Chapter Eighteen: The Sudden Surge in Galangal Prices

Lu Kun knew that the 1989 “Ginger You Army” incident was about to unfold.
For him, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to make his fortune—he could not afford to let it slip away.
Starting from late November 1989, the price of sand ginger in Angui Province would soar in a frenzy, even reaching a terrifying level of over ten yuan per jin!
Had Lu Kun not experienced this in his previous life, he would have dismissed it as pure fantasy.
After all, this was 1989—ten yuan could buy four or five jin of pork.
And before early November, sand ginger prices had been stagnant, hovering around fifty or sixty cents per jin.
Yet in just half a month, sand ginger shot up from five or six mao per jin to over ten yuan per jin—a more than twentyfold increase!
Clearly, this was not a normal fluctuation in supply and demand, but the result of massive capital intentionally driving up the price of sand ginger, artificially creating a shortage to reap huge profits.
In the early years of the reform, with the market economy still immature, such events were hardly unusual.
Incidents like “Ginger You Army,” “Apple Something,” “Garlic You Ruthless,” “Bean You Play,” “Sugar High Emperor,” and “Oil He Goes”—all notorious for disrupting markets and inflating prices—were typical examples.
The surge in sand ginger prices in 1989 came quickly and subsided just as fast.
The whole affair lasted barely three months; those who withdrew in time made fortunes, while those who stayed till the end either had their funds trapped or got arrested as cautionary examples.
In his previous life, when sand ginger prices skyrocketed, Lu Kun was still tucked away in the countryside, unaware of these secrets, missing the chance to grab a share of the profits.
This time, he would not let such a golden opportunity slip away.
Some villagers did make money growing sand ginger, but for farmers to outwit capitalists was wishful thinking.
Many villagers had already sold their sand ginger before the price surge; even those who hadn’t, seeing the prices climb, dared not sell any more, hoping it would rise further or be worth more next year, so they kept the rest as seed.
Some old farmers even bought sand ginger at the peak price, intending to use it as seed for the next year, only to lose everything in the end.
With nearly two months before the price of ginger would fluctuate wildly, Lu Kun was desperately saving up his capital during this time.
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“Sigh… If only I had been reborn a few months earlier,” Lu Kun wiped the sweat from his brow and sighed inwardly. If he’d come back sooner, he wouldn’t have planted grains on those two acres—he’d have grown sand ginger straight away, and easily made tens of thousands.
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To many, money in the eighties and nineties seemed so easy to earn, as if gold lay everywhere, free for the taking.
But the reality was different.
During the eighties and nineties, China’s market economy was still far from mature, and there were many legal loopholes to exploit.
Unscrupulous domestic and foreign traders skirted the edges of legality, even risking everything to manipulate the prices of production materials, reaping enormous profits.
Small workshop owners and factory heads were deeply affected by capital forces—millionaires one day, bankrupt the next.
In the early days of reform, the state encouraged everyone to venture into business; many became pioneers, tasted success, and leaped to become “ten-thousand-yuan households,” “million-yuan households”…
Their prosperity, however, had little to do with management skill.
The truth proved that the early wave of entrepreneurs almost never survived the twenty-five-year “curse” of business lifespan, and by the end of the twentieth century, most faced bankruptcy.
There was a joke: in the early years of reform, local governments wanted to showcase early wealth, sending reporters to interview famous “million-yuan households.”
But as soon as the stories were published, the interviewed millionaires—just days later—were dragged to court because of skyrocketing raw material prices, unable to fulfill orders or pay penalties.
Within days, a millionaire became a million-yuan debtor!
The tales in the newspapers became the talk of the town, treated as jokes.
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Now, Lu Kun’s task was to save, save, and save again—keep a low profile, always low key. Just follow the trend and ride the wave.
Starting out by speculating in sand ginger might bring profit, but it was nothing to boast about.
In China, a good reputation is sometimes a shield.
Conversely, if one’s reputation is tarnished, it can spell disaster for both business and owner.

A prime example is that certain company.
Once hailed as the backbone of the nation, a pioneer covering up shortcomings in China’s high-tech sector—after its reputation soured, years of efforts couldn’t wash it clean. Many netizens even took to the internet, attacking it relentlessly, armed with their own “rations.”
In these times, nobody is spotless, so keeping a low profile is crucial.
China’s rich list is even nicknamed “the butcher’s list” by businessmen—every entrant lives in fear, dreading the blade hanging above their necks.
This is not an exaggeration.
The media are experts at digging up dirt on tycoons.
When their early misdeeds are exposed, the government—forced by public opinion—has no choice but to wield the knife.
It’s almost standard: after a couple of months on the rich list, a good chunk of names quietly disappears.
Because of this, capitalists carefully package themselves—either staying as discreet as possible or trying to appear more conscientious.
In the eighties, nineties, and even early twenty-first century, many local newspapers sought to attract attention with headlines like “Heartless tycoon refuses to give a penny to beggars,” “Feasting behind palace gates, freezing corpses on the streets,” “Multi-millionaire does this to young girls…” Even influential major papers followed suit.
In an atmosphere of fear and suspicion, those with skeletons in the closet either scrambled to clean up their image or hid their heads in shame.
In other words, back then, the shabby, smelly farmer carrying a sack on a train might well be a millionaire.
The eighties and nineties were China’s wildest years—a time of fierce, blazing growth.
The reform and opening up followed the principle of “steady progress,” crossing the river by feeling for stones, piloting reforms in select regions, accumulating replicable, scalable experience before rolling it out nationwide.
Every sector was alive with activity; economic development flourished, producing remarkable achievements.
Lu Kun understood that only by following the tide could he rise above others—those who went against the current were doomed.