A woman slaps dung on an earthen wall. It will bake hard in the sun. The heat makes her sweat as she works. A tomcat limps by. Dogs dance a ballet in the dust, or spin and skip in play fight. Turkeys fan their feathers, arch scragged necks, and scream to crescendo. A donkey is tethered at a wooden post. Empty panniers lie on the ground, ready for a new load. This road is built into the mountain. Across the valley, goats pick through scrub. The woman stops her work. She glares at the stranger as he walks on the road. He does not meet her gaze. The stranger is tired of attention, and speaks only with his guide, Baimaoba. Baimaoba waves towards the dung. "We burn this. We cook tea, also noodle and momo." "What is that?" "Like dumpling, but must is better." The road turns by another house. Here, all houses are made of earth, and surrounded by high walls. The stranger thinks he hears a familiar song from within the walls. "I can back walk," says Baimaoba. "Look." He twists his body to face the stranger, stepping backwards and keeping pace. He slips into a perfect moonwalk. Sliding through the dirt in fluid rhythm, he stares into the middle distance. "Billy Jean is not my lover," he tells the stranger. read the rest on H.A.L.