他也有些难过，他也顶住压力做出这件事，体现出他作为村子的带头人，具有巨大的责任感和使命感。
“Sitting there beside him,” Mortenson says, “I realized that everything, all the difficulties I?d gone through, from the time I?d promised to build the school, through the long struggle to complete it, was nothing compared to the satisfices he was prepared to make for his people. Here was this illiterate man, who?d hardly ever left his little village in the Karakoram,” Mortenson says. “Yet he was the wisest man I?ve ever met.”
Analysis:
这段Mortenson的话侧面地反映出Haji Ali做的一切都是为了自己的村民，他是一个
有责任感的带头人，他虽然一字不识，却有着过人的智慧，是一个有远见的人，他为整个村子的发展牺牲了很多，为村子的教育事业做出了巨大贡献，迈出了勇敢的第一步。
总结:
写记叙文时要将记叙文的六要素交代清楚，描写景物部分要能渲染气氛，侧面反映出作者的心情。开头要能吸引读者的阅读兴趣，设置一个悬念，留下一个疑问。高潮前面要进行铺垫。结尾部分交代出主题。对于人物的描写，可以有动作、语言等描写手法，要体现出人物的性格特点，也可以用对比的方法进行突出表现。
（1302020109，刘凤阳）
附：
Lesson 8 Three Cups of Tea CHAPTER 12 HAJI ALI?S LESSON
It may seem absurd to believe that a “primitive” culture in the Himalaya has anything to teach our industrialized society.
But our search for a future that works keeps spiraling back to an ancient connection between ourselves and the earth, an interconnectedness that ancient cultures have never abandoned.
—Helena Norberg-Hodge
The rocks looked more like an ancient ruin than the building blocks of a new school. Though he stood on a plateau high above the Braldu River, in perfect fall weather that made the pyramid of Korphe K2 bristle, Mortenson was disheartened by the prospect before him.
The previous winter, before leaving Korphe, Mortenson had driven tent pegs into the frozen soil and tied red and blue braided nylon cord to them, marking out a floor plan of five rooms he imagined for the school. He?d left Haji Ali enough cash to hire laborers from villages downriver to help quarry and carry the stone. And when he arrived, he expected to find at least a foundation for the school excavated. Instead, he saw two mounds of stones standing in a field.
Inspecting the site with Haji Ali, Mortenson struggled to hide his disappointment. Between his four trips to the airport with his wife, and his tussle to reclaim his building materials, he had arrived here in mid-October, nearly a month after he?d told Haji Ali to expect him. They should be building the walls this week, he thought. Mortenson turned his anger inward, blaming himself. He couldn?t keep returning to Pakistan forever. Now that he was married, he needed a career. He wanted to get the school finished so he could set about figuring out what his life?s work would be. And now winter would delay construction once again. Mortenson kicked a stone angrily.
“What?s the matter,” Haji Ali said in Balti. “You look like the young ram at the time of butting.”
Mortenson took a deep breath. “Why haven?t you started?” he asked.
“Doctor Greg, we discussed your plan after you returned to your village,” Haji Ali said. “And we decided it was foolish to waste your money paying the lazy men of Munjung and Askole. They know the school is being built by a rich foreigner, so they will work little and argue much. So we cut the stones ourselves. It took all summer, because many of the men had to leave for porter work. But don?t worry. I have your money locked safely in my home.”
“I?m not worried about the money.” Mortenson said. “But I wanted to get a roof up before winter so the children would have some place to study.”
Haji Ali put his hand on Mortenson?s shoulder, and gave his impa-tient American a fatherly squeeze. “I thank all-merciful Allah for all you have done. But the people of Korphe have been here without a school for six hundred years,” he said, smiling. “What is one winter more?”
That night, lying under the stars on Haji Ali?s roof next to Twaha, Mortenson
thought of how lonely he?d been the last time he?d slept on this spot. He pictured Tara, remembering the lovely way she had waved at him through the glass at SFO, and a bubble of happiness rose up so forcefully that he couldn?t keep it to himself.
“Twaha, you awake?” Mortenson asked. “Yes, awake.”
“I have something to tell you. I got married.”
Mortenson heard a click, then squinted into the beam of the flash-light he?d just brought from America for his friend. Twaha sat up next to him, studying his face under the novel electric light to see if he was joking.
Then the flashlight fell to the ground and Mortenson felt a sharp flurry of fists pummeling his arms and shoulders in congratulations. Twaha collapsed on his pile of bedding with a happy sigh. “Haji Ali say Doctor Greg look different this time,” Twaha said, laughing. “He really know everything.” He switched the flashlight experimentally off and on. “Can I know her good name?”
“Tara.”
“Ta... ra,” Twaha said, weighing the name, the Urdu word for star, on his tongue. “She is lovely, your Tara?”
“Yes,” Mortenson said, feeling himself blush. “Lovely.”
“How many goat and ram you must give her father?” Twaha asked.
“Her father is dead, like mine,” Mortenson said. “And in America, we don?t pay a bride price.”
“Did she cry when she left her mother?”
“She only told her mother about me after we were married.”
Twaha fell silent for a moment, considering the exotic matrimonial customs of Americans.
The next morning, Mortenson found a precious boiled egg on his plate, next to his usual breakfast of chapatti and lassi. Sakina grinned proudly at him from the doorway to her kitchen. Haji Ali peeled the egg for Mortenson and explained. “So you?ll be strong enough to make many children,” he said, while Sakina giggled behind her shawl.
Haji Ali sat patiently at his side until Mortenson finished a second cup of milk tea. A grin smoldered, then ignited at the center of his thick beard. “Let?s go build a school,” he said.
Haji Ali climbed to his roof and called for all the men of Korphe to assemble at the local mosque. Mortenson, carrying five shovels he had recovered from Changazi?s derelict hotel, followed Haji Ali down muddy alleys toward the mosque, as men streamed out of every doorway.
Korphe?s mosque had adapted to a changing environment over the centuries, much like the people who filled it with their faith. The Balti, lacking a written language, compensated by passing down exacting oral history. Every Balti could recite their ancestry, stretching back ten to twenty generations. And everyone in Korphe knew the legend of this listing wooden building buttressed with earthern walls. It had stood for nearly five hundred years, and had served as a Buddhist tem?ple before Islam had established a foothold in Baltistan.
For the first time since he?d arrived in Korphe, Mortenson stepped through the gate and set foot inside. During his visits he had kept respectful distance from the mosque, and Korphe?s religious leader, Sher Takhi. Mortenson was unsure how the mullah felt about having an infidel in the village, an infidel who proposed to educate Korphe?s girls. Sher Takhi smiled at Mortenson and led him to a prayer mat at the rear of the room. He was thin and his beard was peppered with gray. Like most Balti living in the mountains, he looked decades older than his forty-odd years.
Sher Takhi, who called Korphe?s widely dispersed faithful to prayer five times a day without the benefit of amplification, filled the small room with his booming voice. He led the men in a special dua, asking Allah?s blessing and guidance as they began work on the school. Mortenson prayed as the tailor had taught him, folding his arms and bending at the waist.
Haji Ali provided the string this time. It was locally woven twine, not blue and red braided cord. With Mortenson, he measured out the correct lengths, dipped the twine in a mixture of calcium and lime, then used the village?s time-tested method to mark the dimensions of a construction site. Haji Ali and Twaha pulled the cord taut and whipped it against the ground, leaving white lines on the packed earth where the walls of the school would stand. Mortenson passed out the five shovels and he and fifty other men took turns digging steadily all afternoon until they had hollowed out a trench, three feet wide and three feet deep, around the school?s perimeter.
When the trench was done, Haji Ali nodded toward two large stones that had been carved for this purpose, and six men lifted them, shuffled agonizingly toward the trench, and lowered them into the corner of the foundation facing Korphe K2. Then he called for the chogo rabak.
Twaha strode seriously away and returned with a massive ash-colored animal with nobly curving horns. “Usually you have to drag a ram to make it move,” Mortenson says. “But this was the village?s number-one ram. It was so big that it was dragging Twaha, who was doing his best just to hold on as the animal led him to its own execution.”
Twaha halted the rabak over the cornerstone and grasped its horns. Gently, he turned the animal?s head toward Mecca as Sher Takhi chanted the story of Allah asking Abraham to sacrifice his son, before allowing him to substitute a ram after he passed his test of loyalty. In the Koran, the story appears in much the same manner as the covenant of Abraham and Isaac does in the Torah and the Bible. “Watching this scene straight out of the Bible stories I?d learned in Sunday school,” Mortenson says, “I thought how much the different faiths had in common, how you could trace so many of their traditions back to the same root.”
Hussain, an accomplished climbing porter with the build of a Balti-sized sumo wrestler, served as the village executioner. Baltoro porters were paid per twenty-five-kilogram load. Hussain was famous for hauling triple loads on expeditions, never carrying fewer than seventy kilograms, or nearly 150 pounds, at a time. He drew a sixteen-inch knife from its sheath and laid it lightly against the hair bristling on the ram?s throat. Sher Takhi raised his hands, palms up, over the rabak?s head and requested Allah?s permission to take its life. Then he nodded to the man
