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understand this dialect either, but I catch a word here and there. Z.G. helps me into the back of the cart. Then he throws in our bags and climbs up next to the boy, who, in turn, whips the donkey. On the right, I see men and women working in rice paddies. In the distance, a water buffalo pulls a plow through a water-soaked field. This is such a different world, and for a fleeting moment I wonder if I’ll be able to do this—live in the countryside, learn to work in the fields, even help Z.G.
    It’s about five when the boy reins in the donkey and lets us off the cart. Z.G. straps a couple of satchels to my back and then he does the same to himself. Then we pick up our bags and begin a long, slow hike up a path, over a small hill, and down into a narrow valley, where elm trees provide shade. We pass a hand-painted sign that reads:
    C LEAN UP AFTER YOUR ANIMALS .
B E HARMONIOUS .
R ESPECT THE PEOPLE AND THE LAND .
    We enter the Green Dragon Village Collective. Willow trees blow softly in the wind. A public square—an open area with a single large tree planted in the middle—lies ahead. A young man sits on a rock at the edge of the square, keeping lookout, his elbows on his knees. His feet are bare. His hair is so black that it glints blue in the sun. When he sees us, he jumps up and runs over.
    “Are you Comrade Li?” he asks.
    Z.G. nods. “And this is my daughter.”
    The young man’s face is open. His teeth are white and straight. His shoulders are broad and strong under his cotton shirt. “I am Feng Tao,” he says. “And I’m ready to learn.”
    “It is I who am hoping to learn from you,” Z.G. responds formally.
    Z.G. speaks the same rough country dialect that he used with the boy in the cart, but as I listen to this simple exchange, I begin to pick up the nuances in the tones and pronunciation that make this speech pattern different from the Wu dialect of Shanghai or the more standard Mandarin of the region.
    Tao takes the satchels off my back and guides us into the center of the square to the shade tree, which has fragrant white flowers that look like sweet-pea blossoms. I don’t see a single electric or telephone pole. There are no cars or motor scooters, yet a slight odor of gasoline cuts into the crisp, green-smelling air. Chickens peck at the ground, just as I expected. Tall, thin trees edge a stream to my right. The leaves shimmy in the light breeze. Across the stream, a path leads up a hill dotted by small—tiny—buildings. Those would have to be the real versions of Wang’s Farmhouse. To my left is a high gray wall.
    Tao ushers us along a path paralleling the wall until we come to an elaborate gate with a mirror hanging above a carved frieze. We step through the gate and into a courtyard. Dried pig legs and a string of dried fish hang on the wall—and this is still an exterior wall.
    Tao calls out, “Kumei, come quickly! They’re here.”
    A young woman pushes through a door. She’s about my age and carries a boy of four or so on her hip. Two braids tied with scarlet wool swing on either side of her head. Her cheeks are ruddy. She’s shorter than I am, but her body is far more solid and strong. She’s a pretty girl, except for the raised scars that run down her neck and onto her left shoulder and arm.
    “ Huanying! Huanying! Welcome! Welcome!” she chimes. “I’m Feng Kumei. You’re going to live here with me. Have you eaten?”
    Yes, I’d like a meal, some tea, and a shower, but I don’t have that opportunity, because Tao says, “But everyone’s waiting.”
    “Then please take us directly to where we are to work,” Z.G. responds.
    We leave our bags with our clothes in the courtyard. Kumei puts the little boy down and tells him to go back inside. After he runs off, the four of us troop outside, walk along the wall to the square, and enter an adjacent building with a tiled roof and upturned eaves.
    “This used to be the ancestral temple for the landowner’s family and the rest of