 When I lived here, the government forced collective farmers to grow silkworms, but payments were often less than the meagre sum originally promised. All were not in money, but whatever there was a surplus of, whether it was crates of vodka or dried beans. Now it's better than before, says Bibi Han, but I don't know if they realise how hard we work. For this month, all we do is feed the worms. I return the following week and tap on the front door before remembering I'm not meant to make noise. A boy lets me through the garage, miming to be quiet.