The small county of Yangshuo in Guangxi Province is a perfect place for the culturally curious traveller seeking a glimpse into the lives of ethnic minority groups such as the Zhuang and Yao of South China.
Hemmed in by serried karst mountains—corrugated limestone cliffs poking into the sky—the picturesque county offers endless options for hiking and biking through verdant countryside dotted with hillside villages along the meandering Li River that threads its way through the mountainous terrain.
Yangshuo also preserves a dying art that dates back more than 1,300 years: catching fish with cormorants.
For centuries, the cormorant fishermen of the Li River relied on their birds to make a living. Today, this ancient system of fishing is nearly extinct. Unlike in Japan, where a few remaining practitioners are on the imperial payroll to provide freshwater fish for the emperor’s table, in parts of South China, the tradition survives mainly as a tourist spectacle.
I am in Yangshuo to witness this, one of China’s most unique and enduring traditions. On an unusually stormy summer evening, I set out with my boatman, Hwang, who expertly maneuvers his raft through the muddy waters of the Li River, churned by erratic northern winds. The grey silhouettes of karst mountains loom on the horizon.
Hwang explains the technique. “In this traditional system, there are no rods, nets, or bait. The fishermen tie a loose collar around the cormorant’s throat, which they have trained to catch fish. The noose prevents the bird from swallowing its catch, and the fishermen retrieve the fish when the bird returns to the boat.”
As we talk beneath a murky sky, a couple of bamboo rafts suddenly come into view, bobbing slowly toward us. “They are cormorant fishermen,” Hwang tells me.
The rafts arrive. Two wiry, middle-aged men in conical fishing hats flash quick smiles before lighting boat lanterns.
“The flaming lamps attract fish below the surface. That’s why cormorant fishing is done after sundown,” Hwang adds.
Four cormorants, dignified in their black plumage and white crests, sit patiently at the bow, watching the proceedings with sapphire-blue eyes.
The fishermen scoop up the birds and let out a shrill, piercing whistle. On cue, the birds dive into the river, now inky in the gathering dark. They bob up and down with the gentle tide as the fishermen chant a singsong tune and slap the water with crude oars. Then, the birds disappear into the depths. As if guided by some intangible signal, the bamboo rafts follow.
Hwang rows quickly to keep pace with the drama. A few hundred yards downstream, the fishermen stop. Suddenly, a couple of birds burst from the water, their scalloped feathers dripping. In the dim light, I see one struggling with a large fish. A boatman throws a net over the birds and hauls them onto the deck. He frees a wriggling carp from the beak of one cormorant and whistles. The bird stiffens, then spits out two more fish trapped in its gullet. Its partner, taking the cue, delivers a pair of mid-sized carps onto the deck.
Both birds are rewarded with small fish, which they gobble instantly. Hwang suggests I tip the fishermen—a small supplement to the cost of the large, freshly caught carp I’ve just bought. He points to the mark where the bird’s beak struck the flesh. “This makes all the difference in taste,” he says.
The cormorant’s razor-sharp beak kills the fish instantly, which is believed to make the flesh more flavorful. With a deep bow, the fishermen steer their dinghies back into the darkness. Two more cormorants are still waiting for their masters somewhere in the middle of the river.
At dinner that night, the sprightly hotel chef places a decorously plated main course before me.
“This is the carp you bought this evening,” she smiles. Fried golden brown in beer batter, the dish is a Yangshuo culinary highlight and has been my staple for several days. Seasoned with black pepper and paprika, the tender meat has always been delicious—but it has never tasted quite this good.