Chapter 342 - Sweet Potato

To reciprocate the support he had received, Shi Niaoren wanted to express his gratitude properly. Not just to the Chemical Department, but to the Industrial and Energy Committee, the Agricultural Committee, the Army and Navy, the Civil Affairs Committee...

Counting on his fingers, the list of departments and individuals deserving thanks grew unwieldy. Showing favoritism would be inappropriate. The ideal solution was a token of friendship distributed to transmigrators across all these organizations.

This presented a challenge. The Ministry of Health specialized in healing the wounded and treating the sick, and as a result, its personnel enjoyed unparalleled esteem throughout the Transmigration Group. Wherever they went, deference followed. Requests were satisfied whenever possible—for the simple reason that medical care was the scarcest resource in this timeline. No one dared claim they would remain forever healthy, never fall ill, never suffer injury, until they had secured their place among the five hundred founding families.

This reverence was a mixture of fear and respect. Shi Niaoren privately disapproved of esteem rooted in "I might need his help someday—better not offend him."

The Ministry of Health was excessively honored at present. From the standpoint of long-term stability, they ought to do something that would earn genuine goodwill.

Shi Niaoren's gaze drifted to the road outside his window. The early summer sun blazed mercilessly, and the newly planted roadside trees were already wilting. Every passerby—whether transmigrator or indigenous worker—wore a straw hat and was drenched in sweat.

Heatstroke prevention and cooling. The thought came immediately. Liu San had proposed compounding several traditional Chinese medicines: Zhuge Marching Powder, Ten Drops Water, and Huoxiang Zhengqi Water. The herbal ingredients for all three were readily available—partially from local pharmacies, partially from their own cultivation. Ethanol was the only complex auxiliary material. And all three were highly effective against common summer ailments.

But medicine production took time. Liu San and his apprentice alone would struggle to compound sufficient quantities. Unlike ordinary factory workers, pharmaceutical workers required both a strong sense of responsibility and at least basic pharmaceutical knowledge. Expansion couldn't happen overnight.

Salt water! The thought struck him suddenly. Salt soda water!

Salt soda water was a labor protection staple—the ideal beverage for manual laborers in summer heat. It prevented heatstroke, promoted cooling, and helped maintain electrolyte balance to avoid dehydration.

But Shi Niaoren immediately realized he didn't have baking soda. Neither did he, nor did the Chemical Department. Baking soda wasn't exotic, but it required soda ash as a precursor. Until the Soda Ash Plant came online, there would be no baking soda. The idea had to be shelved.

Unable to produce soda water, he might at least prioritize physiological saline. With this in mind, Shi Niaoren decided to visit the pharmaceutical factory. He was waiting for He Ping to finalize some administrative arrangements and the "Mongol Doctor" training class—the private nickname they'd given the first physician training program. Through network recruitment, the Ministry of Health had found four or five transmigrators who hoped to avoid manual labor and satisfy peculiar hobbies by studying medicine.

But He Ping failed to appear. Just as Shi Niaoren was growing impatient, a bespectacled man arrived, walking with his legs conspicuously apart. The number "007" was emblazoned on his chest. A closer look revealed Dugu Qiuhun, Director of the East Gate Market Police Station.

"Doctor, could you examine me, please... here." Director Dugu discreetly indicated a particular anatomical region.

Shi Niaoren made careful inquiries, lifted the man's clothing to observe physical signs, and quickly reached his conclusion.

"Chlamydia infection. Nothing serious." He kept his phrasing deliberately vague.

"What's Chlamydia—inflammation?"

"It's... no major problem. An infection." He scribbled a prescription. "Take this to the pharmacy. Have He Pu fill it. Tell Sister Li to administer the injections. You'll be back to full strength in two or three days." He paused, produced a small cardboard box from his desk, and handed it over. "Pay attention to safe practices going forward."

Dugu Qiuhun started. "Yes—understood!"

"It's really nothing serious." Shi Niaoren offered a reassuring smile. "But perhaps limit your contact with indigenous women in future."

"Understood! This won't be a problem, will it?"

"Truly not. Just take care of yourself and keep your injection appointments." Shi Niaoren offered additional reassurances before seeing him out.

If not for Erythromycin, you'd be in real trouble. Shi Niaoren muttered to himself after the man left. He was aware that quite a few transmigrators had been consorting with indigenous women recently. The Executive Committee had originally assumed Ming Dynasty society—bound by feudal ethical codes—would present a closed social atmosphere. As long as everyone refrained from visiting brothels or committing assault, there wouldn't be gender complications. Evidently, those supposedly rigid ethical codes were more theory than practice.

His interest in waiting for He Ping had evaporated. He left a note on his desk explaining several pending matters, then set off for the farm.

Wu Nanhai wasn't in his office. According to his secretary, Chu Qing, "Master is at the Grain Processing Plant, working on sweet potatoes."

"By the river?" Shi Niaoren had never visited that facility, though he knew there was a mill there that processed rice for local residents.

"Just go out this entrance and head south..." Chu Qing's Mandarin bore the distinctive accent of this timeline—Guang-Pu, Cantonese-inflected Mandarin—and showed Wu Nanhai's influence. Shi Niaoren had noticed that not only she, but even Wang Tian, the head long-term laborer, spoke this way.

Since the Agricultural Committee had relocated to Bairen City and established the farm, sweet potatoes had been among the first crops planted.

As a high-yielding staple, sweet potato possessed extraordinary virtues: wide adaptability, strong stress resistance, drought and barrenness tolerance, minimal pest and disease concerns. Beyond serving as grain rations and livestock feed or providing starch, even its leaves made excellent green fodder—virtually nothing was wasted. Under favorable water and fertilizer conditions, typical yields ranged from three to five thousand kilograms per mu, with exceptional cases reaching 7,500 kilograms. Compared to hybrid rice—which required fresh seeds every generation—sweet potato was arguably the more significant "Transmigration Artifact."

Yet in this timeline, sweet potatoes hardly qualified as artifacts. They were nothing new here. Since the Wanli era, they had been introduced from the Philippines to China, with Guangdong hosting the earliest plantings. Qiongzhou, just across the strait, had adopted cultivation as well. During their excursions into the countryside, the transmigrators had frequently encountered sweet potato fields.

Before planting began, Wu Nanhai had consulted Wang Tian—the closest thing they had to an agricultural expert—about Lingao's sweet potato cultivation. Wang Tian's report was informative: "Sweet potatoes have been grown here for seven or eight years. The first seeds came from Qiongshan. Quite a few people plant them now. The advantage is they're trouble-free—just plant and forget. Harvest the tubers for human consumption or pig feed. Growth period is short; Lingao can harvest twice a year. They're an excellent supplementary grain..." He paused. "But they don't store well. The local climate is humid, and sweet potatoes rot easily. Growers here don't know proper cellar storage techniques. Some try slicing and drying them, but even dried slices mold during the rainy season."

"The harvest is plentiful, and they require little labor or fertilizer. One mu can yield a thousand jin at best. But since they can't be stored, small households gain nothing from planting too much. Only large and middling grain households with many laborers and livestock bother growing significant amounts."

Wang Tian warmed to his subject: "Master Wu! With so many short- and long-term workers now employed across Bairen and Bopu, you could really plant more sweet potatoes. Giving the laborers rice at every meal is wasteful. Half rice, half dried sweet potato shreds—with a bit extra in quantity, plus some salted vegetables and fish—makes a perfectly adequate heavy-labor ration. Saves considerable grain." He proceeded to present, as if revealing treasures, the cost-saving tricks he had learned while serving as a "head worker" for landlords.

A complex expression crossed Wu Nanhai's face. On one reading, Wang Tian was demonstrating "loyal service to the master." On another, he was behaving like a collaborator—a hanjian. Wu Nanhai recalled people saying that foreigners arriving in China had originally been decent folk, only to be corrupted by fawning native traitors. Though biased, the observation wasn't without foundation.

"We'll discuss that later," Wu Nanhai deflected, unwilling to commit.

Seeing Wu Nanhai's uncertain expression, Wang Tian fell silent, unsure where he had misspoken.

Wu Nanhai considered for a moment, then asked, "You said one mu yields only a thousand jin?" He found this implausible. During his rural internship, he had seen farmers harvest two to three thousand jin per mu with minimal effort.

"Only the first year produces over two thousand jin," Wang Tian explained. "Then yields decline year after year. They can drop to just eight or nine hundred jin."

"Impossible..."

Fa Shilu nodded and offered a single word: "Virus infection."

"Of course—how did I forget?" Wu Nanhai felt chagrined. This was basic agricultural knowledge.

Sweet potatoes—along with other tuber crops like potatoes—relied on asexual reproduction. Over time, they accumulated infections from multiple viruses contracted during growth and storage. These viruses degraded varietal characteristics, deteriorated quality, and dramatically reduced yields—by thirty to seventy percent.

During the autumn harvest of 1957, Hongtong County in Shanxi had set the national record for sweet potato yields: 5,510 jin per mu at Mamuxiang Fenming Agricultural Cooperative.

By the twenty-first century, five thousand jin per mu was unremarkable. New high-yield virus-free varieties, carefully cultivated, could exceed ten thousand jin in their first year. But in 1957, that figure had been national champion—and even then, likely somewhat exaggerated. Without specialized technical support, sweet potato yields remained moderate.

To date, no highly virus-resistant sweet potato varieties existed, nor were there effective treatments to prevent or control viral infections. Only virus-free cultivation technology could address the problem and improve both yields and quality.

Modern farmers had no need to save seeds or breed their own stock—professional seed companies handled all of that. During Wu Nanhai's rural internship, everything he had seen, planted, and discussed involved virus-free seedlings. He had only needed to consider soil and climate matching; the virus issue had never crossed his mind.

Even virus-free sweet potatoes would become reinfected and degrade after three or four years of planting. Virus removal was a specialized high-technology process. Fa Shilu had considered multiple approaches to solving this problem in this timeline and had brought a complete laboratory setup specifically for the purpose.

The transmigrators' first batch of high-yield virus-free sweet potatoes had been planted in December 1628. In regions with distinct seasons, sweet potatoes were typically nursed in February, transplanted in April, and harvested in August. Lingao's advantage was year-round temperatures above 18°C, permitting planting in any season. To prevent seedling loss, key Agricultural Committee members—Fa Shilu, Wu Nanhai, and others—handled planting personally, without a single indigenous worker involved. Under careful management, they welcomed their harvest at the end of April this year. The ten mu of experimental sweet potatoes yielded an excellent 4,000 kilograms per mu—though lack of chemical fertilizer had prevented the variety from reaching its full potential. Harvesting required mobilizing Army and Navy soldiers along with students to assist.

The farm's sweet potato bumper harvest—over 8,000 jin per mu—shocked not only Wang Tian but every employee on the farm. Word spread rapidly, and many people wanted to see what "Australian sweet potatoes" looked like. Wu Nanhai deployed Army soldiers to guard the perimeter, forbidding outsiders from entering until the harvest was complete.

Eighty thousand jin of sweet potatoes was not extraordinary by ancient standards. Rural areas commonly used cellar storage for gradual consumption. But Lingao's weather would soon descend into the rainy season after April and May, and cellar storage carried substantial mold and rot risks. Furthermore, the Transmigration Group's various industries had urgent needs for sweet potato's primary product: starch. Ultimately, Wu Nanhai decided that, aside from a portion reserved for seed promotion, all remaining sweet potatoes would be transported to the grain processing plant for conversion into finished products.

Sweet potatoes yielded many products: vermicelli, glass noodles, maltose, glucose, dextrin, yellow wine, alcohol, soy sauce... The variations all derived from the same source—primarily starch derivatives. Wu Nanhai therefore determined that sweet potato processing would focus on manufacturing starch, with byproducts utilizing the waste residue and materials generated during starch production.

The Ministry of Light Industry also showed keen interest in the sweet potato harvest. Mo Xiaoan reported daily, constantly proposing new products. Unexpectedly, his most enthusiastic proposal wasn't for something "modern" like glucose or dextrin or instant rice noodles—but dried sweet potatoes. Specifically: Liancheng Red Heart Dried Sweet Potato Strips, one of Fujian's famous Eight Dried Foods.

"This product sells very well." When Shi Niaoren arrived at the bamboo shed that served as the food factory, Mo Xiaoan was in full flow: "It was an export product back in our time. Even now, dried sweet potato strips remain popular snacks. In this timeline, sweet potatoes are still somewhat exotic. We could absolutely target the premium market..."

"I'm not convinced." Wu Nanhai was skeptical of the dried sweet potato plan. "Local people in this timeline rarely eat snacks. Only the wealthy and idle indulge in such things."

"If there's no local market in Lingao, we can export to Guangzhou."