Either don’t do it, or don’t procrastinate. The next day, I confirmed my trip to Golmud. I had never been to that area before, so I asked a friend at the travel agency about the route. My friend told me that there were no direct flights to Golmud, so I had to fly to Chengdu first and then transfer. He would handle the flight tickets and could also arrange a local hotel for me. I asked him to take care of it because I couldn’t just leave on a whim; I booked a flight for two days later.

This time, I wasn’t going to steal a fight; I just wanted to stroll around the city of Golmud, and since the time wouldn’t be long, I only packed a few personal clothes and some cash, totaling just a flat backpack.

The fat guy returned to Beijing that day, and I didn’t mention this matter to him. Since I had decided that no one should know, he was no exception.

During these two days, I informed Wang Meng to handle things at the shop, vaguely explained to my family, and sorted out some connections. Two days later, I boarded the plane.

I slept the whole way. By the time I arrived at Chengdu Shuangliu Airport, I was already feeling quite comfortable. The few hours flying to Golmud were spent thinking on the plane. That night, around eight o’clock, I arrived in Golmud, which is known as the “Highland Inn.”

This is a legendary city. In Tibetan, Golmud means “a place with dense rivers.” Although the entire flight was over desert, one can imagine what the city looked like when it was named. According to the information I read on the plane, this city was established when General Mu Shengzhong, known as the “Father of the Qinghai-Tibet Highway,” set up the tents of the soldiers who built the highway here. The city is only a little over fifty years old; it was once very prosperous, but now its status has gradually been replaced by Lhasa, putting the entire city in a somewhat awkward position.

After getting off the plane, I embarrassingly experienced altitude sickness and fainted for two to three seconds right at the airport exit. It didn’t feel like the exhaustion-induced fainting I had experienced in the Qinling Mountains; instead, it was a sensation of the world drifting away from me. Suddenly, everything around me turned black, and then I collapsed. Fortunately, I woke up after two or three seconds, finding myself lying on the ground. Even more embarrassing was that when I went to buy medicine, I realized that I was already on the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau. Unfamiliar with Chinese geography, I didn’t even know Golmud was on the plateau! The pharmacist thought I had taken the wrong flight.

I drank a bowl of Tibetan tea from a roadside stall, which cost fifty cents, while taking the medicine. Then I settled down at the hotel my friend had arranged for me. Ignoring my headache and fever, I set off immediately, took a taxi, and showed the driver the address, asking him to take me there.

However, after looking at the address, the driver shook his head and said that it was a very small alley where cars couldn’t enter. The area was filled with old houses and the roads were narrow. He could take me to the vicinity of that area, but I would have to go in and ask people myself.

I thought that was fine, so I had him drive me. Before long, I arrived in the old town of the city.

The driver told me that Golmud is a newly built city, with generally wide roads. The old town has been expanded countless times over the years, but there are still small patches of land left behind due to awkward positioning. Most of these single-story houses were built in the 1960s and 70s, and inside, there are numerous illegal constructions. My address is located in one of those narrow alleys.

I got out of the car, and it was already the end of dusk, dimly lit with a hint of sunset. I looked up and saw a long row of black-tiled houses silhouetted against the light. These were all tenement buildings constructed in the 1960s and 70s, and at this time, the old town appeared particularly mysterious.

As I walked in and looked around, I realized that this place couldn’t even be called a district; it was merely a few remnants of old streets left after the city’s expansion. These buildings had neither cultural value nor regular maintenance, and they looked somewhat precarious, likely not lasting much longer. There weren’t many people in the old town either; I only saw a few hair salons scattered between the houses. The old buildings and wires were dark, mixed with the colorful lights of the salons, creating a rather bizarre atmosphere.

I wandered around for about two hours, going back and forth, which made the girls in the salons think I was a would-be thief without the guts to act, as they opened their doors and smiled at me. However, as the taxi driver had said, the layout inside was too chaotic; many alleys were blocked off by illegal constructions, and there were no street signs. Asking people was futile; a few migrant workers passing by just smiled and shook their heads in a friendly manner, implying they also didn’t know where this place was.

Finding a place with an address was something I had never encountered before. As I walked, I couldn’t help but chuckle bitterly at the unpredictability of life. Just as I was getting dizzy from wandering around, a yellow-topped tricycle approached from behind. The driver asked if I wanted a ride. I was tired from walking, so I hopped on and let him show me around.

The driver was Han Chinese, probably someone who had come from the south years ago. Upon hearing my southern accent, he became chatty, telling me he was from Su Bei, with the surname Yang and the given name Yang. People called him Er Yang. He had been driving a tricycle here for twelve years and asked me where I wanted to go—high-end, low-end, Han, Tibetan, or Uyghur girls; he knew them all, offering me a discount of twenty percent. If I wasn’t interested in that, he could take me on a tour. Although Golmud didn’t have any famous scenic spots, he was familiar with the beautiful landscapes in the surrounding desert.

I found it amusing and thought to myself that if his father had given him a three-character name, he could have been called Hengyuanxiang (a well-known brand in China). However, when he mentioned this, I had a thought; these drivers had been around for many years and were likely very familiar with the streets and alleys. Why not ask him a few more questions? Perhaps I could learn something from him.

So, I showed him the address and asked if he knew the place. I didn’t have much hope initially, but as soon as I finished speaking, Hengyuanxiang nodded and said he knew it. He then pedaled away, and before long, he took me down a very secluded little road.

On both sides of the road were old houses, and under the dim streetlights, there were almost no pedestrians. When he stopped the tricycle, I felt a surge of panic, as if I were about to be kidnapped. Seeing my expression, he laughed and told me that we had arrived at the place I was looking for.

I looked up and saw a three-story building with a courtyard. Under the streetlight, the building was completely dark; I could only see the outer walls, and it seemed there wasn’t a single person inside. The whole place had a ghostly atmosphere.

I was speechless and asked the driver what kind of place this was. He replied, “This is a military sanatorium from the 1960s, and it has been abandoned for a long time.”