January 26, 2026
兴坪古镇 - 鱼鹰夜捕
As night fell in Yangshuo, we signed up for an activity that none of us really knew how to imagine. It sounded intriguing on paper, but nothing prepared me for how unforgettable it would be. Looking back now, this was easily one of the highlights of the entire trip.
We crossed the Li River just as the last light faded from the sky. The mountains slowly disappeared into darkness, leaving only their silhouettes behind. On the other side, the fisherman and his wife were already waiting for us, calm and quiet, together with their flock of cormorants. There was something deeply reassuring about the way they stood there, as if they had done this a thousand times before, which of course they had.
We were guided onto a double bamboo raft and seated behind the fisherman. Once we pushed off, the world around us almost completely vanished. It was pitch dark. No city lights. No noise. The only light came from the torch fixed to the fisherman’s forehead, cutting a narrow beam across the water.
With gentle movements, the fisherman guided the birds into the river. One by one, they dived into the darkness, their bodies disappearing silently beneath the surface. When they emerged, you could see a quick flash of silver in their beaks. The birds had strings tied around their necks, preventing them from swallowing the fish. Each time they returned, the fisherman calmly reached out and removed the catch, dropping it into a bamboo basket at his feet.
We sat there quietly, wrapped in the cold night air, watching this ancient rhythm unfold. The raft drifted slowly. Water lapped softly against the bamboo. Every so often, a bird would flap its wings, sending droplets into the light. An hour passed like this, suspended in darkness and stillness.
It was cold. It was silent. It was mesmerising. There was no performance, no exaggeration, just a fisherman, his birds, the river, and the night. As we made our way back, I realised how rare it is to experience something so raw and so real while travelling. This was a glimpse into a way of life that I will remember for a very long time.
We crossed the Li River just as the last light faded from the sky. The mountains slowly disappeared into darkness, leaving only their silhouettes behind. On the other side, the fisherman and his wife were already waiting for us, calm and quiet, together with their flock of cormorants. There was something deeply reassuring about the way they stood there, as if they had done this a thousand times before, which of course they had.
We were guided onto a double bamboo raft and seated behind the fisherman. Once we pushed off, the world around us almost completely vanished. It was pitch dark. No city lights. No noise. The only light came from the torch fixed to the fisherman’s forehead, cutting a narrow beam across the water.
With gentle movements, the fisherman guided the birds into the river. One by one, they dived into the darkness, their bodies disappearing silently beneath the surface. When they emerged, you could see a quick flash of silver in their beaks. The birds had strings tied around their necks, preventing them from swallowing the fish. Each time they returned, the fisherman calmly reached out and removed the catch, dropping it into a bamboo basket at his feet.
We sat there quietly, wrapped in the cold night air, watching this ancient rhythm unfold. The raft drifted slowly. Water lapped softly against the bamboo. Every so often, a bird would flap its wings, sending droplets into the light. An hour passed like this, suspended in darkness and stillness.
It was cold. It was silent. It was mesmerising. There was no performance, no exaggeration, just a fisherman, his birds, the river, and the night. As we made our way back, I realised how rare it is to experience something so raw and so real while travelling. This was a glimpse into a way of life that I will remember for a very long time.
