Returning to the 82 Mountain Village: An Encounter with the Journey to the West Film Crew at the Beg

Zhou Fangyuan first picked up the letter, his fingertips tracing the rough pages.

It's as if I can almost see my sister writing under the kerosene lamp.

The letter was a neatly cut piece of homework paper, with handwriting that still had a touch of childishness.

"Brother, I recently got the highest score in the class in arithmetic. The teacher praised me for being promising, so you don't need to worry about me."

The family's land has been allocated, and Uncle Wang said that it's our own land, and we can decide what to plant.

This year's sweet potato harvest is bountiful. The sweet potatoes in the furrows are all as big as little pillows, and they're almost overflowing the house.

Zhou Fangyuan smiled. Having lived a second life, he was well aware of his family's current situation.

He folded the letter and put it in his inner pocket before turning back to collect the money on the table.

He patiently smoothed out the creases on the small bills and neatly stacked the shiny or worn coins.

These coins seem to still bear the smiles of children and the expectations of parents.

There were also countless moments when Xiao Zhang focused intently on polishing the wood carvings.

A five-cent coin rolled to the edge of the table. He reached out and caught it, his fingertips gripping the cold metallic texture, but his heart felt warm.

Ultimately, the figure settled at 466.9 yuan.

This number is heavy, not only pressing on my palm, but also sinking into my heart.

Zhou Fangyuan carefully wrapped most of the money in oiled paper, took out a letter and wrote down his recent situation and what he had seen and heard in the capital.

Then, he leaned back in his chair, gazing at the deep night outside the window, the words from the letter replaying in his mind over and over again: "A bumper harvest of sweet potatoes."

Most of the people living in the town are antimony miners who rely on dry rations to fill their stomachs when they go down into the mines to work.

The villagers brought fresh mushrooms and dried chili peppers to town to sell, and no one thought of selling dried sweet potatoes, a kind of "snack".

Those golden, translucent dried sweet potatoes are sweet, sticky, and filling. Taking a couple of pieces down the well is much better than eating coarse cornbread.

An idea slowly took hold in his mind: to remotely direct his family to make and sell dried sweet potatoes.

He picked up the letter he had already written and added a few lines at the end.

They also specifically emphasized that the products should be sold to families with members who are miners.

The next day, the weather was fine, and the breakfast stalls were set up, filling the streets with the aroma of fried dough sticks.

There was an old truck left outside the courtyard, its cargo bed already more than half full, with Li Chengru shouting orders from the side.

Zhou Fangyuan quickly took advantage of the early hour, slung his canvas bag over his shoulder, and headed out the door.

Although it was 1982, the density of post offices in Beijing was not low; there was a post office right next to CCTV.

The red paint on the words "Post Office" had faded a bit, and a green-painted mailbox stood at the entrance.

There weren't many people at the post office in the morning; only two elderly men were mailing packages at the counter.

Zhou Fangyuan first filled out a remittance form, wrote down the address and his mother's name, and then transferred all the money from the oil paper.

Then, he handed the letter to the staff member and then put the wrapped books and drawings on the counter.

"Comrade, send printed matter."

The female employee in navy blue overalls weighed the item in her hand, quickly calculated the cost with an abacus, and quoted 24 cents for postage.

Zhou Fangyuan paid the money and watched her put the label on the package before he felt relieved.

The whole thing was done in just over twenty minutes.

He walked out of the post office; the sun was shining brightly, making him feel warm and comfortable.

The notebook was still in the canvas bag. He weighed it in his hand, then turned and walked towards the direction of Qian Lao's house.

Upon arriving at Qian's home, Zhou Fangyuan solemnly returned the notebook containing his performance notes.

The two stood at the door and exchanged a few words, which served as a farewell.

Old Qian patted him on the shoulder, his voice gentle yet firm: "The mountains and rivers of Sichuan have a spirit. When you get there, go and see more, and learn more."

If there's anything you still don't understand, then come back and take a look.

After leaving Qian Lao's home, he turned into that familiar alley again.

The residents of the small courtyard knew the film crew was leaving, and they all came out to say goodbye, lifting curtains and pushing open doors.

Ma's mother specially gave him a bag of dry food for the journey, and then turned to her son Ma Dehua and instructed him: "Take good care of Xiao Zhou on the road."

Ma Dehua readily agreed, and a warm and reluctant atmosphere filled the courtyard.

It was the kind of farewell unique to the hutongs, imbued with the warmth and life of everyday life.

With both important personal matters settled, Zhou Fangyuan felt much more at ease.

He then turned back to the guesthouse compound.

Outside the guesthouse compound, the old Jiefang truck was stuck, panting heavily, with a burnt smell emanating from the black smoke.

Driver Lao Zhang crawled out from under the car, his face covered in grease, and shook his head at Li Chengru.

"Li, the crankshaft bearing has burned out, and the parts may not be readily available. It won't be ready for at least two days."

Li Chengru's vision went black, and his voice trembled with anxiety.

"Two days?! The train leaves tomorrow morning! This is terrible!"

Why do I always run into bad luck as a production assistant? This car was perfectly fine just now!

"How about we borrow a car..."

"Where can we borrow these now? Everything requires approval, and we can't afford to waste even a day!"

The crowd was in a state of panic.

Zhou Fangyuan leaned closer to examine the overturned truck, several images flashing through his mind:

Wang Xiaojun patted his chest and boasted to the skinny guy, "Cars are nothing special! My dad's factory has tons of cars! He can even switch them out!"

And the day before yesterday, when I visited his home, the uncle pointed to Xiaojun's well-worn "Journey to the West" comic book and said...

"I love Erlang Shen in this movie; his arrogance is just perfect!"

Oh, right! Wang Dehai, the technical director of the heavy machinery factory, is a Journey to the West fan and a repeat customer.

He calmed down and pulled over Xiao Zhang, who was pacing anxiously.

"Youqing, the paint on that Erlang Shen statue we rushed out last night should be completely dry by now, right?"

"It's so translucent! I saw it this morning, it's absolutely beautiful!" Xiao Zhang exclaimed immediately.

The two returned to the house and carefully removed the wooden carving.

This was something they had worked half the night to create, based on the image of Yang Jian from the comic book, and incorporating the "arrogance" that Director Wang mentioned.

Without taking a closer look, Zhou Fangyuan picked up the wooden carving and said to Xiao Zhang:

"Let's go to Director Wang's house. We've got the hang of things regarding the car."

After listening, Xiao Zhang nodded emphatically and followed behind him excitedly.

The two arrived at the compound familiarly, where the gatekeeper was listening to the radio.

Zhou Fangyuan handed over the Daqianmen cigarettes he had just bought.

The old man looked up and saw it was the two of them, then smiled and accepted the large red door.

The two straightened their clothes, went upstairs, and knocked on the door.

Wang Dehai was holding a teacup, and the radio in the living room was playing traditional opera.

Seeing them, a smile immediately spread across his face: "Xiao Zhou, Xiao Zhang? Come in quickly! Xiao Jun went out to play, didn't he...?"

Before he could finish speaking, his gaze was drawn to the conspicuous wooden carving in Zhou Fangyuan's hand.

Zhou Fangyuan smiled as he unveiled the red cloth and spoke slowly.

"Director Wang, you mentioned the day before yesterday that you like Erlang Shen, so we rushed to make this. Take a look, is it the right style?"

The red cloth slipped off, revealing a lifelike statue of Erlang Shen, Yang Jian.

Wang Dehai almost dropped the teacup in his hand. He cried out "Ouch!" and, not caring that it was hot, casually put the teacup on the table.

He quickly took it, holding the wood carving in both hands, his eyes widening in amazement.