Life on the Li
— Passing Paradise

Ballistic Bird

In days long past, to attract fish the cormorant fishermen would alight lamps of fire held on poles extended over the water. Today they use propane lanterns, but the practical and visual effects are nearly the same. When the man senses a potential catch below, the avian associate takes over, and as has occurred for hundreds of years on and in the sustaining waters of the Li River, man and bird fish as partners.

In a flash the sleek cormorant is over the side, down, shooting dart-like through the currents. Minutes later he (or she) surfaces and springs from the water to reassume a perch aboard the bamboo raft. While submerged, the bird may have snacked on one or two smaller fish, but it is the larger still bulging in his throat that will be on the family dinner table this evening.

It is said that a single athletically-proficient bird can feed an entire family. And in return the birds are treated with respect and care. The job does not come without some indignities, however. A ring of cord around the neck prevents the swallowing of larger fish, and perhaps not every bird is pleased to have his long gullet probed, pumped and disgorged of his catch. But such is the nature of this partnership, and the cormorants seem to go with the flow.

Typically the fishing team consists of three partners – a man and two birds. The birds spend most of their time perched upon their solitary posts at the bow and at the stern, respectively. The human stands midpoint, propelling the raft with a pole. If garbed in traditional manner, with a protective shoulder shroud jutting out at a sharp angle and wide hat, the man takes on a bird-like appearance in his assumed plumage. This writer can only speculate as to the original purpose of the unique uniform: The wide hat, to guard against the sun in the day; the wing-like shoulder protection, perhaps to ward off sparks when open torches were extended out over the water at night.

The cormorants, too, have their adapted and very functional work wear. Unlike most water foul, the feathers of the cormorant are not waterproof and do not hold air while diving. This enables the birds to shoot more quickly to the bottom of the river, where the big fish meander. This, too, is why the birds so often strike a photogenic pose: While the sun rises over the mountains, perched on the bow of the boat, his wings extended (obliging the photographer), he dries his feathers.

Riverine Rumination

Of course, less intriguing but perhaps more efficient modes of fishing are employed on the Li. If one kayaks some kilometers with the flow, for instance from the now overly-active tourist town of Yangshuo to the bucolic PuYi Town down south, one will come across not only cormorant fishermen, but also those of the hook, line and netting variety. Besides bamboo rafts, their craft range from a single inner tube moved by paddle to motor-driven skiffs.

Along the way, robust water buffalo bask in the shallows, and well-fed oxen graze on the green shorelines. The children of riverside villages pause in their play to shout “helloooo” to the kayaking laowai. Birdlife is abundant and, besides the occasional laughing child, only the sounds of nature are heard. The constant honking of horns is an irritant left behind in Yangshuo.

But that’s south of Yangshuo. North of town one encounters a vehicular irritant of a different sort. Originating in the city of Guilin to the north, with Yangshuo as the southern terminus 83-kilometers downstream, during the day a never-ending procession of massive tour boats ply the fiscal waters of the Li, and their diesel engines are no treat for the senses of smell and sound. At times traffic jams form and so begins the bellowing of horns. The hundreds of camera-toting tourists on board are friendly enough, yelling competitively in greeting to the passengers of adjacent boats. And litter transforms into the riverine variety with a carefree toss overboard.

And so, sourcing from land and boat, trash lines much of the Li’s shoreline, and one often sees non-degradable and non-buoyant detergent bags drifting below, most likely discarded by a local after the day’s riverside wash was complete. Surprisingly, despite the toxins of man and machine expelled into the once pure waters, some locals still swim in the Li – mostly children.

Trepidation Trail

During a cycle ride begun at dawn, outside Yangshuo on a rocky trail tracing the shores of the Yulong River, a few kilometers from where that flow meets the Li, the writer rounded a bend and was presented with a picturesque and silent scene. The broad trail beyond curved gently out of site between two rivaling karst hills, the new sun rose behind, the plant life was lush, exotic and green, and the complete image was made soft by morning mist.

Dismounting the bike, I unslung my backpack, retrieved the camera and formed the shot: The sandy trail in the foreground reached gracefully for those mountains in the back. About to release the shutter I heard the rumble. I lowered the camera and dropped my jaw – around the corner between the green hills came about the biggest tour bus I had ever seen.

In his seated perch about two meters off the ground, the driver looked down at me. He gave a palms-up shrug and what seemed a slightly embarrassed grin, as if to say, “Yeah, I know, I can’t believe it either.” Ensconced in their couch-like chairs and air conditioning, the tourists on board laughed, smiled and waved as the motorized monster jostled by, the diesel engine rumbling and belching fumes into the moist morning air. I would later learn that the bus, like the several others that passed me before my ride on that wooded trail was complete, transported passengers to the embarkation station for their bamboo boat ride. Then, maybe an hour later, at the downstream disembarkation point, they would no doubt have only a few steps to walk before reboarding that same bus.

Lingering Loss

Like never before in history, and in staggeringly accelerating numbers, the Chinese people are traveling. It is good that so many now have the fiscal freedom to explore their nation, but environmentally-aware, low-impact and tactful tourism, this is not.

Whether traversing an historic walking street, paddling a kayak downstream, or peddling a bike along a backcountry trail, one can’t escape the damage. In far-flung regions and provinces across China, from mountain to stream to ocean, on the streets and pathways of the nation’s most aged, delicate and precious places, it is the same.

On the shores of the Li River, Yangshuo is emblematic. The pedestrian boulevard packs up solid with harried hat-wearing tour groups. Shoulder-to-shoulder, they and the foreigners in the thick of it are buffeted and hassled by competing loudspeakers and the shrieking sellers of stuff. On the streets the honking of horns is incessant and seemingly without good cause. The stream which runs through the old town has been made toxic. The once pristine countryside is littered with polystyrene containers and plastic bags. And the river, upon which nature and humans have depended for thousands of years, is ever less scenic and ever less safe.

On the Li, that’s life.

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