The first flickers of autumn have swiped yellow and red across the trees and spiked the air with an alpine wind. Reaching the city from the broiling valley below, we faced a chill that seemed perfectly timed to mark the end of a journey that had begun in Chongqing in temperatures above 90 degrees.

We reached Kangding nearly four weeks after we had set off. We had covered 150 miles on foot and other stretches by bus, boat, truck, and car. We had traversed river gorges, industrial parks, abandoned villages, gleaming universities, desiccated farm plots, and vast cities. We had slept above restaurants, in homes, inns, and hotels.

We had stayed on our original route, but veered away now and then. At one point, we watched roads strangely under construction high up on a mountainside. Someday that road will be at ground-level, after an enormous new man-make lake swamps the valley behind of the many dams that splice China’s rivers. For now, that construction sent us on a detour into other hills, missing the city of Ebian, before returning to our route at Shimian.

Along the way, some faces changed; photographer Wesley Pope is home, editing videos and seeing a back doctor. Zbigniew Bzdak arrived mid-journey and never looked back. Our friend and guide Zhang Xiaoguang reached our destination and is next headed to Shanghai to oversee an adventure race. I will report for a few days in Sichuan's capital, Chengdu, before returning home to Beijing.

We are sincerely grateful to all of you who have joined us in print and online. We received questions and comments from around the world, and we were delighted to answer as many as we could. Please stay tuned for our final story - - in the newspaper and here - - in the weeks ahead.

Julie in Illinois asks: “What is the Chinese government doing to address the growing gap between the rich and poor? Does this cause conflict among the people?”

The government has cut an ancient agricultural tax for farmers and instituted rural loan-and-aid programs in the hope of curbing the widening gap between rich and poor. But what keeps the leaders up at night is the fact that the gap keeps widening. The latest news, in fact, came during our trip: the average urbanite in 2006 took home 3.28 times the income of rural counterparts, up from 3.22 in 2005 and 3.21 in 2004. There sparks a range of conflicts, but they don’t usually fixate explicitly on the gap; the cases usually revolve around related issues, such as peasants whose lands are taken for new building construction.

Lauren asks: “With the one child policy, what happens if you have twins?”

No penalties that I know of. Fate is a reasonable excuse, I suppose.

Konrad asks: “Are the Chinese concerned about terrorism like the United States?”

Yes, particularly in advance of next year’s Olympic Games in Beijing. Compared to the U.S., however, China is rarely mentioned in publicly released Jihadist propaganda, so the threat is related more to the large public gathering than to China-specific factors. China officially considers its leading terrorist threat to be Uighur-minority separatists, who demand independence for China’s far western Xinjiang province. In 2001, China lobbied the U.S. to classify a militant Uighur organization, the East Turkestan Islamic Movement, as a terrorist organization. But independent analysts disagree over whether the group - - which had been legal in the U.S. before that - - is a terrorist organiation.

Taylor Ware in Massachusetts asks: “How does China deal with issues of Alcoholism?  And what is the drinking age there?”

China has no law against selling alcohol to minors, just a “guideline” that imposes fines on vendors for doing so. In practice, stores sell to young people anyway, but that’s partly because it is not as big a deal as it is in American youth culture. Studies show an uptick in underage drinking in recent years, but it’s not the kind of fevered booze-fest that it so common among American teenagers. It’s comparable to what everyone always says about Europe, where the lack of mystery surrounding alcohol makes it an unappealing tool for teenage rebellion.

A half-dozen questioners, including Brenda Yuen from Kailua, Hawaii, have asked: what kind of food is common in China’s interior, and what you have been eating?

Officially, China has eight styles of regional cuisine, but within them the diversity is enormous. Sichuan province (a.k.a. “Szechwan” in strip-malls and restaurant signs around the world) is known for its atomically spicy peppers and mouth-numbing peppercorns. And, indeed, we haven’t gone more than a day without being undone by some simple-looking pepper, perched in a bowl of noodles or a plate of innocent greens. It hurts so good. That said, we’ve been eating simple dishes: lots of diced cucumber with hot oil and garlic, some stir-fried eggs and tomato, a shredded potato now and then, and mountains of noodles. We have generally avoided meat and exotic organs; poor areas have frequent power outages, and, for this trip, we had to prioritize longevity over culinary adventure.

Kelly McKee, a teacher in Illinois asks: “Do [ethnic minorities] participate in the migration process?  Are there incentives offered by the govt. for minorities to migrate that Han Chinese might not receive?”

We had hoped to spend more time among the Yi-minority communities of central Sichuan, but some road closures forced us to detour around the areas. But in Kangding, on the edge of traditional Tibetan lands, we’ve had a brief, and somewhat surprising introduction to Tibetan migration patterns. In one town, we expected to find all the young people off seeking work, as they do in towns across China. But here, in the Tibetan Ganzi Prefecture, young people told us they prefer to stay at home in their own areas, rather than travel east to find work. Moreover, the economics support it: because they live in relatively remote areas at high altitude, things are bit more expensive, and wages are a bit higher, they say. And with less job-competition than in the manufacturing centers on the coasts, they say they stand to make more money in some part of the Tibetan areas than they could elsewhere. That is certainly an exception to the national trend, but an interesting one.

Vanessa asks: “Do you come across minority villages (not those designed as tourist bus stopovers!) vs. Han Chinese towns, or are the ethnic groups largely interwoven? And how are you managing with the language? I remember having trouble understanding the Sichuan-accented putonghua 20 years ago, and had zero success outside the cities, where local dialects prevailed.”

We have been surprised not to encounter more ethnic minority villages. Granted, traveling on foot means we don’t cover much ground geographically, so we don’t have a very broad sample. But in Kangding, the balance is clearly shifting toward an ethnic-Han atmosphere. The Tibetan features of the city seem increasingly confined to tourist-oriented sections. As for the language, Sichuan dialect has, indeed, confounded me. Any confidence that I developed studying Chinese for several years, and now living in Beijing, has been (rightly) assaulted by this reminder of how broad China’s linguistic palette really is. Lucky for us, Zhang Xiaoguang is a language wiz; he can talk to anybody.

On a related now, Michael in Illinois asks: “I wonder how did Evan pick up Chinese in such a short time, or did he learn the language in college? Is it difficult to learn?  Many schools in Illinois have started to teach Chinese. I would be interested in knowing Evan's view whether we should let our kids learn Chinese.”

Learning Chinese is exhausting, difficult - - and enormously useful. I studied in college and in China, and, like a lot of friends in Beijing, I still don’t speak at the level I hope to someday. When I am in the U.S., I am struck by how many parents ask if their children should be studying Chinese. My own feeling is that it can only help; the exercise of learning another language is a cultural experience in itself, and we have never had more reason to be acquainted with China than we do today. That said, only a fraction of the kids studying Chinese in U.S. classrooms today will ever achieve useable fluency (not to mention, China is learning English faster than we are learning Chinese). Expect to study for 3 to 5 school-years to achieve practical fluency, and more than that for technical needs. The U.S. State Department ranks Mandarin on its “super critical need” list of languages, because it has a shortage of good Chinese speakers.

Most of Yu Fuqiang's assets fit on the small plastic sheet he spreads on the sidewalk.

But in a country changing so fast that one year rarely resembles the last, the 72-year-old's most valuable resource is something intangible, something that people are willing to pay for: a peek at the future.He is a fortune teller who works in an alley in Xinmin, a dirt-road town hugging the Min River in southwest China. A business card displayed at his feet lists his services: "Selection of Baby Names, Feng Shui Consultation, Fortune-Telling, Conflict Resolution, Marriage and Relationship Counseling."

He also removes moles and freckles, which can alter a person's fortune, he explains.

"Sit, sit," Yu said, appraising me through glasses perched on the end of his nose.

Traditional fortune tellers thrive in today's China, seemingly at odds with a nation intoxicated by modernization. But their role is something more than mystical. They serve as part management consultant, part couples counselor and part shrink. In a country addled by new pressures and choices -- to find a better job, a better mate, a better you -- many seek advice from those they can afford, even on the sidewalk.

They can be found in cities as well, ministering to office workers on the streets of Beijing. Political wags like to whisper that high-ranking Communist Party officials turn to fortune tellers to help divine the party's inner dealings.

"When were you born?" Yu asked me, using the year, month, day and hour of my birth to deduce my destiny. He picked up a yellowed volume at his feet and hunted through pages.

China has an uneasy relationship with its fortune tellers. For years, the Communist Party railed against "superstitions" as a sign of backwardness. Still, Yu, who inherited his craft from his uncle, has practiced for 50 years, except during the Cultural Revolution when Red Guard zealots forced him to stop.

"Chinese Scientists are Against Fortune Telling," declared a headline in the state-run Xinhua news agency a decade ago. The story, which cited a survey indicating that more than 1 in 3 Chinese people believed in fortune telling, up 7 percent from three years earlier, concluded with the warning that "those who make money by telling fortunes should be punished according to the law."

The crackdown, if there was one, didn't take.

"Your year is an earth year," Yu said, explaining which of the basic elements are associated with my birth date. "Your month is wood, your day is metal and your hour is also metal."

"You have good luck," he added. "You will make money. You have a good combination of elements."

I was beginning to see why so many Chinese couples went to so much trouble to plan the year of a child's birth. In 2007, for instance, Chinese pregnant mothers have stampeded to delivery rooms, after calculating their due dates to fall within what astrologers call the auspicious "year of the golden pig."

But dissident astrologers later came forward to warn that 2007 is, in fact, the "year of the fire pig," suggesting, instead, an increase in natural disasters and violence worldwide.

We had attracted a small crowd. Kong Youqun, 40, paused and offered an endorsement.

"He did it for me. Very accurate," she said. "My son was working far away, so I came out here to ask about him, find out when he would come back. He said your son will call on you. And, like that, in winter, my son came back."

Of his own fortune, Yu was not as sanguine. He is old now, he said. He just gets by. And his birth date includes conflicts, he said. There are some questions he cannot answer, like why his sons, who have moved away to find work, no longer visit him.

For another $1.25, Yu set about predicting the coming year of my life. He picked up a metal tin holding 64 tiny scrolls and advised me to choose four of them, one for each season. He unrolled each scroll, and things began well: "Strong luck in finding money," he said of the coming summer, adding something positive about the spring.

But when he reached the autumn scroll, he frowned.

"You will fall into a trap and drink your own bitter tears," he said. "It will be easy to get involved, but hard to pull out of it. You will encounter difficulties and criticize yourself. Your problem is related to words that will be spoken."

Wait, that's it? I said, sounding more frantic than I wish I had. Zhang Xiaoguang, our guide, who had been translating our session, shrugged. "It's not clear who will speak the words that cause the problem -- you or someone else."

So much for the good news. As we packed up, Yu offered some parting advice that helped me understand why he has survived 50 years in his tiny town. "You have many things on your mind," he said. "As time goes on, you will have more perspective. So go ahead and live your life. You will be at peace."

We thanked him and left. For a while, I kept my mouth shut.

After some long days on the road, and some lousy Internet connections, we're back online in earnest tonight - - and catching up on your questions. Our thanks, as always, for posing them.

Justin in Illinois asks: "What do people living in the interior think about the current government?"

The meaning of Communism and Socialism has changed so much in recent decades that Chinese people no longer know what to think. The principles that brought the party to power - - enforced equality, collective ownership, national self-reliance, the rule of the people - - have been all but abandoned. And the evidence is everywhere. But what replaced it is not yet clear. China is, at once, the world’s largest communist country and one of the world’s most fervent capitalist economies. Despite the confusion, the Communist Party retains control of a one-party state. So China is suspended in a kind of purgatory between its Socialist roots and whatever system it will become.

Lauren asks: “You focused a bit on how China’s industry is impacting the environment, but I would love to learn more about exactly how damaging the pollution is today.  How much do the Chinese pollute the environment compared to the US?”

All developed countries have polluted their own land, water, and air in the course of building their economies. The U.S. did it; Great Britain did it. And, indeed, China is doing it now. The difference is that China is so much larger than the other two examples  - - and its economic rise is so fast - - that its impact on its own land and the rest of the world is more dramatic. 

China is said to have 16 of the world’s 20 most polluted cities. China’s ministry of health blames pollution for making cancer the leading cause of death nationwide. The number of people who don’t have access to clean drinking water is about 500 million - - nearly twice the population of the U.S. Those problems aside, China is also beginning to make serious commitments to improving its environment. The government is embarking on efforts to curb air pollution and protect water supplies. Thirty years into free market reforms, top leaders have recognized something that the U.S., during its own industrial revolution, took far longer to recognize: growth at all costs is not a long-term strategy. Indeed, if unchecked, it will ultimately limit China’s potential.

Matt asks: “Do people have access to the Internet in the interior?  If so, is it heavily restricted by the government?”

The Internet is available - - to some degree - - in tiny towns all over China. That doesn’t mean everyone uses it; usually, it is kids who want to play games. But the change is historic, in terms of the information and awareness it introduces into previously closed areas. China's ranks of 130 million Web users have grown nearly 20 percent from a year ago. There are now about 16 million bloggers, up from zero five years ago, producing the same range of valuable or worthless material that bloggers generate in the U.S.. Instant messaging services, such as QQ and MSN, have about 100 million users. At the current rate, China could have 400 million web users within 10 years, so government censors face a daunting challenge to keep pace. So far, Chinese authorities have enlisted an estimated 30,000 web watchers, who troll the Internet for sensitive websites and chat postings to take down. But really, that work has barely begun: 92 percent of China's population has yet to go online.

Xiao Zezhen has helped drape neon over the once-sleepy river town of Luzhou. She runs one of the first big Karaoke clubs, with 30 private rooms and a staff of more than 70. Like much of East Asia, China is deliriously fond of Karaoke, thriving in clubs that range from benign to seedy. Walking through her club on a recent night, she warned against taking photos of patrons who didn’t want to be immortalized out on the town. The door of one room swung open and a group of young women poured out, laughing and yelling, with cake-icing smeared on their faces. Xiao didn’t even break stride.

Xiao Zezhen, in her own words:

Growing up, we had no such thing as entertainment. We were all poor, and this was a remote place. If you left town, it was all poor places in every direction. So we entertained ourselves with things like [Chinese hacky sack]. We played with sandbags. We played with mud.

There were no bridges. You took boats everywhere. And you used [state] coupons to obtain everything. If you wanted to eat meat, you had to wait for guests or relatives to visit. If I had a dress and I grew, then I had to stitch an extension on to the bottom.

I was the youngest of 10 children, only 5 of whom survived. My father died when I was six. My mother raised us. She made only 20 Yuan a week. It was in the 70s, and that was normal. She sold soy sauce and vinegar in a shop. She never asked for help. She died this year at the age of 90. She was always positive and hopeful about her kids. But whenever we had any trouble, she would say, ‘It’s not as difficult as when I was young.’”

In the past, salaries were so small, and I thought, how can I do anything different? Then the reforms began, and I quit my job, but I didn’t dare to tell my parents, that I had ‘shattered the iron rice bowl.’ And, besides, the service business was looked down upon.

At the time, my neighbors could not imagine that I was breaking the iron rice bowl. But it was the beginning of my new life. I became one of the city’s first people to make 10,000 Yuan.

It took lots of guts to quit my job. I was administrative staff in a leather factory. And it was such a good job, why would I quit? Because everyone was poor! The factory had a lot of pig skin, and when you convert it into leather, there is a lot of fat left over. And the employees were allowed to bring the fat home and cook it, 5kg of fat each month. It made you very popular in the neighborhood.

John Griffin asks, “How bad is the pollution in the towns and cities you are visiting?”

Pollution levels vary, depending on the local industry. In some places, such as the city of Qianwei, the air is thick with the kind of heavy smog we would expect in a big Chinese city. But in other places not far away, we’ve encountered terrific clear skies. This is an utterly unscientific sample, but the air has been cleaner than I expected. Living in Beijing, a northern city, I’m accustomed to the rust-belt haze that hangs over the city. But being here in the South provides a sense of what Beijing could be if it is able to clean up its act before the 2008 Olympic Games. Water pollution is a separate issue, and we’ve seen things ranging from crystal-clear stream to putrid stagnant pools. We’ll be writing about that issue in more detail soon.

Scott asks, “I know that there was a large Jewish community in Shanghai around the time of WWII, and I read, a year ago, that they are saving tourist attractions there to attract Jewish tours. But are there any Jews in the interior of China?”

A few. China has ancient communities of Jews, the best-known of which are in Kaifeng.in Henan Province, though, of course, the numbers are small. China also sheltered as many as 30,000 Jewish refugees during World War II, there are only roughly 3,000 Jews living in China today, rabbis say. Incidentally, China has also become a major new player in the global Kosher-food trade, and visiting rabbis can sometimes be found in tiny cities, inspecting factories to ensure they meet Jewish dietary standards. The rabbis and their clients are often confused by each other, but nevertheless intent on cooperation.

"When your shoes fall apart, that's a sign you should stop," declared one well-meaning man, after racking his brain for some advice to dispense.

When we ask someone for walking directions to another town, they most often point us to the nearest bus stop. Sometimes we take the advice and get on the bus. More often, we keep moving until we meet someone else to ask.

Walking, it turns out, is a sublime way to get to know people in China. They're used to meeting strangers on the road. Many here understand what it feels like to walk a long way. And if they can get past the inefficiency of the enterprise, they appreciate the idea of trying to catch up with China's breakneck change by downshifting to  3 miles an hour.

After all, a good stroll is a "life in miniature," concludes author Rebecca Solnit  in "Wanderlust,"  her definitive history of walking and its literature. "The most obvious and obscure thing in the world, this walking that wanders so readily into religion, philosophy, landscape, urban policy, anatomy, allegory, and heartbreak."

Walking might not be in vogue in today's China, a nation on pace to have more cars than the U.S. in 20 years, but walking has quite a history here. Valuing the road over the goal was a Taoist goal in itself. The 8th  Century Chinese poet Li Bai,  raised in what is now Sichuan Province,  celebrated the delight of a failed walk in "On Visiting a Taoist Master in the Tai-T'ien Mountains and Not Finding Him."

But  modern-day  China  can  make such treks difficult. In the late 1970s, two avant-garde performance artists, Marina Abramovic and Ulay,  planned a "Great Wall Walk," in which they would begin from opposite sides of the wall, walk more than 1,000 miles each and reunite in the middle. But the bureaucratic and practical ordeal of organizing the trip took many years; in 1988,  they finally began, met in the middle, and broke up.

Our ambitions are not so grand. We are content to fall in step with others heading our way.

Mr. Chen, on the afternoon we met, was walking and riding his bike 18 miles round trip from his farm to the town of Nanxi.  The 60-year-old was on a mission to find out how he might repair his broken television. He walked, like most people his age, in well-worn military-issue green canvas shoes. He carried a glass jar of tea in a homemade cup  holder on the crossbar. 

"What are you? Russian? English?" he asked, pushing his bike. "I don't speak those languages."

He didn't think twice about traveling 18 miles  to ask a question. He didn't like it or dislike it. He preferred to spend the walk asking about how much items would cost him in the U.S.--a house, a car, our camera, his bike, a cup of tea. Then, he moved on to other subjects: work, kids, politics.

"Do they have corrupt officials in your country  too?" he asked.

He waved off a request for the rest of his name, but, before heading off on his branch of the road, he added: "You should really take a bus."

For all that we can see from the road in China, there is a lot that we cannot see. We miss what's behind the trees, the cover-ups, the darker side of things--the ingredients that so often drive a reporting trip.

Yet, we also see things that we would miss, and we meet people we usually would not. Now and then, it seems, it's a trade-off worth taking.

欧逸文

芝加哥论坛报驻华记者

翻译：卢静娴

重庆 –一只老鼠无精打采地从一家小旅馆的床底爬过。这里一个铺位一晚2块钱。墙顶到处是蜘蛛网和电线。怀着改变生活的美好梦想，很多人从乡下来到城市，住在这个地下三层小旅馆里。

正如移民曾改变了美国的中心地带，这些移民也深刻改变着中国。重庆的城市化是一场全国性的考验。重庆经常被喻为19世纪的芝加哥。在马克吐温眼里，芝加哥总是充满了创新，不断将不可能变为可能。

联合国预测明年全球城市人口将首次超过农村人口，作为全球变化的一部分，中国大规模的人口迁移影响将是世界性的，从疾病流行到海产品价格。

城市象磁铁一样吸引着每个中国人，不仅包括象姜太平这样的农民，也包括陶然居老板娘严琦，她把一个街头小铺发展成一个全国连锁的餐饮企业，员工多达17000人。“这将是五星级酒店房间，每个房间都会有一个私人花园，”严琦领着我们参观正在重庆闹市区建设的一个豪华饭店。一个身着象牙白制服的员工跟随其后，替她拿着Fendi钱包。当严琦找不到Land rover的车钥匙时，他飞奔去寻找。

姜太平、严琦和其他成千上万农民被同样的直觉所激励，他们都希望追求更好的东西，一辆更好的车，吃上更好的饭，受更好的教育，追求更高的社会地位。

张天宝是农民的儿子，现在是重庆大厦 (Chongqing Mansion)的大堂经理。“这个沙发要9万多块钱…这个钟是香港买的，花了13万多。这面墙全部是大理石。”说着他又拿起餐厅硕大的菜单，认真地说，“这是重庆最大的菜单，重6.5公斤。”

虽然超大城市还仅露雏形，重庆的雄心随处可见。10年前这个城市还不出名，为人所知的事实可能就是二战期间史蒂威尔将军的基地所在地。不久以前，市中心的亮点也不过就是大约八层楼高的解放碑，它是为纪念抗日战争胜利所建。

今天一座座新的摩天大厦拔地而起，其中一座模仿纽约的克莱斯勒大厦。长江和嘉陵江上航船往来如织。在过去五年，重庆就新建了八座大桥、八条高速公路和八条铁路线。市政规划官员声称，重庆在基础设施上的投入平均每个月高达10亿美元，这样的建设速度将持续10年。

重庆已经是全世界最大的城市之一，人口总数为3100万，加上郊县面积相当于缅因州。不过城区的面积还在扩大，今后十年重庆将吸收500万外来者，相当于每年都有华盛顿那么多人口搬入重庆市。

学者James Kynge认为，重庆城市化的速度是芝加哥19世纪扩张速度的8倍，而当时芝加哥是全世界增长最快的城市。

重庆扩张的原因显而易见，市区居民平均年收入可以达到1470美元，几乎是郊县居民的四倍，而且差距还在扩大。

但是生活水平的提高毫无疑问也是有代价的。重庆市的环保人士吴登明介绍说，“这里是清水溪。”但桥下却是一条污浊不堪的沟渠。各种废弃物给重庆带来沉重的负担，水处理设施超负荷运转，每天将大量污泥排泄到江河。在重庆，长期见不到太阳，整个城市笼罩在烟雾中，即使以中国的标准来看，污染也很严重。

吴登明说，一组新的管道将在年底投入使用，提高水处理能力，届时清水溪可能会还以原貌。城市化将如何影响中国及中国以外的地区，全球环境专家正密切关注着中国的中心区域。

设计公司American SinoTech首席执行官Rob Watson表示，中国农村在变，全世界都跟着变。他的公司为重庆市政府在节能措施上提供建议。“当一个农民搬到城市，他消费的资源是住在农村时的三倍。随着财富的增加，比如看上等离子电视，这个倍数还要提高。”

中国城市化带来的压力并不仅仅在土地上，中国比任何时候都更繁荣，充满都市气息，但贫富之间的差距已经超过美国，而接近拉美国家的那种警戒水平。随着城市的扩大，贫困人口会越来越贫困。

重庆市历史学家王康说，农民占中国全部人口的80%，但只拥有15%的财富。“实际上存在着两个社会，两个学校系统，两个医疗系统。这两个社会之间的矛盾是中国最大的风险。”

如果这两个社会之间、城乡之间、过去和现在之间有某种连接的话，上文提到的那个肮脏的小旅馆或许就是。

这里的房间空气浑浊，走廊尽头是个小楼梯，顶多象轮船悬梯一样大。住宿客人来自四面八方，都希望能在这里挣上四五倍的收入。大部分时候，100张床位全部客满。

他们在日落后陆续回来，有些人倒在房间里，在昏暗的灯光下打盹。很多人挤在电视房里，那是唯一光线明亮的地方。空气里充满了汗味和辣椒油。一些人赤膊打牌赌点钱。

这些人就是重庆有名的棒棒军，因为他们随身携带着竹棒，可以用来背东西挣钱。每个人都还记得他们背过的最重的东西，比如姜太平，曾背过重达 300磅 的猪蹄。

这些人并不是初次进城的年轻人，他们已经为人父，一些已经是祖父，却不太有手艺。他们自称，退休又太早，可再学新技能又太迟。

他们谈起钱来就像狂热的信徒谈起上帝。“只要多挣钱我什么都愿意干。”42岁的农民张小平说, 他两鬓稀薄，却有着肌肉发达的前臂。“我想做生意，但我哪有钱开始呢？”

他们的故事几乎都是一样的。自己辛苦的工作，这样儿女就不必如此劳作。他们骄傲地谈着孩子的英语。大部分人的孩子仍在农村，妻子在家乡种地，或也在远方打工。

小旅馆是一位50开外身材瘦削的人开的，谈起这些移民工他说，“一人打工，全家脱贫，全家打工，迈进小康。”

姜太平是重庆移民大军中的一员。他身材结实，是两个孩子的父亲。每天日落后，他就回到这个栖身之地。“回家了。”他说着并放下竹棒。这是他吃饭的家伙，每天靠这个工具帮人背东西能挣100来块钱。

虽然条件简陋，这个寄宿之地却也反映了中国社会一个显著的变化。30多年的改革把农民从土地上解放出来，他们获得了前所未有的自由。“毛禁止棒棒军干活。他可不让人象这样随意流动。”55岁的民工杜全生说，“你只能呆在农村种地，现在你愿去哪就去哪。”

午夜时分，打牌的人已经四散。房间里响起低沉的鼾声。灯光彻夜都亮着，这是房东用来保证安全的一种措施。

凌晨时分，棒棒军们又起来了。露天的盥洗室象一条无言的生产线，牙刷杯放在左边，脸盆在右边，很安静但也秩序井然。

早晨7：30, 寄宿房已经空无一人。姜太平从床边拿起他的竹棒，沿着楼梯朝楼外的光明走去。

People relied on narrow red-clay footpaths that run between the homes and fields. The nearest asphalt was a few miles out of sight.

Then, three years ago, the local government built a single-lane dirt road to connect the villages around here, east of the city of Yibin in southwestern China. Before long, people got the idea of putting an umbrella and a counter in front of their homes and selling whatever refreshments they had in back. They were stores now.

“Name? We don’t really have a name. You can call this the Feng Bo Bridge Tea House,” said Zeng Qijun, 35, looking satisfied with his choice.

His tea house is a three-sided barn with some square tables and narrow benches. With the thermometer still above 80 into the late afternoon one recent day, Zeng and others sought shade inside. Things have changed a bit since the road came, he said. It’s easier to get here - - and easier to leave. It was never hard to make it to the bus station, and on to another life, but the road makes it feel somehow crazy not to try.

“Seventy percent of the people in town have gone to the cities to find work,” said Zeng, who returned recently from a factory job in the East for a week of vacation. “Only the old folks and the children are left behind.”

A plume of dust kicked up by a motorcycle appeared on the other side of a small stone bridge. The bike buzzed over to the tea-house front door, two passengers seated behind the driver.

They looked different than the customers. They had something of the city about them. Zeng popped up from his chair in the tea house and let out a hoot.

“Whoa. Who is this?” he said with a laugh, and bounded over to a man in a green tee-shirt and designer jeans, climbing off the back of the motorcycle. The new arrival smiled. He grabbed Zeng’s bicep in mock-inspection and said, “You’ve put on muscle.”

“No way, I’m skinnier,” Zeng said with a mock-frown. He turned to no one in particular and announced, “We haven’t seen each other in a long time.”

The new arrival was 25-year-old Huang Changgui. He grew up here. This was his first time home since he left for work three years ago. Behind him, a young woman in brightly colored sneakers, jeans, and a striped sweater, finished brushing dirt off herself from the motorcycle ride. She was 29-year-old Zhang Shuying. She clutched a blue nylon bag to her chest and smiled nervously toward the group.

A few minutes earlier, they had gotten married. At least, they did on paper. In China, couples need to register their marriage in the village where they are from, not the place where they live. So, everyday in this nation of migrants, some young nervous couple is crisscrossing the countryside to make their life on paper match their life in the world.

It was their big day, so Huang had purchased the good cigarettes. He walked around the group with the pack in hand, offering everyone a fresh Red Pagoda Mountain cigarette. Zhang reached into her nylon bag and pulled out their newly-minted marriage certificates, a pair of matching, official-looking maroon plastic wallet cards. They cost $1.15 for two. In the headshots, they were wearing the same clothes they were wearing now.

Huang made the rounds, greeting everyone in the room, while Zhang took a seat on the side. They had met in the eastern province of Guangdong, she said, where she worked in an office and he once visited on vacation. He had a good job in a circuit-board plant in prosperous Zhejiang Province, so they planned to head back there as soon as she could find a new job. They never considered moving back to his village, she said.

“There are many people here who leave to find work, buy a home, or start a business,” she said. “Only the elderly and the kids stay behind. Everyone has gone to work. We wouldn't come back here”

She scanned the open beams and farm implements stashed around the tea house. She was from around the provincial capital, Chengdu. There was a lot to absorb here. Is this what she pictured her new husband's village would look like?

“This is not what I imagined,” she said. “He told me it was close to the main road.”

When the cigarettes had been smoked, the newlyweds bid farewell and climbed back on to the motorcycle. They plan to have a wedding ceremony a few months from now, in the city. But here in the village, they had more stops to make before dark. They would be leaving again at the crack of dawn, back to the city. They would spend only one night in the village.

YIBIN, China - - Kindergartners in inline skates wobbled along the concrete edge of the  Yangtze.

Well-dressed parents fussed behind them, within sight of but decades away  from the docks and squalor where their forebears toiled.

Today, only the river itself matches the description given a century ago by  Edwin Dingle after he splashed ashore from a wretched boat "stiff and hungry,  and mad with rage."

He was no famous explorer or scientist, just a young Englishman naive  enough to think he could cross half of China on foot, with revolution brewing  and warlords fighting for control of an uncertain  nation. He succeeded.

To retrace 200 miles of his route today is to traverse a landscape roiling  again, as change catapults some into a promising future and maroons others in  enduring hardship.

The social and economic rules imposed by communism have been overturned,  leaving a nation of radical contrasts: upbeat entrepreneurs and embittered  farmers, those who have capitalized on new freedoms, and those who suffer  under persistent corruption.

In the century since Dingle walked here, China has weathered war, upheaval,  political mania and mind-boggling growth. Yet, China in the early 21st Century  faces similar  pressures to those  it confronted 100 years ago: to employ,  control and satisfy the world's largest population.

The parents enjoying a day at the river's edge know they are fortunate;  they can do things because they want to, not because they have to. That power  to choose defines the line between those who have broken free of China's past  and those still struggling to do so.

"My grandmother had 10 children and worked on the docks carrying sacks of  rice," said 32-year-old stay-at-home mom Li Jing. She watched her tiny  daughter, in an oversized red helmet and kneepads, skate effortless curves  across the concrete, and added: "Her life was bitter."

Edwin John Dingle was a 28-year-old journalist working in Singapore in 1909  when he got the urge to see China in as much detail as possible. He resolved  to walk. Friends declared the idea suicidal -- "my last long voyage to a last  long rest," as they put it to him.

He had never visited China. He spoke not a word of the language.  Nevertheless, he planned a route through China's heartland, from the city of  Chongqing to the border with Burma, 1,000 miles to the southwest. He estimated  it would take six months. He did not see home for nearly two years.

Today, the yellowing, leather-bound volume that he published, "Across China  on Foot," is among the only outside accounts of crossing China's interior in  the moments that gave birth to the modern China we know today.

Dressed in a flannel suit and trailed by three porters and an assistant  carrying his typewriter, Dingle discovered a China on the brink of chaos. The  nation of 430 million people was awash in cries of "China for the Chinese," as  popular movements struggled to expel colonial powers and topple the imperial  regime.

He had entered a nation divided by privilege and decayed to the breaking  point. On the road, he passed silk-clad Mandarins riding overhead in sedan  chairs on the shoulders of their countrymen, while the masses faced "the same  life of disease, distress and dirt, of official, social, and moral degradation  as they lived when the Westerner remained still in the primeval forest stage."

Exhausted and limping from blisters, Dingle soon reached the city of  Luzhou, a hardscrabble port on the banks of the Yangtze. What he did not know  was that the city, like others across the region, already was fated for  revolution; two years earlier, Sun Yat-sen, the revolutionary who would become  the father of modern China, had dispatched a trio of agents and bombmakers to  Luzhou to foment insurrection.

Indeed, by 1912, revolutionaries had overthrown the Qing dynasty and  established the Republic of China. But political change alone did little to  rescue China from poverty.

Poor was all that Xiao Zezhen ever expected to be.

"I was the youngest of 10 children, only five of whom survived," said Xiao,  at right, who has lived in Luzhou all of her 50 years.

If China's turbulent 20th Century produced winners and losers, Xiao hit the  jackpot. She was raised by a single mother who earned less than $3 a week  peddling soy sauce and vinegar. Xiao grew up, left home and by the grim  standards of the 1980s, she found a plum job: making leather in a factory  where employees were permitted to gather the discarded scraps of hog fat and  bring them home for dinner.

"It made you very popular in the neighborhood," she recalled.

But free-market fever was spreading, and, by 1990, Xiao saw her opening.  She quit the job that was the envy of her neighbors and took a chance on  running one of the city's first karaoke clubs. Today she is an entertainment  tycoon, clad in designer jeans and a T-shirt with a Warhol-style print.

"At the time, my neighbors could not imagine that I was breaking the 'iron  rice bowl,'" she said of her fateful decision to quit her staid state job.  "But it was the beginning of my new life."

Along Dingle's route lie the stories of a century that convey the breadth  of China's transformation. When he walked, he followed an ancient caravan  route tiled in broad, flat flagstones. The stones are almost gone today,  replaced by vast rivers of asphalt, part of an extensive  road-building spree  that has helped open China's interior to economic growth and migration.

Those roads and the growth they symbolize have also brought new strains.  One village after another is hollowing out, as able-bodied workers seek city  jobs and leave aging parents to care for school-age children. Roads also have  brought urban sprawl and chugging smokestacks, leaving only scattered remnants  of what Dingle marveled was "the never-ending pictures of green and purple and  brown and yellow and gold."

Of course, there is continuity as well. A lone farmer still wades hip-deep  through rice paddies behind a snorting water buffalo that splashes the water  with a fly-swatter tail. Women by the roadside still shuck peanuts by hand for  pennies a bushel, and toddlers still squeal with curious delight at the rare  foreigner who wanders by.

And, of course, Dingle's domain is riven once again by struggles over  justice and leadership.

In the hills over Chongqing, a seething village believes the government has  failed it. Pan Daikuan, a 73-year-old father of six, stooped in the mud and  lifted the end of a narrow white tube. Brown water spat into his hand: the  village drinking water.

"We don't know what the color comes from. We don't know what the effects  are," he said. "But the people no longer feel safe."

The leaders of Huang Sha village say a nearby mining operation has ravaged  their water supply, and nobody seems able to help. The village has sought  compensation from the mine, Tianqing Sihua, for five years, without results.  Two weeks ago, the dispute boiled over.

In a scene repeated with growing frequency across the Chinese countryside,  scores of village men and women marched up the hill to the mining compound to  stop it from working, witnesses say. But security guards and local police  intervened. Four protesters were injured, said organizers. A company official,  in an interview, denied any conflict with the village or any effect on its  water supply. But the village is enraged.

"We have no other options," said Zhou Quanyi, a tall, slim 31-year-old  farmer and former soldier. "We tried the court. It didn't work. The local  government just protects business."

The particular challenge facing China's Communist Party is that angry  farmers like these are not dissidents or rabble-rousers. On the contrary, they  were once true believers. Zhou joined the Communist Party while in the army  and now finds himself in the unexpected position of leading a challenge  against his own government.

"As a party member, I am supposed to walk in front and lead the people," he  said while neighbors crowded into his home to listen. "Many years from now,  when they finish mining, we will have nothing more than a hole in the ground.  What will be left for us?"

The future was very much on Dingle's mind as well when he set off on his journey. In China we shall see arising a Government whose power will be  paramount in the East," he wrote, and he felt compelled to understand that  increasingly powerful country. Someday, he predicted, our lives would be more  entwined with China than ever.

"We shall not see it," he wrote in 1911, "but our children will."