Monthly Archives: August 2016

Entering the Year of the Monkey

An abandoned school in Mt. Jizu, Yunan, China.

An abandoned school in Mt. Jizu, Yunan, China.

The bus passed through an endless series of bleak frontier towns, grey and featureless and devoid of all character. The dead-brown of winter rice fields filled the gaps between industrial yards and tenement apartment blocks, which were the only types of buildings we had seen in some time.

“This is where I would come if I wanted to write a book about loneliness,” I commented to Gareth.

In the days leading up to the Lunar New Year – also known as Spring Festival from the literal Chinese translation – making travel plans had become increasingly difficult. Hundreds of millions of Chinese were leaving the cities for their home provinces in the largest human migration on earth. Even in Yunnan, far from China’s urban super-metropolises, busses had been sold out and the prices for hiring private cars had risen to extortionate highs. We knew that mobility would become even harder once the holidays began, so we had held an emergency brainstorming session with our Mandarin-speaking travel companion, Yan.

We wanted to avoid getting stuck in a big city where the soaring cost of accommodation would wipe out our budget in short order, and likewise we feared getting trapped for a week or more in the tiny villages that lined the Lancang as we had been told that most local bus services would be suspended.

People make offerings and burn incense at a temple on Mt. Jizu, Yunan, China, on lunar new years day.

People make offerings and burn incense at a temple on Mt. Jizu, Yunan, China, on lunar new years day.

People make offerings and burn incense at a temple on Mt. Jizu, Yunan, China, on lunar new years day.

People make offerings and burn incense at a temple on Mt. Jizu, Yunan, China, on lunar new years day.

Ultimately we decided that it was best to veer away from the river for a short time and headed for Mt. Jizu, famed in Buddhism as a holy mountain and topped with richly decorated pagodas. But before we could see it for ourselves, we had to pass through some of the least inspiring scenery imaginable.

“Life would have been very different if you were born here,” Yan commented.

Offerings for the Gods

The rooster clucked nervously from inside a wooden crate that was piled in the van under the passenger’s luggage, and considering that animal sacrifices were a traditional part of Lunar New Year celebrations, his apprehension was justified.

A woman carries a chicken to temple on lunar new year in Mt. Jizu, Yunan, China.

A woman carries a chicken to temple on lunar new year in Mt. Jizu.

When we finally drove into Shazhi, an ancient market town at the base of Mt. Jizu, the cloud-topped mountain backdrop provided a welcome change from the sub-urban dreariness we had passed through for the best part of the day. With a population of just 700 people, Shazhi was the perfect place to get an intimate look at how the New Year was celebrated in Yunnan, but because of Mt. Jizu’s spiritual significance, it was a popular enough destination so as to stay connected to the outside world.

“This place is very popular for New Years celebrations because we have so many temples on the mountain,” Li Zhangqing said. An elderly incense vendor who had lived at the base of the mountain his entire life, the customers looking over the massive quantities of fireworks on display in his shop foreshadowed the nature of the festivities to come. “This was one of the first places Buddha’s disciple visited when he came to China from India, and [where] he founded the first temple.”

Families gather at a local temple in Mt. Jizu, Yunan, China, to make offerings for the lunar New Year.

Families gather at a local temple in Mt. Jizu.

Though the most famous of Mt. Jizu’s temples were located high on the surrounding mountainsides, after the long trip we had just completed we didn’t have the energy to begin the trek. Luckily Shazhi had its own temples at a mercifully lower elevation, and the locals were putting them to use.

At the town’s central temple, families were arriving and departing steadily to make offerings, and nearly all of them came with a rooster or two tucked under their arm. The birds, heads on a constant twitching swivel, took in their surroundings with great suspicion – and for good reason. Feathers covered the walls of two small shrines near the temple’s main gate and the concrete beneath was splattered with blood.

A child stands over a pool of chicken blood during preparations for lunar new year in Mt. Jizu, Yunan, Tibet.

A child stands over a pool of chicken blood during preparations for lunar new year in Mt. Jizu.

After stepping into the temple itself to offer prayers, the families returned to these shrines to light incense and offer envelopes stuffed with (mostly fake) cash to the gods.  The roosters, seeming to sense their mortal danger, shifted uneasily under the firm grip of the hands that held them.

With practiced surety, each rooster’s neck was twisted to the breaking point before their throats were slit with cleavers or long knives. As their blood drained and they convulsed in the throws of death, their sacrifice was acknowledged solemnly by the families, who knelt around the shrines in prayer. No one, not even the smallest children, looked away from the gore, which added a layer of respect to the ceremony and demonstrated an understanding of the connection between death and food that has been largely lost throughout the world’s most developed countries.

A family prays before sacrificing chickens for lunar New Year in Mt. Jizu, Yunan, China.

A family prays before sacrificing chickens for lunar New Year.

A man sticks the feather of a sacrificed chicken to a temple wall as part of a lunar new year ceremony in Mt. Jizu, Yunan, China.

A man sticks the feather of a sacrificed chicken to a temple wall as part of a lunar new year ceremony.

Though it is never pleasant to witness the killing of a living creature, the process was humane; far less cruel than the horrendous conditions endured by animals in the battery farms of the modern world as they make their way to supermarket shelves.

Explosions Under the Holy Mountain

When the fireworks started to go off along Shazhi’s main street the sun was still high in the sky and we knew it would be a long night. The children started first, beside themselves with excitement at the prospect of an entire evening dedicated to blowing things up. There were even special children’s edition fireworks on hand, bearing brightly coloured designs from DreamWorks’ animated movie How to Train Your Dragon and other Hollywood hits.

A family gathers around a fire on lunar new year in Mt Jizu, Yunan, China.

A family gathers around a fire on lunar new year in Mt Jizu.

Boys toss firecrackers on lunar new years in Mt. Jizu, Yunan, China.

A family plays with sparklers and firecrackers on lunar new year in Mt. Jizu.

As soon as evening fell, the momentum began to build. It seemed as though every child in Shazhi was on the streets, flinging m-80 crackers into drainage ditches and firing bottle rockets haphazardly in every direction over the roofs of the town. From time to time one would emerge with a chain of 1000 or so firecrackers joined by a single fuse which, once detonated, choked the streets with acrid smoke. But the adults had yet to join in the fracas and were gathered calmly around small fires in front of their homes. From the way they doled out huge quantities of fireworks to the children, we knew that they were sitting on massive stockpiles and were almost certainly saving the best for last.

Starting at 10 p.m., an odd calm settled over the town. We stopped for tea at a small restaurant owned by 26-year-old Yang Zhong and asked tentatively if the celebrations were over for the night. “No,” he laughed, “they are just watching the Spring Festival Gala on TV. At midnight it will start.”

Boys toss firecrackers on lunar new years in Mt. Jizu, Yunan, China.

Boys toss firecrackers on lunar new years in Mt. Jizu.

Customers shop for firecrackers on lunar new years in Mt. Jizu, Yunan, China.

Customers shop for firecrackers on lunar new years in Mt. Jizu.

 

Ostensibly a variety comedy program, the annual TV special was sprinkled with factual educational messages from the state. One particularly long skit featured a People’s Liberation Army officer being reprimanded repeatedly for not marching with his legs at regulation height, meant to reassure citizens that even generals were expected to work hard.

But as we checked some Chinese social media sites, it was clear that not everyone was sold on the show’s realism. “This is not a spring festival gala, this is an annual conference for the party!” commented one user on WeChat.

At a quarter to midnight we found the most dedicated celebrators gathered in Shazhi’s public square, and between them they had amassed a formidable arsenal of explosives. From five kilogram coils of crackers to one metre long cardboard tubes that spewed flaming balls high into the night sky, once they started lighting things our ears didn’t stop ringing until well after the new year had passed.

Revelers light sparklers and firecrackers on lunar new year in Mt. Jizu, Yunan, China.

Revelers light sparklers and firecrackers on lunar new year in Mt. Jizu.

A street is littered with the exploded remains of firecrackers after lunar new year in Mt. Jizu, Yunan, China.

A street is littered with the exploded remains of firecrackers after lunar new year in Mt. Jizu.

As we walked back towards our guest house, the red husks of thousands of explosives crunched under our feet.

Early the next morning the town had reverted to some semblance of normalcy. The streets were still littered with debris and there were black scorch marks burned into the pavement that would likely not disappear until the next rainfall, but in all other respects the place was calm.

With the year of the monkey having begun in style, we left Shazhi and headed back to the Lancang to push further north, towards the great river’s source.

A River’s Tail is a year long collaborative multimedia journey exploring the Mekong river from sea to source. The following article originally appeared on the project’s main page and the images shown here represent only my part of the project’s creative output. To view the project as it was intended, I encourage you to visit the project’s main page by clicking here to follow the full journey.

Posted in A River's Tail, China, Environmental, The Mekong River, Water Tagged , , , , , , , , , |

Stuff I Liked This Month – August 2016

Like most people I seem to spend an inordinate amount of time on the internet reading articles, watching short videos, and looking for inspiration among the millions of new things uploaded everyday. While a lot of what is forced down our throats these days is clickbait trash, every once in a while I stumble across something genuinely of interest to me as a photojournalist, videographer, and more broadly as a human being.

I’m going to start posting a small selection of things I’ve come across at the end of every month (travel schedule permitting), in the hopes that others will find these things as helpful as I have and as part of an effort to share interesting work that isn’t necessarily my own.

Enjoy.

1. Listening to the Voices from the Hijabi World – Ed Kashi/Talking Eyes Media

Ed Kashi (VII Photo) is a household name for those in documentary photography, and is known as one of the hardest working and most committed photojournalists/filmmakers around. Ed has become a literal mentor to me (and 15 other emerging photojournalists and documentarians) as part of the three year advanced mentorship program I was lucky enough to be accepted to, and so I was able to see an advanced screening of this short film, produced by Talking Eyes Media, before it was officially released.

To me this video is emblematic of why Ed has been so successful in this hyper-competitive field. He has taken a complex and sometimes divisive topic (the stereotyping of Muslim women wearing the hijab in America) and presented it in a deceptively simple, yet hugely effective way. By giving the voice back to those people actually affected by this issue instead of asserting his own judgements and preconceptions, this film is far more successful in its objective than it might otherwise be.

2. The Fishermen of Elmina, Ghana by Tomasz Tomaszewski

A ritual happens in the fish market in Elmina at the beginning of the fishing season. It is supposed to influence in a positive way the harvest of the fish by local fisherman. © Tomasz Tomaszewski. Click on the image to see the full essay on Lens Culture.

A ritual happens in the fish market in Elmina at the beginning of the fishing season. It is supposed to influence in a positive way the harvest of the fish by local fisherman. © Tomasz Tomaszewski. Click on the image to see the full essay on Lens Culture.

Tomasz Tomaszewski is a photographer, a long time National Geographic contributor, and a photographic educator originally hailing from Poland. I came across this photo essay after a friend posted it on social media and I was immediately blown away by the imagery. Taking such a quiet and simple-seeming topic and producing such strong material is what makes a photographer great.

See the full essay here. 

3) Ego is the Enemy by Ryan Holiday

Screen Shot 2016-08-29 at 12.19.28 PM

I picked up the audio version of this book after hearing it repeatedly recommended on various podcasts and found it to be highly applicable to photojournalistic work. Not only is photography an industry which highly prizes the reputation and personal brand of the individual over the work that they do (see Magnum’s John Vink “The Photographer is Not a Hero”), but the pressures of expanding that ego can often lead to near nervous breakdowns for young people trying to get their foot in the door.

I personally have worked myself into fits of panic in the past because my social media following wasn’t big enough, or because I hadn’t appeared in the world’s most prestigious publications, or because someone had given me negative feedback on my work. While I have (mostly) been able to move past these types of unproductive obsessions over the last years, I found Ryan Holiday’s modern distillation of Stoic philosophical principles extremely applicable to this line of work.

A few takeaways I found especially useful:

  1. Always be a student. If you think that you’re the best at something, you’ll be unwilling to learn. Without being willing to learn, you’ll never improve. For anyone heading into their first (or hundredth) portfolio review, this is hugely important. I left the first formal photo critique I ever had feeling angry at the person for not loving my images, and in the end I missed a major opportunity to learn.
  2. You will always be unappreciated. Deal with it and work through it. One of the hardest things about breaking into the photojournalism world is that it seems as though no one is willing to give you a chance. Holiday’s point is that this is always the case, and it really shouldn’t matter. If you aren’t doing the work for yourself (i.e. your ego needs to be constantly stoked by the praise of others), then you probably shouldn’t be doing it at all.
  3. Know what you want. This was one of the most resonant chapters of this book for me personally. As Holiday says, if you don’t know what you are actually working towards, the default answer is always “more”. It is only recently that I have been able to see what I am actually trying to achieve in this line of work, and that has helped me filter out many distractions that used to drive me crazy.

I won’t go into to much detail as this book is very accessible and informative of its own accord, but I would highly recommend its lessons to anyone in the photojournalism or any other creative industry.

You can buy the book here.

4) The Boreal Bash – The Boreal Collective, Oaxaca Mexico. October 28-November 3, 2016.

The Boreal Collective is one of North America’s premiere documentary photography groups, and I’ve been fortunate enough to meet some of its members who were, beyond being talented photographers, very nice people. The Boreal Bash is an annual event that they organize that helps young photographers get feedback and inspiration at reasonable prices. In a time when photo workshops can often run into the thousands of dollars, the fact that this group puts in so much effort for so little money (relatively speaking) is a breath of fresh air.

Moreover, the fact that they are taking this show on the road to Mexico in an effort to bring photographic education to people who might not otherwise be able to access it is a wonderful gesture. If you’re just starting out and are looking for guidance, consider heading to Oaxaca this October or supporting their fundraising campaign.

5) What Makes a Good Life? – Lessons from the World’s Longest Study on Happiness from Harvard

I found this video through the always interesting Brainpickings blog curated by Maria Popova.

This TED Talk is by Robert Waldinger, the fourth director of a 75-year study on happiness by Harvard University. Researchers have tracked the lives of hundreds of people to try and determine what factors lead to a happy life. The answer they’ve found is both simple and perhaps cliche, but that doesn’t make it any less true. In a period where many young people see the road to happiness as being necessarily lined with fame and money, the findings of the study are highly relevant.

 

Posted in Blog, Photojournalism Tips Tagged , , , , , , |

Lancang River Fishing

A view of  the Lancang (Mekong) river in Jinglin, Yunan Province, China.

A view of the Lancang (Mekong) river in Jinglin, Yunan Province, China.

The first thing that grabbed our attention as we stepped off the bus in the tiny roadside community of Jinglin River Bridge was the richness of the Lancang’s surreal blue colour. Though we had noted the changing characteristics of the river since entering China, the narrow and swift flowing aquamarine channel at the bottom of a deep mountain valley was so utterly different to the lazy brown Mekong that we had known for the last year as to be nearly unrecognizable.

Later we would learn that the unnatural colour of the river was largely due to the loss of sediment because of China’s hydropower dams along the Lancang. But in our initial ignorance we did little but stand and stare down at the alien waterway, speechless as we took in the vast landscape.

A boat floats on a tributary of the Lancang (Mekong) river in Jinglin, Yunan, CHina

A boat floats on a tributary of the Lancang (Mekong) river in Jinglin, Yunan, China

The naming of Jinglin River Bridge was both literal and appropriate. Derived from the blending of Jinggu, the name of the county the town was located in, and Lancang, the community was visually defined by the impressively stark concrete bridges that spanned the river in several places. Though utilitarian and without ornament, the bridges were a reminder of the scope and scale of China’s infrastructural engineering projects. In Laos or Cambodia, with their aging and potholed highways, such roadworks would have been among the best in the country; but in China, even in an out of the way backwater, they were unremarkable.

We had stopped in Jinglin for two reasons. The first was geographical: this was the only major crossing point over the Lancang between the larger cities of Pu’er and Lincang, and the only route to access Yunnan’s mountainous north without suffering a lengthy detour to the east. The second reason was less practical and more hypothetical. Since arriving in China, we had yet to meet anyone intimately or directly engaging with the Lancang on a daily basis.

We had encountered tourists and retirees who enjoyed the river as a source of relaxation, farmers who irrigated their crops with its waters, and sand dredgers who plied its currents on immense metal hulks to bring its sandy bed to the surface, but none of the artisanal fishermen that had been so prevalent in the lower Mekong basin. If we were going to find such people in Yunnan, we reasoned, what better place to start looking than in a small village that had incorporated the river into its name?

A Revolutionary Welcome

“This revolutionary area welcomes you!” the Mandarin characters carved into the side of a large stone monument proclaimed in a historic reminder of the town’s political past.

Once the site of an important salt refinery, the area had been ground zero for the rising wave of discontentment among China’s lower classes over the inequality of wealth between themselves and their Kuomintang rulers. When the prices of salt rose to unaffordable levels, the rural poor formed themselves into small Communist militant groups which would later coalesce under Mao and take part in the Cultural Revolution that changed China’s political system forever.

Now, however, there were no signs of insurrection or rebellion, and the memories of those turbulent times were evidenced only in stone. It was the smell of fish, not class warfare, that permeated the morning air as we searched for a path down the steep mountain valley to the Lancang below.

A small market was spread out along the highway, offering travellers an opportunity to pick up fresh seafood before reaching their ultimate destinations, and the gathering of their parked cars gave the false impression of bustle to the town that was only transitory. The fish were live, splashing feebly in a few centimetres of water at the bottom of plastic buckets, and so we knew that fishermen could not be too far away.

Customers stop at a road side fish market in Jinglin, Yunan, China.

Customers stop at a road side fish market in Jinglin, Yunan, China.

Fish vendors sort their catch at a local market in Jinglin, Yunan province, China.

Fish vendors sort their catch at a local market in Jinglin, Yunan province, China.

Fish hang to dry at a local market near the Lancang (Mekong) river in Jinglin, Yunan, China.

Fish hang to dry at a local market near the Lancang (Mekong) river in Jinglin, Yunan, China.

When we eventually found our way down to the river’s edge, however, the fishing boats that lined the banks were devoid of crew or cargo. Instead we found a family of local tourists who had stopped to enjoy a picnic and some recreational fishing on the Lancang.

“I don’t really catch anything,” the father of the family said when we asked about his fishing rod, “it’s just for fun. If you want to see real fishermen, you could try coming back in the morning.” His teenage son, seemingly embarrassed by his father’s repeated attempts to offer us cigarettes and food, hurried away down the beach so as to not be drawn into the conversation. Having both survived the terrible awkwardness of being teenage boys, we empathized with his unease and left the family to their lunch.

Fish vendors spread their catch out to dry at a local market in Jinglin, Yunan province, China.

Fish vendors spread their catch out to dry at a local market in Jinglin, Yunan province, China.

A driver prepares to deliver fishermen's morning catch to local market in Jinglin, Yunan, China.

A driver prepares to deliver fishermen’s morning catch to local market in Jinglin, Yunan, China.

“The fishermen leave early in the morning,” 52-year-old Zhang Yun said in front of his hotel. We had left the river banks and returned to the town to see if someone could introduce us to an active commercial fisherman, and had gotten lucky when we met Zhang.

“They only started fishing here three years ago,” he continued. “Before the dam [near Simaogangzhen] was built the river moved too fast. 20 years ago if you jumped in here the currents would carry you away. It has changed a lot.” With that he pulled a cell phone from his pocket and made a call to a friend.

“Go to the river early tomorrow morning and he will meet you there,” Zhang said. “He can take you fishing.”

Unnatural Stilness

Though the sky was still dark and the rising sun obscured by the high valley walls, the banks of the Lancang were a hive of activity compared to the previous afternoon. Boats were already returning from the day’s fishing and the small crews worked together to weigh and sort their catch.

Fishermen weigh their morning's catch before delivering it to market on a Lancang (Mekong) tributary in Jinglin, Yunan, China.

Fishermen weigh their morning’s catch before delivering it to market on a Lancang (Mekong) tributary in Jinglin, Yunan, China.

Fishermen haul their catch ashore on a Lancang (Mekong) river tributary in Jinglin, Yunan province, China.

Fishermen haul their catch ashore on a Lancang (Mekong) river tributary in Jinglin, Yunan province, China.

“This has only been possible since the dam,” a husband-and-wife fishing team told us as they hefted baskets of tiny shrimp and whitefish onto a set of digital scales, confirming what Zhang had said the previous day. “Before [the dam] you couldn’t catch anything. We worked as sugar cane famers, but this is better money. We work for two or three hours and can get 30kg of shrimp a day and sell them for 24 Yuan per kilo.”

If what they said was accurate, a morning’s fishing could earn the couple more than $100 USD – vastly more than the small scale river fishermen we had encountered earlier in our journey who often survived on just a few dollars a day.

A fishermen checks his net on a tributary of the Lancang (Mekong) river in Jinglin, Yunan, China.

A fishermen checks his net on a tributary of the Lancang (Mekong) river in Jinglin, Yunan, China.

A fishermen pulls in his net on a tributary of the Lancang (Mekong) river in Jinglin, Yunan, China.

A fishermen pulls in his net on a tributary of the Lancang (Mekong) river in Jinglin, Yunan, China.

When Su Youdong, the fisherman Zhang Yun had called for us the day before, arrived at the river’s edge, the sun had not yet risen high enough to lessen the bite of the morning chill. As we boarded his boat to set out on the Lancang, the cold metal benches stung our legs through the fabric of our pants. An ethereal mist blanketed the water, and the mountains rose on both sides of the river valley to create a sense of place that felt prehistoric. Only the sound of the boat engine and the presence of the concrete bridges far overhead reminded us of the modern world.

“I’ve been fishing since the dam was built,” Su said as he worked the outboard motor to manoeuvre around unseen nets submerged just under the river’s surface. “I’ve got ten nets in the river, and I still catch plenty of fish. But the rare and expensive species are gone – now I catch mainly common species, like tilapia and carp. There are more and more people fishing here, so we catch less.”

As Su’s boat navigated the Lancang, there seemed to be fishing vessels around every bend. But if there was any animosity between fishermen over the dwindling species diversity, they did not express it. Instead they called out to each other cheerfully and chatted in passing about the quality and quantity of their catches.

Fishermen take a break to smoke tobacco through a water pipe near Jinglin, Yunan, China.

Fishermen take a break to smoke tobacco through a water pipe near Jinglin, Yunan, China.

This was not a traditional source of livelihood, passed down through the generations as was the case for families on Cambodia’s Tonle Sap lake or near the Khone waterfalls and 4000 Islands of southern Laos. This was a recent and unnatural boom made possible by the taming of the river’s currents by hydroelectric dams, and local residents were taking advantage of the bonanza while it lasted. We knew from previous conversations with biologists that dams almost always disrupted the migration of river fish and that once depleted it was unlikely that stocks in the area would rebound. But for now, Su and his friends were enjoying the unexpected boon and not dwelling on thoughts of the future.

This would be the first and only time we encountered Lancang river fishing in China on any sort of scale, and we knew that if we returned in ten years it was unlikely that this pop-up industry would still be thriving. In China, we were continually learning, the Lancang was not a source of primary livelihood for individual families, but rather a force to be tamed for the development of the nation.

But from where we sat, watching the fishermen pull their nets from the piercing blue water, that knowledge didn’t make the landscape any less beautiful.

Posted in A River's Tail, Blog, China, Environmental, The Mekong River, Water Tagged , , , , , |

Pu’er Tea: Worth Its Weight in Silver

Tea fields in Pu'er, Yunan province, China. Pu'er tea is some of the most sought after and expensive tea in the world, with the best varieties being worth more than their weight in silver.

Tea fields in Pu’er, Yunan province, China.

“If you bought this in the store, it would cost you hundreds of dollars,” Luo Jie said as he poured out small cups of steaming Pu’er tea. “It has been aged for more than 10 years, and it is some of the most expensive in the world.”

A thin, soft-spoken 40-year-old veteran tea picker, Luo had invited us into his home at the base of Pu’er’s rolling hills where some of China’s most prized tea is grown. With premium varieties of regional tea being worth more than their weight in silver, the fact that Luo was refilling glass after glass of the stuff was an act of generosity not lost on us. The tea was so valuable that armed citizen militias have built checkpoints in certain key areas to police its movement.

But we had not come to Pu’er to buy (or steal, for that matter) tea. We had come only to observe, deviating from the Lancang for a few days to learn how one of the world’s most popular teas was produced.

The Rise of Pu’er

“Pu’er has changed so much,” Luo said, constantly monitoring our tea cups and refilling them whenever they were less than half full. “The buildings used to be small and simple, but now there are high-rises everywhere. But in all that time, the process of picking tea has not changed.”

Luo’s home, provided by the tea company he worked for, was a modest concrete structure and one of many in a long rows of identical units that housed a variety of tea workers from pickers to packers. While not squalid by any means, it was clear from looking around Luo’s home that tea picking was not a particularly lucrative profession.

Luc and a friend prepare to make Pu'er tea.

Luo and a friend prepare to make Pu’er tea.

Yet over the course of the hour we spent talking with him, he offered us nearly every conceivable consumable item he possessed – chilled coconut water, fried pork, cigarettes, sunflower seeds, and, of course, tea – with a hospitality bordering on obsessiveness.

“Because I’ve been working here so long [the company] allows me to take time off to go work another job so I have enough money,” Luo said. After spending for most of his youth as a construction worker in Laos and Myanmar, he returned to China and the tea plantations 10 years ago, and had been picking ever since. Despite his seniority, however, his salary was just 1000 Yuan (roughly $150 USD) per month – a meagre sum with which to support a family in the increasingly expensive economy of modern China. He and his wife (also tea picker) had to work second jobs in order to provide for their children. “My children are teenagers, so they need money. Teenagers always need money.”

Tea pickers wash their clothes from a well provided by the tea company. Despite the great value of Pu'er tea, the workers live with very little modern conveniences.

Tea pickers wash their clothes from a well provided by the tea company. Despite the great value of Pu’er tea, the workers live with very little modern conveniences.

If Luo felt any sense of moral outrage about having to work multiple jobs despite the huge value of the crop he picked, he did not express it. Instead he refilled our glasses, and continued to offer us any and every edible item on hand.

Away from the plantations, in the heart of Pu’er city, the Cha Yuan (tea source) market was mostly empty, with the majority of customers having left the city in the days leading up to the lunar new year. Despite this relative quiet, the booming business conducted around the buying and selling of tea was still apparent.

Customers visit a vendor in the Pu'er tea market, Yunan, China. Pu'er tea is some of the most sought after and expensive tea in the world, with the best varieties being worth more than their weight in silver.

Customers visit a vendor in the Pu’er tea market, Yunan, China. Pu’er tea is some of the most sought after and expensive tea in the world, with the best varieties being worth more than their weight in silver.

Customers visit a vendor in the Pu'er tea market, Yunan, China. Pu'er tea is some of the most sought after and expensive tea in the world, with the best varieties being worth more than their weight in silver.

Customers visit a vendor in the Pu’er tea market, Yunan, China. Pu’er tea is some of the most sought after and expensive tea in the world, with the best varieties being worth more than their weight in silver.

Small-scale vendors sat in the open air displaying plastic sacks filled with loose-leaf teas of varying quality. The most expensive tea, however, was sold in larger shops that ringed the market, packaged imperiously in velvet-lined boxes and commanding prices into the thousands of dollars depending on the age of the leaves. Three grams of tea dating back to the Qing dynasty was reportedly sold at auction for around $30 000 USD.

All manner of accessories were also on sale. Entire warehouses were devoted to the selling of tables, presumably intended for tea services, from small ornate squares that were just tall enough to sit cross-legged around, to enormous five meter long varnished slabs of wood hewn from the trunk of a single tree. Delicate porcelain tea pots, decorated with intricate brush work stood on display stands, clashing strangely with counterfeit Nike-branded kettles.

A vendor sits by her wares at the tea market in Pu'er, Yunan province, China. Pu'er tea is some of the most sought after and expensive tea in the world, with the best varieties being worth more than their weight in silver.

A vendor sits by her wares at the tea market in Pu’er, Yunan province, China. Pu’er tea is some of the most sought after and expensive tea in the world, with the best varieties being worth more than their weight in silver.

In Pu’er, tea meant money for those who knew how to capitalize on it.

No Water, Just Tea

There was no denying the scenic beauty of Pu’er’s tea plantations. Whether grown in India, Sri Lanka, China, or Japan, the best teas only flourish at high altitude. Though perhaps not as spectacular as some of these tea growing regions, such as the mountainous foothills of the Himalayas in Darjeeling, India, Pu’er’s rolling green hills lined with orderly rows of tea bushes were quiet and peaceful, bathed as they were in warm evening light.

Tea fields in Pu'er, Yunan province, China. Pu'er tea is some of the most sought after and expensive tea in the world, with the best varieties being worth more than their weight in silver.

Tea fields in Pu’er, Yunan province, China.

Small groups of pickers moved between the rows, woven baskets slung across their backs that they filled with one handful of tea leaves at a time. They chatted and joked as they worked; like Luo Jie they exhibited no signs of discontentment at the hard labour they were required to perform in exchange for nominal pay. There was work to be done year round, they told us, and only in December did the picking stop for a month when the bushes needed to be trimmed. The rows were weeded and pruned constantly to ensure that the maximum amount of nutrients reached the vibrant green leaves.

Despite being almost 100km from the main channel of the Lancang, Pu’er was still connected to the river. The Simao river flowed along the western edge of the city, which linked to the Pu’er river to the north, which in turn connected to the Xiaohei river, which was a tributary of the Lancang. But as we spoke to the pickers, trying to establish a connection between the Lancang and the world-famous tea, we learned that the hardy plants did not need much help from rivers to survive.

A worker picks tea in Pu'er, Yunan province, China. Pu'er tea is some of the most sought after and expensive tea in the world, with the best varieties being worth more than their weight in silver.

A worker picks tea in Pu’er, Yunan province, China.

A worker shows some harvested tea leaves in Pu'er, Yunan province, China. Pu'er tea is some of the most sought after and expensive tea in the world, with the best varieties being worth more than their weight in silver.

A worker shows some harvested tea leaves in Pu’er, Yunan province, China.

 

“Only young plants need irrigation,” 56-year-old tea picker Li Guang Fu told us. Resplendent in a spectacular fur hat, Li had been working in the tea fields for more than 20 years. When he first moved to Pu’er there were only two types of tea grown, but now, he said, there were eight varieties – none of which needed much help in the way of water. “We pipe in water from an underground reservoir for the young plants during the dry season [in February and March], but the old plants are fine without it. We get enough rainfall here.”

The water from this reservoir was not safe for human consumption, Li said, and instead drinking water came from mountain springs, pure enough to be drunk directly from the tap. But the freshness of the mountain water didn’t matter to him, Li said with a grin.

“I don’t drink water. Only tea.”

A River’s Tail is a year long collaborative multimedia journey exploring the Mekong river from sea to source. The following article originally appeared on the project’s main page and the images shown here represent only my part of the project’s creative output. To view the project as it was intended, I encourage you to visit the project’s main page by clicking here to follow the full journey.

Posted in A River's Tail, Blog, China, The Mekong River Tagged , , , , , |

Bananas on the Lancang

Passengers board a small ferry that moves between Simaogangzhen and Mengkwang villages.

Passengers board a small ferry that moves between Simaogangzhen and Mengkwang villages.

When we piled into the tiny boat that shuttled passengers across the Lancang between Simaogang and Mengkwang villages, we thought we were setting out for a walk in the mountains. But as had happened so often on this journey, the day had other plans for us.

“We’re all going to pick bananas,” one of the other passengers said, “why don’t you join us?”

We’d seen the vast plantations lining the river banks during the several days we’d spend documenting the process of dredging sand from the Lancang, and had already decided to have a look at them eventually, but the unexpected invitation changed our timeline.

We could see lengths of pipe running from the rows of banana trees to the river below, so we knew that there was a connection between the water and fruit. And since we’d decided at the project’s inception that we would remain flexible to whatever opportunities presented themselves and not adhere too rigidly to any sort of schedule, accepting the invitation seemed like the only sensible thing to do.

Picking Season

“We can only pick for half the year,” a worker said as we walked through the outskirts of the plantation, “so you came at a good time.”

Banana factory workers rise in the early morning to begin work in the village of Mengkwang, along the banks of the Lancang (Mekong) river. Yunan, China.

Banana factory workers rise in the early morning to begin work in the village of Mengkwang, along the banks of the Lancang (Mekong) river. Yunan, China.

Banana factory workers rise in the early morning to begin work in the village of Mengkwang, along the banks of the Lancang (Mekong) river. Yunan, China.

Banana factory workers rise in the early morning to begin work in the village of Mengkwang, along the banks of the Lancang (Mekong) river. Yunan, China.

After another 10 minutes of walking, the trees parted to reveal a sheet metal shed that served as a bunk house for workers that had no homes in the nearby village. The sun was still not yet fully above the horizon, and once the sleepy workers had gotten over their surprise at seeing two foreigners emerge out of the gloom, they returned to their morning routines. Some brushed their teeth in silence using water from a tap that gushed fresh mountain spring water (water from the Lancang was good for watering crops, they said, but too dirty for human consumption) while others sat wrapped in blankets sipping tea and eating steamed dumplings. The atmosphere was more like a large extended family waking in their shared house than a job site, and it seemed as though this group had been together for some time.

“This is collective work,” said a young manager named Wang Jing. “We move between plantations when there is picking [to be done], and we get paid based on how many trucks we can fill in a day. The price per truck is 100 Yuan (around $15 USD at current rates), and in a good day we can do 1.5 trucks.”

By 8 a.m. the morning’s eating and grooming had finished. A large open topped transport truck reversed into the clearing and the whole team sprang into action, loading it with tightly wrapped bundles of straw from a storage building attached to their living quarters.

Workers load bundles of insulation into a truck in Magkwang village, Yunan, China. The insulation will be used to keep picked bananas warm during transportation.

Workers load bundles of insulation into a truck in Magkwang village, Yunan, China. The insulation will be used to keep picked bananas warm during transportation.

“It’s cold now, so we have to cover the bananas when they are transported,” Wang said in explanation.

Once the truck had been filled with enough straw, the workers jumped on board for the ride to the plantation. A few minutes later, no one seeming to mind being tossed around violently as the vehicle bounced over holes in the narrow dirt road, the truck arrived at the plantation’s central packing house and the team spread out to their various stations.

The pickers, exclusively men who wore military style camouflage jackets, fanned out into the tree line and we struggled to keep up, stumbling repeatedly on the uneven ground. The trees were heavy with bananas, the bunches wrapped in layers of insulation and plastic to keep them protected from the cold and hungry insects. The fruits inside were perfect looking (albeit not yet ripe), the text book image of what a banana should be shaped like.

By contrast, those few bunches that were not wrapped in the plastic had been ruined by the winter air. Shrivelled and pathetic looking, mottled with black spots, and a fraction of the size, they did not look fit for the shelves of the world’s supermarkets and the demanding preferences of the modern shopper.

Workers harvest bananas on a plantation in Mengkwang village, Yunan, China.

Workers harvest bananas on a plantation in Mengkwang village.

Though the mechanics of getting the bananas from the trees were simple, the strength and stamina of the pickers was impressive. For every 10 men, one was equipped with long shaft of wood tipped with a dangerous looking curved blade. The men readied themselves under the low-hanging bunches, testing the weight on their shoulders, and then called out for a cutter who would appear instantly to hack deftly at the tree until the fruit fell free. Pausing only for a moment to get their balance, the men sped away with the 25kg loads, showing no outward signs of strain.

Workers harvest bananas on a plantation in Mengkwang village, Yunan, China.

A worker chops a bunch of bananas from a tree using a curved blade attached to a pole.

Workers harvest bananas on a plantation in Mengkwang village, Yunan, China.

Workers harvest bananas on a plantation in Mengkwang village.

Workers harvest bananas on a plantation in Mengkwang village, Yunan, China.

A worker slides bunches of bananas along a rail that leads to a nearby packhorse.

A network of metal arches joined by a greased rail snaked through the plantation, and the senior man on the crew stood by with inverted hooks mounted to a base of small wheels that fitted onto the track. One by one the men attached the heavy bunches to the hooks and after hearing a monosyllabic bark from their foreman, let their burdens drop to sway beneath the rail. Periodically the bunches were pushed forwards along the track, which wound its way through the rows of trees until eventually reaching the packing shed.

Stopping once an hour for a five minute cigarette break, and for an hour at lunch, the team otherwise worked without interruption from sunrise to sunset. As we rarely lifted anything heavier than a camera for any length of time, we were more than a little impressed by their endurance.

Artificial Perfection and the Cycle of Trade

As the bananas arrived at the pack house, the place buzzed with activity. In one corner a group of young women worked robotically to assemble cardboard boxes that would hold the bananas for their trip to market, wielding their industrial tape guns with practiced speed. The bulk of people, however, had formed into an assembly line to process and pack the fruit before loading it onto a waiting truck.

Workers unload bunches of bananas to be divided and given a chemical ripening bath.

Workers unload bunches of bananas to be divided and given a chemical ripening bath.

As soon as the bananas were pulled from the track, they were set upon by knife-wielding workers who hacked the bunches into manageable sections. These were passed down the line to others who had donned thick rubber gloves before submerging them in a noxious grey-tinted chemical bath.

“It makes them turn yellow,” Gao Yanhong, the owner of the factory had told us after seeing our confusion. We’d watched several men that morning empty packets of an unknown powder into the tubs, but hadn’t understood their purpose until now. As with most fruit destined for far away consumption, the bananas were picked prematurely and were still a deep green colour. But green bananas are harder to sell than vibrant yellow ones, and the chemicals ensured that by the time they reached the urban supermarkets near Beijing they would have transformed to meet the taste of buyers.

Workers add a chemical mixture to water on a plantation near Mengkwang village, Yunan, China. The mixture causes freshly picked bananas to ripen unaturally quickly so they are ready for sale by the time they reach market.

Workers add a chemical mixture to water on a plantation near Mengkwang village, Yunan, China. The mixture causes freshly picked bananas to ripen unaturally quickly so they are ready for sale by the time they reach market.

Bananas are given a chemical bath to speed up the ripening process on a plantation in Mengkwang village, Yunan, China.

Bananas are given a chemical bath to speed up the ripening process.

While we too were guilty of preferring yellow bananas to green ones, and had come to expect near perfection from the produce we bought, this was a part of the agricultural process that we wished we had not seen. We had no idea what chemicals were being used, but we resolved wash our fruit more carefully in the future.

Shining and wet from their ripening bath, the bananas were then placed into boxes bearing the elephant logo of the fruit company and stacked in the bed of the truck. When full, five or six hours later, the truck would depart for the megacities of the east.

Workers assemble cardboard boxes to be filled with bananas at a plantation in Mengkwang village, Yunan, China.Workers assemble cardboard boxes to be filled with bananas at a plantation in Mengkwang village, Yunan, China.

Workers assemble cardboard boxes to be filled with bananas.

Workers load collapsed cardboard banana boxes on to a truck in Mengkwang village, Yunan, China. They will be assembled and packed at a nearby fruit processing facility.

Workers load collapsed cardboard banana boxes on to a truck in Mengkwang village, Yunan, China. They will be assembled and packed at a nearby fruit processing facility.

A worker loads packed boxes of bananas on a truck to be shipped to market in Mengkwang village, Yunan, China.

A worker loads packed boxes of bananas on a truck to be shipped to markets.

In fact, the cycle of transport was surprisingly complex. These bananas, which began their life in the small village of Mengkwang, watered by the blue-grey water of the Lancang, were destined for Shanxi province, located just to the west of Beijing, nearly 3000 km away. Once the bananas were offloaded in Shanxi, the truck was refilled with apples, which do not grow well in the hotter provinces to the southwest. Then, 1200km to the south, the apples were sold in Hunan province and the truck loaded once again, this time with oranges. The oranges then travelled more than 1300km to Kunming, the largest city in Yunnan province, where the cold winters prevented the large-scale growing of citrus fruits. With this cargo safely offloaded, the truck drivers would then collect local mail from the post offices of Kunming before returning once again to Mengkwang to start the cycle over again.

The Banana plantations of Mengkwang village, Yunan, China.

The Banana plantations of Mengkwang village, Yunan, China.

Though perhaps this process was nothing out of the ordinary in the modern age of globalization and international trade, as we sat under the shade of a banana tree on the banks of the Lancang, it seemed incredible nevertheless.

Moving into the future, we resolved, we needed to be more cognizant of the incredible journeys our food underwent before reaching our tables. That, and to always wash our fruit.

Posted in A River's Tail, Blog, China, Environmental, The Mekong River, Water Tagged , , , , , |

Dredging the Lancang

Sand dredgers work along the banks of the Lancang (Mekong) river in Simaogangzhen, Yunan, China. The dredged sand is sold locally and to large scale construction sites in nearby major cities such as Kunming and Jinhong.

Sand dredgers work along the banks of the Lancang.

In the golden light of dawn the rusted bolts and gears of the ship’s aging crane screamed in protest as load after load of wet Lancang sand was lifted into the hold of the dredging barges. All along the waterfront of the small town of Simaogang dredgers of differing sizes worked the river’s banks. From atop a concrete wall high above the thrum, the company’s owner, Mr. Shen, watched his fleet begin another day.

Sand dredgers line the shore of the Lancang (Mekong) river in Simaogangzhen, Yunan, China. The dredged sand is sold locally and to large scale construction sites in nearby major cities such as Kunming and Jinhong.

Mr Shen (left) surveys his dredging fleet.

The decision to visit Simaogang, like so many we had made during the production of A River’s Tail, was made more or less at random. We had left the major city of Jinghong so we could follow the Lancang north towards the border of the Tibetan autonomous region, but among the many towns that lined the banks of the river in Yunnan province we had been at a loss for where to go. Online searches had given us little insight into which would be the most suitable places to learn about contemporary issues facing the river, and so we had settled on Simaogang simply because a decision had to be made.

After a day of travel on a series of local busses, we reached the small town and headed to the river to see if our decision had been a good one.

We’d already seen the potential effects that sand dredging could have on riparian communities when we’d visited a Cambodian village that was literally dropping into the Mekong one meter at a time, so when we saw the dredgers arrayed before us in Simaogang, we knew we had found a story.

Sunup to Sundown

As the sun rose at 8 a.m. (all of China operates under the same time zone as Beijing, resulting in especially late mornings in the country’s western provinces), workers gathered at the river’s edge to sip tea and chat before taking to their boats. Many had their hoods drawn tightly around their faces to ward off the morning chill, most chain smoking and not yet fully awake.

Sand dredgers try to keep warm before the day's work begins in the town of Simaogangzhen, Yunan, China. The dredged sand is sold locally and to large scale construction sites in nearby major cities such as Kunming and Jinhong.

Sand dredgers try to keep warm before the day’s work begins in the town of Simaogangzhen, Yunan, China. The dredged sand is sold locally and to large scale construction sites in nearby major cities such as Kunming and Jinhong.

The captain of a sand dredging vessel mans the cockpit in the early morning in the town of Simaogangzhen, Yunan, China.  The dredged sand is sold locally and to large scale construction sites in nearby major cities such as Kunming and Jinhong.

The captain of a sand dredging vessel mans the cockpit in the early morning.

The process of dredging the Lancang’s sand was a relatively simple one. Whether by sucking the sand from the river bottom through snaking lengths of piping or simply lifting it up between the teeth of metal buckets, the methods employed by the crew of Mr. Shen’s boats to get sand out of the water and onto land were little more than the industrial manifestation of a playing child’s imagination.

At a signal from Mr. Shen, the day’s work began. Those standing on the river banks climbed aboard their vessels and moved below decks to start diesel engines that rumbled to life, shattering the morning quiet. The largest of the dredgers slipped their mooring lines and reversed slowly into deeper water while smaller boats stayed close to land, their cranes swinging in and out of the water with practiced speed.

Sand dredgers line the shore of the Lancang (Mekong) river in Simaogangzhen, Yunan, China. The dredged sand is sold locally and to large scale construction sites in nearby major cities such as Kunming and Jinhong.

A supervisor shouts instructions to boat crews from the shore.

Sand dredgers line the shore of the Lancang (Mekong) river in Simaogangzhen, Yunan, China. The dredged sand is sold locally and to large scale construction sites in nearby major cities such as Kunming and Jinhong.

Workers move across their boats.

Huge conveyor belts mounted on steel dollies were shifted into position until they overlapped perfectly, creating a continuous moving pathway from ship to shore. Teams of two used long metal shovels to feed the sand accumulating in the open air holds onto the first belt in the chain. The belts were angled upwards at roughly 40 degrees, and along them the sand travelled into the air until reaching the terminus and falling 10 meters below to the next belt.

Sand dredgers work along the banks of the Lancang (Mekong) river in Simaogangzhen, Yunan, China. The dredged sand is sold locally and to large scale construction sites in nearby major cities such as Kunming and Jinhong.

Sand dredgers work along the banks of the Lancang (Mekong) river in Simaogangzhen, Yunan, China.

Conveyor belts move sand from the dredging boats to the shore for drying. The dredged sand is sold locally and to large scale construction sites in nearby major cities such as Kunming and Jinhong.

Conveyor belts move sand from the dredging boats to the shore for drying.

At the end of the chain the sand was piled in great mounds, cascading down the sides in a series of endless avalanches. A steady stream of motley vehicles – from full sized dump trucks to small tractors with homemade buckets welded to their chassis – queued along the wharf awaiting their turn to be filled with sand by the single ceaselessly working bulldozer.

Mr. Shen paced along the waterfront throughout the day, supervising the operation and ordering adjustments to the position of the conveyor belts when necessary. Apart from a short break for noodles and tea at midday, the work continued uninterrupted until the sun set at 7p.m.

Conveyor belts move sand from the dredging boats to the shore for drying. The dredged sand is sold locally and to large scale construction sites in nearby major cities such as Kunming and Jinhong.

Conveyor belts move sand from the dredging boats to the shore for drying.

A man shovels spilled sand onto a conveyor belts which moves sand from the dredging boats to the shore for drying. The dredged sand is sold locally and to large scale construction sites in nearby major cities such as Kunming and Jinhong.

A man shovels spilled sand onto a conveyor belts which moves sand from the dredging boats to the shore for drying.

Trucks are loaded with dredged sand in the town of Simaogangzhen, Yunan, China. The dredged sand is sold locally and to large scale construction sites in nearby major cities such as Kunming and Jinhong.

Trucks are loaded with dredged sand.

A truck is loaded with dredged sand in the town of Simaogangzhen, Yunan, China. The dredged sand is sold locally and to large scale construction sites in nearby major cities such as Kunming and Jinhong.

A truck is loaded with dredged sand.

The workers were not locals. Most were, like Mr. Shen, from Kunming – 500km to the northeast – and so had no close friends or family in Simaogang apart from their fellow labourers. The small rooms they lived in, while fairly well built and tidy, were not exactly homely and so the men (the operation employed no women save a single cook) spent most of their free time in the communal dining area drinking tea or clustered around a shared mahjong table.

At night most ventured into the town to play pool or drink a few beers, but the tiny town did not offer much in the way of nightlife. When we asked the men how they felt about living and working away from their families, the company’s accountant spoke for the group: “It’s a good job and it is only 6 hours back to Kunming. I used to work in Laos, and that was much further.”

The crew of a sand dredging vessel relax by playing pool at the end of their workday in Simaogangzhen, Yunan, China.

The crew of a sand dredging vessel relax by playing pool at the end of their workday.

We left the men to their pool and smoking, knowing that we would see them all again the next morning when the dredging began anew.

Outpacing Demand

Sand, one of the planets most unglamorous resources, is something most people pay little attention to. It is unremarkable to look at and seemingly everywhere in great quantities and so its importance is often overlooked. But without sand, there can be no concrete, and without concrete, there are no new apartment buildings for the world’s increasingly urbanized population to live in. And contrary to to how it may seem while sitting on the a beach, it is not available in limitless supply. It is a finite resource like any other and it must be collected from somewhere before it reaches the world’s construction sites.

A truck is loaded with dredged sand in the town of Simaogangzhen, Yunan, China. The dredged sand is sold locally and to large scale construction sites in nearby major cities such as Kunming and Jinhong.

A truck is loaded with dredged sand on the banks of the Lancang.

“Sometimes the river moves very fast, and it is harder to collect the sand,” Mr. Shen said as he watched his ships perform the monotonous act of bringing the Lancang’s sand to the surface. The 53-year-old had worked in a wire factory in Kunming for most of his life before starting the dredging business several years earlier, seeing an opportunity to supply the building material so essential in a nation that has some of the highest rates of urban construction in the world.

With around a dozen vessels of varying sizes under his command, his company seemed to have grown incredibly quickly in its few years of existence. But Mr. Shen seemed reluctant to reveal how he had built such a substantial enterprise in such a short time on the savings of a factory worker, so we did not press him too heavily for this information. However he had done it, his ships were extracting more than 1500 tonnes of river sand each day, year round.

A driver hauls a load of sand to a constrcution site in Simaogangzhen, Yunan, China. The dredged sand is sold locally and to large scale construction sites in nearby major cities such as Kunming and Jinhong.

A driver hauls a load of sand to a constrcution site in Simaogangzhen.

A driver hauls a load of sand to a constrcution site in Simaogangzhen, Yunan, China. The dredged sand is sold locally and to large scale construction sites in nearby major cities such as Kunming and Jinhong.

A driver hauls a load of sand to a constrcution site in Simaogangzhen. The dredged sand is sold locally and to large scale construction sites in nearby major cities such as Kunming and Jinhong.

While some of this sand was needed for local construction purposes, most of it was transported to the regional capital, Jinghong, to fuel China’s massive housing and infrastructure building industries. However, Mr. Shen said, these sectors were slowing, and bringing his profits down with them.

Construction workers use sand dredged from the Lancang (Mekong) river to make concrete, which will be used to build a new road near Simaogangzhen, Yunan, China.

Construction workers use sand dredged from the Lancang (Mekong) river to make concrete, which will be used to build a new road.

“Two years ago a ton of sand used to sell for 40 Yuan (roughly $6 US), but now the price is just 24 Yuan. We used to ship it all by boat [along the Lancang] to Jinghong, but now there is no demand. I hope it will go back up after the new year.”

With ghost towns of hundreds of thousands of empty apartments sitting on the outskirts of many major cities, it was difficult to know when China’s construction market might rebound, but for the time being, Mr. Shen and his fleet would continue to bring the Lancang’s sand to market.

A River’s Tail is a year long collaborative multimedia journey exploring the Mekong river from sea to source. The following article originally appeared on the project’s main page and the images shown here represent only my part of the project’s creative output. To view the project as it was intended, I encourage you to visit the project’s main page by clicking here to follow the full journey.

Posted in A River's Tail, Blog, China, Environmental, The Mekong River, Water Tagged , , , , , , |