The man I call "Wawa" is Tang Shunyìng（唐顺银）, a young farmer from the Qingshuichong Production Team. This was part of the Shidan Brigade in Shuikuan Commune, where I was sent to live and work in the countryside during the 1970s.
The Rugged Landscape of Qingshuichong (清水冲)
Qingshuichong was the first gateway into the mountains from the hilly plains of Shuikuan. As you followed the plain road toward Shidan, a massive mountain wall rose up to block the path at the Qingshuichong border. To enter Shidan, one had to climb a pass with a vertical height of about 80 meters and an average slope of 45 degrees. Even with "Z-shaped" switchbacks, the steepest sections exceeded 35 degrees. At the midpoint of the slope, there was a sharp 90-degree turn; every year or two, a car or tractor would lose control and plummet down the slope, resulting in destroyed vehicles and tragic casualties.
Once you crested the pass, you were in Qingshuichong territory. On one side of the road were quiet, shady trees; on the other, a steep precipice. After winding along the road for a kilometer, the path began to descend, and the slope leveled out. In a small valley, tiny terraced fields appeared—some no larger than three ping-pong tables, the largest barely half a volleyball court. Further down, the valley widened, and at the confluence of two valleys sat the production team headquarters: a two-story wooden building on the left.
Wawa’s house sat on a small hillside just a few dozens of meters from the headquarters. Other farmhouses were scattered sparsely across the surrounding slopes. Because the mountains were high and the water cold, Qingshuichong relied entirely on weather-dependent fields. A good harvest depended on favorable wind and rain; a drought meant a poor harvest or none at all. There were no local specialties; while there was timber, the slopes were too steep to easily transport logs to the road. Back then, it was an impoverished production team. However, the high mountains and dangerous waters made it an ideal site for a reservoir. Professionals had surveyed it long ago, identifying two hills near the headquarters that were less than a hundred meters apart—perfect for a dam that could benefit the entire region.
The Reservoir and the Attic
In the winter of 1975, the commune launched the Qingshuichong Reservoir project. The entire commune’s strength was mobilized, and we "sent-down youth" joined the construction. We stayed at the home of Mr. Tang, an accountant. The female youth squeezed into two rooms, while the males climbed a ladder to the attic to sleep on the floor. There were no walls up there—only the roof tiles above. The freezing wind blew through without obstruction, but thanks to our blankets and youthful energy, we stayed for two months without anyone falling ill.
Our main job was digging and carrying soil to the dam. A large scale was set up at the site, and a dedicated worker weighed the loads. Carrying 8,000 catties (approx. 4,000kg) of soil earned you 10 "work points." This quota was a massive challenge for us; by 6:00 PM every day, our bones felt like they were falling apart.
The "Thousand-Head Ranch" Fiasco
After the reservoir was finished, we returned to our respective tea and forest farms. But the following winter, the tea farm youth were ordered back to Qingshuichong to establish a "Commune Livestock Farm." This was a project born from the fevered brains of commune leaders, launched without scientific proof or research. It was dubbed the "Thousand-Head Ranch," intended to raise over a thousand pigs.
It was a "zero-investment" project with no budget. There were only twenty-four of us youth and our farm manager. We lived in an unfinished wooden house borrowed from a farmer. The walls were made of rough, unshaped planks with gaps a centimeter wide, letting the cold wind pour in from all sides. The ranch’s location hadn't even been decided, and there were no blueprints. The only thing the leaders knew was that it should be made of brick and wood, so our first step was to bake bricks.
None of us had ever baked a brick. A master was hired to guide us. We dug a kiln near the headquarters and set up a brick-making yard. Next, we dug a pit in a nearby field to mix the mud. Brick mud needs to be trampled by oxen until it is uniform, then cut into lumps, pressed into wooden molds, trimmed with wire, and dried.
We had no oxen. The leaders told us to use our feet. Despite the sight of oxen grazing nearby, we were a "pioneer" group using human labor to trample mud. An ox could finish a pit in four hours; we were so light that even after days of trampling, the mud wasn't as good as what an ox could produce.
Kindness from Wawa’s Family
Wawa’s house was only thirty meters from the kiln. His mother was about forty, tall, elegant, and virtuous. His father, in his late forties, was an honest carpenter. They were better off than most, owning two spacious tiled houses. Working so close to them, we saw them every day and soon became friends.
It was November. Though it didn't snow, the temperature was freezing. We spent hours barefoot in the mud pit, our noses running from the cold. Wawa’s mother watched us daily with great sympathy. She would have her husband invite us in for boiled water. Since I spent the longest time in the pit, she took a special interest in me. She often praised me for being hardworking and sensible, sighing about how difficult it was for such young people to leave their parents and do such grueling labor.
When they slaughtered a pig or a duck for the Mid-Autumn Festival, she would send Wawa to invite me to dinner. "Your parents aren't here," she’d say, "and you eat poorly. You need to nourish yourself." Sitting by their fire, chatting, I felt like part of the family. It was a stark contrast to my previous placement in Shuiniutian, where we were charged 80 cents a day for food—a massive sum back then—yet rarely saw a piece of meat. I was deeply grateful for the Wawa family's selfless care.
The 1977 College Entrance Exam
The "Thousand-Head Ranch" soon fizzled out—typical for that era of impulsive planning. We were disbanded after one kiln of bricks. I was sent to teach at the brigade primary school. Wawa was working in the agricultural science team, and we became teammates. We learned about hybrid rice—terms like "male sterility" and "self-pollination." After two years in the countryside, I finally looked like a local: thin, tanned, and comfortable with farm work.
In the autumn of 1977, it was announced that the National College Entrance Examination (Gaokao) would be reinstated. We studied by candlelight. One day, Wawa saw our scratch paper covered in "X, Y, and Z" and was amazed, thinking we knew foreign languages. We were just doing math.
I passed the exam and moved to Beijing for university in early 1978. In April, my mother wrote to me at Peking University. She said that Shuiniutian had sent word that I was owed 100 yuan and 300 catties of rice from the final distribution. I was thousands of miles away and didn't know how to collect it. I thought of Wawa. He agreed immediately. He took my power of attorney to the accountant, collected the money, turned the grain into rice, and personally delivered it to my family in the county seat—a 25-kilometer trip. He refused any payment for his time and effort.
The Reunions: 2014 and 2016
I didn't see Wawa again until decades later. In 2014, while visiting my ailing father in China, I drove back to Qingshuichong. I found Wawa’s house, where his wife welcomed me warmly. "Wawa talks about you all the time," she said.
Wawa’s mother was now 80. She was still elegant, with a straight back and clear speech. She was moved to tears: "What wind blew you here? To think you still remember us after 30 years." Wawa arrived shortly —no longer a youth, but a tanned middle-aged man. We sat in front of the house. From there, I could see everything: the dam, the old ranch, the headquarters, and the mud pit where I once stood. Before leaving, I gave them two $20 bills as souvenirs. We took a photo together with the dam in the background. As we posed, Wawa’s mother gripped my back tightly. I felt her love, her joy at seeing me, and the lingering sadness of an 80-year-old who knew this might be our last meeting.
In 2016, I returned again. This time, my former student, Zeng Xiangrong—who had risen to become a high-ranking official but remained humble—drove me. Wawa prepared a feast: a whole sheep, chicken, duck, and cured meat. It was a scene unimaginable in the 1970s.
His mother remarked again, "It’s been forty years, yet you still remember us. You treat Wawa like a brother; it is his blessing." I replied, "It was my blessing to know you. Thank you for treating me like family when I had no one."
After dinner, we walked onto the dam. Looking at the pine-covered mountains reflected in the still water, I felt a deep sense of nostalgia. But what I miss most isn't the scenery—it’s the people. Wawa, his mother, and my student Xiangrong. They gave this land meaning. No matter where I go, I will always remember that in this place, I received selfless love and found my truest kin.
Note：Wawa‘s Mom died in 2018 0r 2019, Wawa passed away in 2023 due to stomach cancer at age 65.
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