It was 11:45a.m.. A bus holding 12 people bumped over a rough earthen road, kicking up the dust flying all over the bus. Overlooking through the window, there were endless bare mountains lying beside the both sides of the dirt road. Clouds hung low in a leaden sky and seemed to devour the minibus crawling across the narrow valley.

Being jolted forth and back constantly made me dizzy and disgusting. We had marched forward on the rugged soil road for nearly three hours and I still had no idea that when we could reach our destination, a small village being surrounded by towering mountains far away from urban districts.

The narrow path wandered sinuously. Our bus continuously jounced up and down on the hillsides and variably-sized shabby homes constructed with mud turned up gradually, dotting themselves here and there on the mountains. Finally, the bus stopped on a platform beside a narrow valley and we got off, with dusty clothes and weary bodies. It was 12:30 p.m.. The weather got better than just now.

It was two years ago. I participated in an experiencing tour organized by the university to several less developed rural areas in the summer vocation. I chose Maguan, a small village bordering Tianshui in the city’s northeastern outskirt on Loess Plateau, with 11 other classmates for a one-day journey.

Now, we were just at the edge of the village. I could not help shivering from head to heel due to the cold. With the elevation of 1500 meters; surrounded by mountains, the temperature here was much lower than that of urban areas.

Although I believed that I had got myself well-prepared to view something different, I got bug-eyed at the first sight of people here. Men and women walked alongside the dirty road, carrying large baskets of straw or heaps of firewood on their backs. Often, their cloths were tattered and torn; all were wrapped up in the dust and silt. Several naughty kids rolled over in the stacks of straw, playing and fighting, with loudly cheerful voice.

The lanes from the entrance snaked through the village; along with it were either small or large homes built with mud, straw or bricks. Often, you could see a donkey or a flock of sheep got tied over a pole and buried their heads in mangers chewing hay.

Led by a university assistant, we were invited to have a dinner with the village head at his home. I felt better when I first saw a middle-aged man wearing a faded but clean suit, who stood at the door welcoming us. His brown eyes were sort of deep and amicable. When he greeted us, his voice was intense. The man lived in a 300-square-foot quadrangle with four family members, his wife, a daughter and two sons. The small yard was filled with piles of wheat straw and hencoops. His wife, mid-forties, with a swarthy face but bright eyes, buried herself among two caldrons, several plates and bowls, preparing the dinner for us.

The food served was big and special, for the village head and his family, which, actually, was a little hard to stomach. Boiled water in the cups was unclear and impure, with little grains of sand. Taking a swig of tea and smacking his lips, the man struck up a conversation with us. He told us that villagers here got up at 5 a.m. every morning. Everyone was busy with farm work, especially in the sowing and harvest seasons. With volatile temperate continental climate, water shortage always perplexed them powerfully. Usually, they had to drill as deep as 100 hundred meters to find a water source to satisfy their daily water demand, let alone irrigation water, which depended totally on God.

“Some of our young and sturdy guys go out for physical works in urban areas because they can earn more money than staying in home and doing farm work,” the head said. His gaze blunted slightly, emitting a sense of sorrow.

After a short break in the afternoon, the man guided us for a rough tour around the village. The weather was much better then. The sky cleared up after black clouds in the morning. We visited the small primary school sitting at one edge of the village, where, kids were having class when we unintentionally presented ourselves at the back of the classroom. A wave of heads spun around to stare at us with a curious expression. The classroom was rather tattered, with old and creaking benches and desks with cracks. Walls built of bricks were mottled.  

In front of the school, there were vast stretches of farm plots. Men and women were working in the fields. The glaring afternoon sunshine fell on their swarthy faces and backs; the sweat fell like beads of rain, running over their foreheads, arms and backs.

At 5:30 p.m., after a whole day visit in this small village, it was time to leave. The head of the village and his wife saw us off at the entrance, cramming our bags with sweet corns - that was the only gift they could gave us.

The span of the day left me witness to an entirely different life from mine and my friends. The images of bare mountains; boundless dust; narrow and twisted earthen path; the village head’s innocent smile and a flash of sorrow; farmers’ dark faces; kids’ bright eyes, began to stalk my every breath, after I got on and was on the way back home.  In hours I had been exposed to a human condition and a landscape that many people would see in their lifetimes. Ultimately, I calmed myself down and began to pray: "God, may you bless everyone in this small village. Amen. "