“I can do it myself!” cried Ms. Fu. “I can do it myself! I can do it myself!”
There were four of us walking together: Luo Xin, Luo Yin, Liu Lifeng, and Liu Kankan. Ms. Fu was embarrassed that we helped load her scooter-cart with firewood. She was collecting the fuel in a dry valley frizzy with brown trees and grass that fed the middle reach of the Yellow River. Tillers were out in their limpet hats preparing the fields for corn. They turned their backs, hoeing furiously, if we came too close. But after we’d walked by, they leaned on their hoes and stared. A new highway was built, but Shaanxi’s hinterland still didn’t see too many outsiders—least of all on foot. The last famous one was Mao. He marched through in ’36 on the way to take Lüliang. But all Ms. Fu wanted was to finish her chore; to go home for a hot glass of tea.