When Daidai realised her father was too old to slaughter two pigs for a traditional community feast in the run-up to Chinese New Year, she turned to social media.
She didn’t want him to feel bad.
“Can anyone help me?” she asked on Douyin, China’s version of Tiktok, at the end of last week. “My father is old. I am worried that he can’t handle these pigs.”
Daidai, who’s in her 20s, promised that those who came to their village, Qingfu, to assist would be treated to a pork banquet.
In rural Sichuan and Chongqing, large community meals are an important part of culture, featuring twice-cooked pork, steamed ribs, soup and homemade liquor.
“Let me hold my head up high in our village,” she said.
Her appeal for help attracted more than a million likes and the response on the ground was like a scene from a cheesy feel-good movie, as thousands of cars poured in, carrying many more people than she needed for the task.
So many responded that traffic jams have brought roads in this part of rural Chongqing in south-west China to a standstill. Drone images show carloads of people queuing up with rice crops on either side hoping to still enter Qingfu. Walking in from long distances has been a traffic-beating option for some.
Daidai posted that drivers coming into the area should be careful on the roads, especially those from the city unaccustomed to conditions in the countryside.
“The atmosphere has been great. It reminded me of my childhood when my family still kept pigs. It has been years since I felt anything like that,” one man, who drove more than 100 kilometres (65 miles) to get there, told the BBC.
He has seen licence plates from all over the country, he said.
When the pig slaughter and subsequent mass banquet did happen, it was watched live online by more than 100,000 viewers, registering 20 million likes, and the local government embraced it as a flash-tourism moment.
With many more people in town than two pigs could feed, tourism officials donated more pigs to meet the huge demand, and small restaurants have been serving crowds of visitors in outdoor seating areas.
Yet what this phenomenon has shown is how quickly a small matter can become something massive in the age of social media.
“I thought maybe a dozen people would come,” Daidai told Chinese media. “But there have been too many to count.”
The response has also been driven by what seems to be a yearning from Chinese people to get back in touch with community cultural events, as well as a need for positive experiences when life can, at times, seem very dark.
Daidai couldn’t believe how quickly it’s all happened. Last Friday she posted her request for help. By Saturday the response was so large that she went to the police to warn them that there could be disruption in the village and extra officers were brought in to manage the situation.
The banquet celebration, by then huge in size, went on for two days – 1,000 diners on 11 January became 2,000 the next day – with bonfires into the night and much partying, accompanied by a band.
Eventually, Daidai posted that her celebration was over, urging any more visitors to enjoy the region but not visit her home. After sleeping for only four hours over two days, she said she was exhausted.
However, it had been an incredible moment for her and her village.
To all the strangers who answered her call she said, “without your enthusiasm and passion, there would not have been a feast like this”.
“For everyone who came, the feeling was like that of a big family. It was really warm, really healing and really meaningful.”
She thanked government officials and the police for allowing a sudden celebration of this size to proceed.
It is already being predicted that the now famous Hechuan region, where her village is located, may try to turn this into a regular event, to tap into the enthusiasm for genuine, grass-roots interaction in a world where many feel isolated and removed from their culture.
