Chapter 102: Just Ask, Is It Crazy or Not?

But the petite bourgeoisie of Yuehai, though often pretentious, were earnest when it mattered.

Seizing the limited time, Wei Dong swiftly scanned the surrounding booths. Even within just one hall, the space was but a small corner. Yet, among the myriad imported industrial machines, he quickly spotted what piqued his interest.

Perhaps it was thanks to last week's discussions at the machinery factory with a group of mainland technicians and engineers about the design of vacuum packaging machines.

Unlike an utter layman muddling through with unseasoned industrial workers, Wei Dong suddenly came upon a collection of exquisitely crafted machines, especially noting several rolls of paper placed nearby.

Instantly, Wei Dong found himself rooted to the spot, unable to tear his gaze away.

Having returned after a full year, the thing he found most difficult to get used to was the lack of proper toilet paper!

In the countryside, any random leaves or grass would do, even sticks were used.

At the county level, they confiscated exercise books, newspapers, or letters; basically, any paper that could be crumpled would serve. But such makeshift paper easily tore his fingers or slipped in use!

Only in the city was crepe paper available, but its comfort and skin-friendliness fell far short of the tissue Wei Dong was accustomed to.

In short, this year had been a bit of a hardship for him.

So, as he passed by, his eyes were forcibly drawn in; he focused intently on the machinery, feeling the softness and comfort of the rolls of paper, and flipping through the printed introduction materials beside them.

A dark-skinned merchant approached, chattering rapidly. Wei Dong’s face showed confusion; it sounded like English, yet he understood nothing.

In that instant, he unexpectedly thought of Old Madam Shi.

To his surprise, the young man in the green military uniform stammered but took over the conversation. Wei Dong could clearly hear Zhang Lanzhi’s English becoming increasingly fluent: "He’s asking if you are interested in this machine. They hope to build a factory domestically to manufacture this..."

Wei Dong was overjoyed and pointed to the adjacent machinery: "How much is this?"

A roll of white raw material was stretched inside the machine, looking quite comfortable.

The secretary eagerly translated: "He said they are seeking domestic partners to build factories for production. They are not selling machines; they are ink merchants."

Indeed, at this time, the ink industry in Southeast Asia was more advanced technologically than ours.

Wei Dong only had a newly purchased train timetable on him. He flipped it open, pointing to Jiangzhou’s location: "Ask him if it’s possible to set up a factory this deep inland... in the western region?"

Sure enough, even he understood the merchant’s rapid murmurs as they circled the map around East China and eastern Guangdong, areas closer to the coast.

The secretary explained: "Because the raw materials are shipped by boat, just the transportation cost alone would be too high."

Wei Dong tried again, holding up the roll of paper to gesture: "What about just buying the machine? We’ll figure out the raw materials ourselves."

Still, he was recklessly bold with the ignorance of a novice. Wasn’t there a machinery factory in Shangzhou? They could dismantle it and study it. Starting with crude methods wasn’t impossible.

Even Isuzu trucks were bought this way—imported as complete vehicles or in parts to rebuild. This stage was common practice.

The key was to find the right horse to ride.

Compared to investing heavily to import automotive or SLR camera production lines, Wei Dong felt producing toilet paper was more important.

There was no need to dwell on market issues; the demand for hand wipes was even greater.

But the merchants shook their heads repeatedly. The secretary explained: "He said it costs hundreds of thousands of US dollars..."

Wei Dong could only sigh with regret. This was truly a missed opportunity.

Yet he remained stubborn. Looking at a display machine about the size of a desk, with obvious signs of use, he asked: "What about this one? This old sample? You’re going to ship it back anyway. Would you sell it? For how much?"

Had it not been for last week’s exchange at the machinery factory, Wei Dong would never have asked this.

That factory, once a large provincial-level machinery plant, was now demoted to a prefecture-level city. Still, its strength was considerable, staffed by university graduates and engineers assigned annually from provincial authorities.

For nearly thirty years, they had built whatever equipment the higher-ups demanded, starting from scratch.

Recently, with abundant rapeseed harvests, they designed oil presses; for construction, they produced mixers and crushers.

They also made grinding machines, hot presses, hydraulic presses, winches, small and medium cranes, even tractors.

Whatever the higher-ups required, they pieced together usable equipment from existing data or photos brought by superiors, assembling something functional.

Mass production was difficult; quality was barely acceptable, but it worked. For long-term use, they repaired and improved on the go.

Almost entirely handmade.

This made Wei Dong think he could bring back a secondhand machine for them to study and try to assemble.

With a weekly income of two to three thousand yuan, he had the reckless confidence many fledgling entrepreneurs possessed upon first making money.

Brimming with confidence, no business seemed too daring.

But Wei Dong never leveraged credit: he did as much business as cash on hand allowed. If he erred, he’d just lose a few weeks’ earnings.

Zhang Lanzhi saw that his request was unrealistic.

Having grown up around optical instrument factories, she whispered: "He says this machine is huge, an entire production line... Our factory still can’t make anything like it."

In 1984, almost all domestic factories were labor-intensive, with many manual processes assisted by some machinery.

Fully automated production lines, from input to output, were nearly nonexistent.

Wei Dong’s stance was: "All the more reason to learn. Instead of spending huge sums sending factory leaders abroad for sightseeing and buying a pile of scrap metal, buying one of these machines as a tuition fee might be more reliable. Just ask if it’s for sale. Since it’s displayed here, it must be important."

Zhang Lanzhi translated. Immersed in learning new skills, she didn’t deeply consider whether buying the machine was right; she focused on vocabulary and foreign merchants’ language habits, excited.

The other party quoted thirty thousand US dollars, and Wei Dong was about to leave disappointed. The translator quickly added: "How much is that in RMB?"

They said at the current exchange rate of about 2.3, nearly seventy thousand yuan.

Wei Dong was taken aback.

During that year, he had never dealt with foreign currency. The southwest’s scarce foreign trade departments had no contact with ordinary citizens.

In Jiangzhou, some exchanged ration coupons, but hardly anyone exchanged for US dollars.

He had assumed the exchange rate was around six or seven yuan to the dollar, but it was only two or three—though ordinary people couldn’t access that rate.

He quickly signed to buy the "soft towel" production machine for seventy thousand yuan.

To understand Zhang Lanzhi’s vocabulary, she had never heard the compound term "soft towel." She only vaguely grasped it meant the machine produced something like this.

When Wei Dong tried to explain, unable to say it was for wiping the skin, he just gestured with the roll of paper, saying it was for sanitary wiping of the mouth and face. So combining "soft" and "towel," she believed it was truly for wiping face and mouth, even imagining using it in the train’s restroom for a quick wash—seemed quite good.

She didn’t delve into the technical jargon.

The funniest part was they wanted to demonstrate the machine by pressing buttons, but as soon as it powered on, staff came over and ordered an immediate shutdown and clearing of the area.

Wei Dong had to ask them to write down the operating procedures. The machine was being packed and sealed, and he would ask the staff how to ship it back to Jiangzhou.

Institutions without foreign trade qualifications were not allowed to freely sign contracts with foreign merchants, especially for sales. All foreign trade had to be handled by designated departments; otherwise, internal price wars would benefit foreigners.

This was a feature of the planned economy, eliminating internal competition but also stifling enterprise enthusiasm.

But this was a purchase, not a sale, and it was for a used machine on display, plus Wei Dong held a military-to-civilian factory work ID.

He made a heartfelt appeal: the factory was struggling to survive, but the foreign machine looked promising; buying it might help solve the military-to-civilian transition issues in third-tier factories.

He also showed an introduction letter from the Shangzhou municipal party committee as proof.

The merchants didn’t know that Xishan Factory was two or three hundred kilometers from Shangzhou.

Luckily, since it was the last day of the fair, all the visiting officials were present. A deputy director overseeing the military-to-civilian transition was moved by Wei Dong’s story and promised support.

He issued a pass allowing the transaction and instructed that the machine be transported back to Shangzhou via official transportation companies, urging Wei Dong to work hard to complete the task.

Wei Dong restrained himself from flaunting his role as a reform pioneer, not wanting to escalate matters, and expressed his deepest gratitude.

This operation lasted until eight in the evening. Zhang Lanzhi sat by a flowerbed outside, painstakingly noting the foreign merchant’s operating instructions step by step. It wasn’t difficult: turn on the switch, then adjust a bunch of manual handles and bolts.

Unable to demonstrate on the machine, she imagined how a large roll of white raw material, like a tire, was pressed flat and cut—probably connected to a paper rolling machine next in line?

Otherwise, they wouldn’t see it turn into little rolls of paper here.

This was Wei Dong’s clever interpretation. Through the exhibit hall’s glass walls, the machine was already wrapped and crated, ready for payment by telegraphic transfer the next day.

Exhausted, the two went in search of lodging.

But there was none.

During the Guangdong Trade Fair, the entire city was packed.

Previous years had seen foreign merchants crammed into hotel lobbies, with twenty or thirty sharing one room.

They tried several large hotels and inns nearby—fully booked with foreign guests, no entry allowed. They were told to come back tomorrow, surely there would be availability then.

Guesthouses and small inns were also full of exhibitors from across the country, all insisting tomorrow would have space; today was impossible.

After grabbing a bite at a street stall, the two who had just spent seventy thousand yuan found themselves homeless on the streets.

Wei Dong was unbothered, even a bit amused: “See, this is the usual state for sales trips—no place to stay, no place to... at least food is manageable. That’s why when I traveled north, I drove a truck so I could sleep in the cab.”

Their advantage now was traveling light, no luggage, no new clothes—much easier.

Zhang Lanzhi stubbornly said: “Just ate; walking is fine.”

So they headed toward the Swan Hotel.

Wei Dong held the Yuezhou map, choosing the direction as they strolled side by side through the late-night streets of Yangcheng.

Naturally, this evoked the kind of romance a girl in uniform cherished.

At this moment, Yuezhou was arguably the most open and vibrant metropolis in the country.

Beijing had never been open; Shanghai and Guangzhou still bore heavy burdens; Shenzhen had yet to rise.

Only Yuezhou combined the southern charm of historic architecture with grand, modern construction.

To welcome foreign merchants for the Guangdong Trade Fair, the city was ablaze with nighttime lights.

Along the streets, flowerpots were meticulously arranged and trimmed; during the day, sprinklers repeatedly sprayed to reduce dust and cool the air.

At night, countless lights illuminated the city, with scenic lighting making the most beautiful buildings glow exceptionally.

This was a luxury sight a country bumpkin from the interior had never seen.

Even Wei Dong had only seen such splendor in short videos, never experienced it firsthand. Both he and his secretary gazed around in amazement.

Finally, near the Swan Hotel by the riverside, Zhang Lanzhi was utterly enchanted.

This might just be the most beautiful and romantic spot in the entire country at this moment.