us up like this: a refined decadent, a passionate chronicler, and a romantic idealist in the guise of a spoiled playboy. To be honest, I agree.

This isn't really a travelogue about conquering distant places. It's more like a group of people interpreting their own stories. If you can't make sense of it, just leave it to the scenery. At least, as a passerby, it won't say a thing about you.