Chapter 372 - Meitai Yang
In actual practice, chicks and feed provided by the Heaven and Earth Society could be obtained on credit, deducted when products were uniformly purchased.
Ye Yuming said: "This way, we can massively increase chicken and duck stocks and egg supply without expanding the farm itself. This greatly benefits food supply—essentially mobilizing the whole county to raise chickens for us."
"Not a bad idea. If successful, it could permanently solve the egg problem." Wu Nanhai was quite interested. Egg supply had always been a headache. Chickens, ducks, and turkeys brought from the other time-space had adapted to local conditions and were laying normally. But in completely free-range conditions without special feed, Wu Nanhai's farm produced genuinely "green" eggs—in pathetically small quantities. Many fertilized eggs had to be reserved for breeding. So the transmigrator collective received very few eggs.
Transmigrators who'd chased expensive "free-range eggs" and "all-natural green foods" in the other time-space now started caring about when they'd have enough eggs to go around. Some questioned whether the farm's free-range approach was too bourgeois, ignoring the masses' supply needs.
"People are hard to please," Wu Nanhai sighed. He found the daily egg allocation disputes exhausting. Several families with children now demanded at least one egg daily—a reasonable request that Xiao Zishan, managing internal affairs, couldn't refuse. But Wu Nanhai's daily edible egg output was only two or three hundred. Supplying the 500 transmigrators' cafeteria was barely adequate.
"The reason for establishing this Heaven and Earth Society," Ye Yuming continued, "is to create a semi-official intermediary. Besides distributing seedlings and purchasing products, it can train local farmers in agricultural techniques—gradually cultivating households dependent on our seeds and technology. Through them, we gradually extend our agricultural influence countywide."
"This Heaven and Earth Society mainly targets smallholders," Wu Nanhai observed. "What about large landowners? They control more land and labor. Since we're not doing land reform, we can't ignore them."
"For landlords, there's another more profitable option: joint ventures establishing crop processing and food processing factories. With so many eggs and poultry purchased, processing factories become urgently needed. Relying solely on Agriculture and Light Industry Departments means slow development. Bringing in capable landlords with their manpower and resources speeds things up considerably."
Everyone nodded in agreement—the plan was feasible. The transmigrator collective couldn't handle everything themselves. Promoting new agricultural techniques would greatly benefit the agricultural leap forward.
"Overall feels good," Wu Nanhai concluded. "Let's refine it further before gradual rollout."
So the Agricultural Committee established the "Agricultural Committee Mutual Aid Group Preparatory Leadership Team." Wu Nanhai became team leader; Ye Yuming became secretary-general.
The next day, under unified Executive Committee leadership, a vigorous "Creating One Thousand Mu of High-Yield Fields" campaign began. This plan aimed to expand farm-controlled land to one thousand mu of high-yield, stable-yield paddy and five hundred mu of dry fields.
The core of high-yield, stable-yield farmland was water conservancy. Yan Quezhi, having studied hydrology and water resources, was appointed chief commander of this large-scale agricultural water construction. He led his students ahead with surveying equipment to begin measuring.
Wu Nanhai and Fa Shilu brought people to erect temporary sheds at the site as command headquarters. Headquarters was set on a hillock half a kilometer from the riverbank. A small grove there made working under the trees cooler. Wu Nanhai also brought Chuqing to attend to daily needs. The young woman was now boiling water and making tea at a portable stove.
Soon the folding table displayed genuine Ming-era Jun-ware porcelain tea cups, the fragrance of fresh tea drifting in the air.
"Too bad there's no iced tea," Yan Quezhi mused. Having set up surveying equipment, he recalled the bottled tea he'd often drunk.
"If the master doesn't like this, the farm has kvass and kombucha. I'll fetch some right away." Chuqing was extremely attentive.
"Never mind—it'll be lukewarm by the time you return." Yan Quezhi shook his head.
"There's spring water here. Soak the bottles in water and they'll cool."
"No need for such trouble—" Yan Quezhi felt awkward being so thoroughly attended by a young woman—an experience he'd never had.
"I'll go fetch them." Chuqing stepped back, then hurried down the hillock.
"Nanhai, what kind of life are you living? Just like a landlord..."
Wu Nanhai quickly cut off his sentiment—this would eventually make him a public enemy among the men:
"Let's discuss the planning."
"Honestly," Yan Quezhi said, "it's not really the right time for water conservancy projects."
Wu Nanhai was puzzled. "Why?"
"Insufficient hydrological and meteorological data," Yan Quezhi explained.
Though weather recording and simple forecasting had continued since D-Day, conscious collection of local hydrological and meteorological data only began in late autumn 1628—not yet a full year. Average annual temperature, humidity, precipitation, sunlight hours—including Wenlan River flow—all lacked reliable figures. These were fundamental for water conservancy construction.
"Can't we use twentieth-century data?"
"The margin of error is quite large." Yan Quezhi opened a thick 1925-1949 Lingao Hydrology Record he'd brought. "This is the closest scientific systematic hydrological record—three hundred years apart. Three centuries of climate change won't cause seas to become fields, but a few degrees' temperature difference can enormously impact climate."
The biggest issue was temperature discrepancy. In twentieth-century Lingao, winter extreme lows never dropped below 10°C. But in this time-space, Yan Quezhi had recorded 3-5°C temperatures for a continuous week. Compared to Leizhou Peninsula actually receiving snow in late Wanli reign, Lingao having no frost was fortunate. This late-Ming Little Ice Age was real—Foreign Trade Committee people doing business in Macao had seen locals wearing sheepskin robes.
Lower temperatures meant less precipitation. According to historical records, Lingao during Ming-Qing experienced major droughts roughly every ten years, minor droughts every five. Rainfall concentrated from May to October; winter and spring were nearly rainless dry seasons. Distinct seasonal alternation demanded much from drought and flood control.
Yan Quezhi couldn't extrapolate from less than a year's simple records the key water project figures: annual precipitation, maximum precipitation, longest dry period.
"For now, I can only use twentieth-century Lingao hydrological records, adjusted for general Little Ice Age conditions," Yan Quezhi said. "With mathematical models, I could roughly calculate current hydrology—unfortunately I don't have them."
"Lingao agriculture's bottleneck is water management. Drought or flood—good water works solve both. Here there's nothing—such a waste." Fa Shilu squatted on the slope, gazing at the soon-to-be-developed wasteland by the river.
Lingao had abundant sunshine and precipitation—favorable for grain. But drawbacks were obvious: spring planting and transplanting often saw no rain, causing severe water shortages; summer brought floods nine years in ten—greatly affecting yields. The Wenlan River flowed close by with adequate volume, yet throughout antiquity, Lingao had virtually no water infrastructure except in scattered spots. Only individual landowners used waterwheels for irrigation with simple self-dug channels.
"Small-peasant economy is just too weak," Wu Nanhai observed.
"You could say that," Yan Quezhi nodded. "Water projects require investments beyond what ordinary farmers working alone can manage. Even Lingao's largest landlord couldn't do it." He recalled hearing from water project veterans: even village-level simple irrigation channels required mobilizing several hundred workers during slack seasons. Larger projects needed county-wide mobilization. In the pre-machinery era, deploying thousands for a single water project was common.
For remote, underpopulated Lingao, this was clearly impossible. Without sufficient labor and engineering machinery, this thousand-mu high-yield project would be a pipe dream.
Wu Nanhai's planned development site was a riverside wasteland called "Meitai Yang"—spanning five or six thousand mu. Such flat, open land near major rivers was locally called "field plains." Aside from sandy soil along the river, most featured organic-rich laterite, with convenient irrigation—excellent farmland. Lingao's historical main grain regions were the four great field plains north of the county seat: Bohou, Tiaosu, Bolian, and Jialai. These were partially developed, but much wasteland remained.
Though Wu Nanhai lacked hydrological records, waterlines, sand distribution, and vegetation showed most of Meitai Yang wouldn't flood even at peak Wenlan River levels. Developing high-yield fields here was relatively safe.
Another reason the Agricultural Committee favored Meitai Yang: it was desolate—no fields, no villages. Easy to purchase. Neither Wu Nanhai nor Wu De wanted to handle ancient-era land expropriation. Such matters were hard to manage well and could easily provoke public resentment.
(End of Chapter)