Chapter 340: Promoting Salt-Alkali Tolerant Crops: Solving the Arable Land Problem

Zhao Chen stepped onto the field ridge with one foot, mud stuck to his shoe soles, he didn't care. He bent over, pulled a rice stalk from the ground, shook off the dirt from its roots, narrowed his eyes to look: "Not bad, this thing really survived."

Beside him, an old man squatted at the field edge, smoking dry tobacco, took two puffs, and spat out: "I've farmed for forty years, never seen saline-alkali land grow grain. Your seedlings look green, but how many grains can they yield?"

Zhao Chen handed the rice stalk over: "Take a look, old sir, it's solid, not hollow. Yesterday I measured it—yield is 537 jin per mu, fifty jin above our county average."

The old man took the stalk, turned it over and examined it for a while, pinched open a grain husk with his fingers, bit into it, his brow jumped: "There's actually rice?"

"Not only does it have grain, it can also keep seed." Zhao Chen laughed, pulling a paper from his pocket: "This is the test report from the Academy of Agricultural Sciences—salt‑alkali tolerance reaches grade eight, it can survive at pH 9.2 or lower. This stretch of tidal flat used to be a blank white expanse; even a cow rolling would get coated in salt frost. Now—" he swept his arm— "it's all rice bowls."

The old man said nothing, slowly rose to his feet, his legs trembling a bit. He took a few steps forward and, with a thump, tried to kneel.

Zhao Chen, quick-eyed and quick-handed, grabbed his arm: "Grandfather! Don't!"

"Even if I shouldn't, I have to!" the old man's voice suddenly rose: "Three generations of my family have scratched a living from this land; two of my children starved to death, and the year my wife hanged herself was because we couldn't pay the grain tax… You say this land can grow grain, I… I…" He couldn't go on; tears fell first, splashing a small clump of dust.

The crowd gathered around, eyes red. A middle‑aged man wiped his face and spoke in a muffled tone: "Expert Zhao, we don't distrust science—we've been fooled by this land too many times. Two years ago we tried sorghum; the seedlings looked good, but as soon as we watered them they all died. Last year we switched to sweet potatoes; the leaves curled at the edges and the tubers came out like date pits. You say we can harvest grain, we… we just don't dare believe it."

Zhao Chen nodded: "I understand. Who would joke about food? But this is different. It's not a blind experiment; it's a variety developed through solid research. Its roots can expel salt, its leaves can lock in water, even the stalks can be used as fodder. Look over there—" he pointed to the field's center— "the harvester is ready; today we'll cut the first batch."

As his words fell, a putter‑putter‑putter engine sound came from afar. A small harvester drove along the field ridges, its tracks pressing over the whitish ground, kicking up a thin layer of dust. The machine steadied; the driver jumped off and waved at us.

"Shall we start?" he asked.

Zhao Chen nodded: "Cut ten mu, weigh on the spot."

The crowd automatically made way. The harvester slowly entered the test field; its blades turned, golden rice stalks fell in swaths, grains poured into the storage bin with a splash. Twenty minutes later, the first load of grain was brought to the makeshift scale platform. The clerk tallied the bags and shouted: "Bag one, sixty‑eight jin exactly; bag two, seventy‑one jin three taels… total net weight three thousand two hundred fourteen jin!"

The scene fell silent for a few seconds, then erupted in cheers. A few elderly women hugged each other and cried; a young man leapt up shouting: "I'll quit my city job tomorrow and go home to farm!"

Zhao Chen stood at the edge of the crowd, watching the chaotic scene, the corners of his mouth twitching. He pulled out his notebook, flipped to a page filled with charts and data, then looked up at the sky. The clouds parted, sunlight shone on the freshly cut stubble, dazzlingly bright.

At noon sharp, the Agricultural Achievements Release Conference began on schedule. The venue was a remodeled exhibition hall in the village office; a large map of the nation's saline‑alkali land distribution hung on the wall. Zhao Chen sat at the side of the presidium, with a microphone and a cup of chilled tea before him.

The Minister of Agriculture stepped onto the stage, cleared his throat: "Folks, media friends, today's meeting isn't about anything else—just one thing: to announce the official launch of the 'Fertile Land Action'."

Applause thundered from the floor.

The minister raised his hand to press down: "We often say China uses seven percent of the world's arable land to feed nearly one‑fifth of its population. But we also know that reserve arable resources are tight, especially the vast saline‑alkali tracts along the coast and in the northwest that have long lain unused. Today we have an answer."

He turned his head toward Zhao Chen: "Comrade Zhao Chen led his team; after three years they successfully bred a series of salt‑alkali tolerant crops, achieving the historic breakthrough from 'cannot be planted' to 'can reap a bountiful harvest.' This result will completely redraw China's agricultural map."

As his final words fell, the whole venue burst into applause again. Reporters raised their cameras, flashbulbs popping.

A reporter stood up and asked: "Minister, can this crop be promoted nationwide? How long will it take to cover the main saline‑alkali areas?"

The minister didn't answer right away, turning his head to look at Zhao Chen.

Zhao Chen took the microphone: "It can be promoted. We have already developed seven main varieties tailored to different climate zones and saline‑alkali types. The plan is to complete the pilot layout within three years and achieve large‑scale planting in five years. The first promotion areas include Northern Jiangsu, Hebei Cao Feidian, Ningxia Hetao, and parts of Xinjiang wasteland, expected to add over twenty million mu of arable land."

The hall fell silent for a moment, then broke into even louder applause.

Another reporter followed up: "How do farmers accept it? Is the seed cost high?"

"Seeds are purchased uniformly by the state and distributed free to pilot households." Zhao Chen said, "Supporting technical training proceeds in tandem, with two resident agricultural technicians assigned to each township. We don't want slogans; we want every household's granary to be full."

When the conference ended, it was already two in the afternoon. A staff member approached and whispered: "Expert Zhao, the Youth Science and Technology League called, inviting you as a special guest to the launch ceremony, set for nine tomorrow morning."

Zhao Chen took a sip of the cold tea, nodded: "Got it, I'll get ready."

He packed up his bag and left the hall. Outside, the sunlight was just right; on the field ridges people were still taking photos, a few children squatted in the harvested field picking up stray grains, carefully placing them into small bottles.

An old woman in a blue cloth shirt caught up to him, thrusting a pair of cloth shoe inserts into his hands: "Kid, these are for your feet. You've been running all over—don't wear out your legs."

Zhao Chen couldn't refuse, so he accepted it. He lowered his head to look at the rough but sturdy shoe pad in his hand, and suddenly felt his nose prickle.

He put the shoe pad into his bag, turned and walked toward the parking spot. His leather shoes tapped on the hot‑baked pavement, making a dull thudding sound. In the distance, the last rice field was being harvested; golden waves rose and fell with the wind, like a blanket stretched to the horizon.