Hard to Swallow: The ‘Fake Meat’ Dilemma Facing Chinese Herders (English Version)
A selected work from Foodthink’s 2024 Collaborative Creation Project‘Fake Meat Displaces Real Meat: Dining Tables, Herders, and the Amazon’ The English version has been officially published on Sixth Tone, the English-language platform of The Paper, with some content edited from the original. Our thanks to the editors at Sixth Tone and to all our readers for their support!
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With the influx of cheap imported meat, nomadic herders are having to tighten their belts. Some cannot even afford to eat their own livestock.
By Wei Yiran and Phagpa Sherab
Editor’s note: Wei Yiran and Phagpa Sherab are PhD candidates in environmental management at Peking University. This article is based on their field research exploring the influence of imported meat on herders and the meat industry ecosystem in pastoral regions on China’s western Qinghai-Tibet Plateau.
“Herders of my generation are all addicted to eating meat,” says Sangye, a 60-year-old former herder living in China’s northwestern Gansu province. “I’d often drink fresh cow and sheep blood, as well as eat internal organs like raw lamb liver and gallbladder. Our diet is probably very bloody to you.”
Like many other ethnic Tibetans who grew up as nomads raising livestock in the pastoral region on the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau, Sangye feels he couldn’t survive a day without eating meat. In his younger days, he would gallop on horseback through the rangelands of the Gannan Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture, tending to his livestock and slaughtering them as needed to feed his family. Yet, those days are long gone. Now, he drives a refuse truck in a county town.
Beside him as we talk is a plate of freshly cooked lamb, although not from a local family raising grass-fed animals — this lamb was shipped from overseas, likely from New Zealand, Uruguay, or Brazil. Wherever it comes from, Tibetan herders call all imported, grain-fed meat products like this by the same name: “Fake meat.”
“When herders talk about eating meat, we mean meat that we’ve carved with our own hands,” says Sangye, who feels that imported meat is acceptable in noodles and other dishes, but when boiled and eaten directly, it lacks the strong flavour of locally sourced meat. To make it more palatable, he cooks “fake meat” wrapped in grass-fed lamb intestines.
Sangye used to raise cattle and sheep on land that was allocated to his family during China’s grassland tenure reforms, which were rolled out between 1984 and the late 1990s. However, the land comprised mostly treacherous terrain and had no water source, meaning he had to spend two hours a day crossing other people’s land just to fetch drinking water for his family and their livestock.
In 2000, he decided to sell all his animals, rent his pasture to another herder, and move with his wife and children to the nearby town, where he opened a billiard hall. Later, with help from his brother, he landed a job driving a refuse truck, and his wife became a refuse collector.
However, the increased cost of living in the urban centre has put a strain on the family finances. “Life is tough here,” Sangye says. “I have to buy cheap (imported) beef and lamb when I’m short on money, even though they’re not comparable to local meat.”
Former nomadic herders who have settled in towns across Gansu and neighbouring Qinghai province — there are more than 500,000 in Qinghai alone — are the biggest individual consumers of imported meat products in the pastoral region on the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau, mainly due to the lower price compared with domestic grass-fed beef, lamb, mutton, and yak meat.
Ma Chuan runs a shop selling grain, oil, and meat in the busiest part of Xiahe County, Gannan, and has stocked imported beef for decades. He notes that between 2014 and 2020, the retail price of New Zealand beef remained stable at approximately 20 to 25 yuan ($2.75 to $3.50) per 500 grams—on average 8 to 12 yuan cheaper than local beef.
Sonam, who runs a Tibetan restaurant in a tourist village, similarly recalls that when he opened his business in 2014, the price gap between local and imported beef was 12 to 15 yuan per 500 grams. Consequently, his and many other establishments began sourcing beef from overseas.
After visiting 14 butcher shops in Maqu and Xiahe counties—separated by 300 kilometres—we discovered that outlets have been selling imported meat since 2008. Initially, sales were low, and the meat was typically marketed as “locally fattened” rather than imported. Sales began to pick up around 2016 and grew significantly in the years that followed. Of the 31 shops selling beef, lamb, and yak meat in Maqu today, only six sell exclusively local, grass-fed varieties.
Herders still working in the pastoral regions also consume imported meat. In a survey of 50 households in one Qinghai county, 32 reported purchasing beef and lamb shipped from abroad, spending an average of 7,106 yuan per year.
Following the herd
Beyond the price advantage, the influence of Tibetan Buddhist tenets of non-violence and a growing reluctance among young people in pastoral areas to slaughter their own livestock are key cultural drivers behind the consumption of imported meat.
“I am a traditional herder and have no hesitation in slaughtering cattle and sheep; it is a way of life passed down through generations,” says Sangye. “But nowadays, young people are afraid to kill, and some no longer take part in butchering or making sausages.” In his view, a herder should have one hand stained with blood, while the other holds prayer beads to pray for the lives he has taken.
In Tibetan herding culture, men are traditionally responsible for “red work”—slaughtering, skinning, butchering, and sausage making—while women handle “white work”, such as milking, churning butter, and fermenting yoghurt. No part of the animal is wasted: sheepskins are used for coats, trousers, and bags; cowhide is turned into rope, boots, and rafts; and horns and bones are fashioned into spoons, knife handles and sheaths, toys, and containers.
This diverse array of livestock products once formed the foundation of traditional pastoral rangeland industries. For instance, before the 1950s, wool from Nagchu in the Xizang Autonomous Region was the area’s primary foreign trade commodity, according to a monograph by the anthropologist Ge Le. Today, however, herders struggle to generate income from such goods. Over the last two decades, the pastoral livestock industry has shifted towards a single-product market centred on fresh meat.
Sheep herds and horses used to be ubiquitous on the rangelands of Maqu County, but they are now a rare sight, with most families keeping only yaks. Alongside this shift in the livestock they keep, the economic value of livestock products has also declined.
“In the past, we used to sell not only live animals but also yak wool, sheep’s wool, cow hair, sheepskins, cowhides, and various dairy products,” says Dompa, a herder from Maqu. “Now, we still sell dairy products, but other products have lost their value. A decade ago, a sheepskin could sell for 50 to 100 yuan, and a cowhide for 150 to 200 yuan, but no one comes to buy these anymore. A kilogram of wool sells for just 5 to 6 yuan, which doesn’t even cover the cost of shearing the sheep. Selling live animals has become the herders’ only source of income.”
And even that source is fraught with uncertainty. In the Tibetan language, yaks are called “nor”, meaning “treasure” or “wealth”. For generations, nomadic families on the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau have relied on the animal to survive. But in the modern era, its cultural significance, and its utilitarian and economic value, have diminished. A herder’s income now depends on how much meat their yaks produce and the fluctuating market price.
In September and October, herders in Gannan move their livestock from summer pastures to lower-altitude autumn pastures in preparation for winter. During this period, they sell any livestock that needs to be culled or replaced — to optimise the size and composition of the herd — either by working with a middleman or taking them directly to a slaughterhouse.
Given the transportation costs and the time involved in communicating with the slaughterhouse, most would prefer to wait for a middleman to approach them. However, since 2020, livestock prices in the pastoral regions have steadily fallen amid a sluggish market. As a result, interest among middlemen has faded, leaving more herders with no option but to take their livestock to the market themselves to get the best price they can.
In September, the courtyard of one livestock market we visited in Maqu was filled with vehicles loaded with cattle and sheep. Female yaks over five years old fetched just 3,500 to 6,000 yuan last year, down from a high of 10,000 to 13,000 yuan in 2019. Over the past five years, the price has dropped by roughly 1,000 yuan annually.
According to our survey, livestock sales account for up to 70% of herder household incomes in pastoral counties. Consequently, the continuous decline in price is posing significant challenges, while families are also being impacted by the rising cost of fodder.
Tashi, a herder with a wife and 10-year-old son, has about 233,300 square metres of rangeland in Xiahe, but must pay 50,000 yuan a year in rent to secure additional space for his herd of 50 yaks and 230 sheep. He also spends another 55,000 yuan a year on grass fodder. “If we had fewer animals, it would be impossible to earn a living,” he says.
In 2023, he sold his livestock for 90,000 yuan, which barely covered the cost of raising them, let alone the living expenses for a family of three. To stay afloat, Tashi had to take out a loan of 300,000 yuan.
Once butchers, tanners, and craftsmen, herders today must rely solely on selling their herds, earning meagre incomes that allow them only to afford cheap imported meat.
Rising volume
China first began importing frozen beef in 1992, but it took a further 20 years to gain real traction in the market. Between April and December 2012, the price of locally sourced beef rose by 35% year on year, driven by a sharp reduction in domestic livestock numbers and slaughter volumes. In that same year, the import volume of Australian frozen beef reached over 28,000 tonnes, up from less than 7,000 tonnes in 2011, according to Australia’s Department of Agriculture, Fisheries, and Forestry.
In 2018, China further opened its market to beef imports from 10 additional countries and regions, including Argentina and Uruguay, bringing the total to 24. Between 2015 and 2023, the total import volume increased from 474,000 tonnes to 2.74 million tonnes, while the country’s beef self-sufficiency rate fell from 92.9% to 73%.
Over the past four years, 42% of China’s beef imports have come from Brazil, its largest supplier. The country’s largest meat processing company, JBS Foods, reported export revenues of $18.4 billion in 2023, with 25.4% of its products destined for China. Many Brazilian beef and lamb products from brands such as GJ and Friboi, a JBS subsidiary, can be found in stores across the pastoral areas of the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau.
For the herders in Gannan, it remains a mystery how meat from Brazil — frozen and transported over 16,000 kilometres — can be sold for so much less than locally sourced supplies. Last year, the average price of imported beef was 34 yuan per kilogram, roughly half the price of beef produced within China.
Brazil’s vast rangelands and stable climate provide natural advantages for its livestock industry. However, the practice of clearing rainforests for cattle grazing has been controversial. According to the 2022 Beef Report, an overview of the nation’s livestock industry, the number of intensively farmed cattle slaughtered each year has more than tripled since 2001, rising from 2.06 million to 6.73 million. Additionally, the proportion of slaughtered cattle over three years old has dropped from 47% to 11%.
Furthermore, Brazil’s beef supply chain is almost entirely controlled by meat processors, with JBS Foods leading the way, managing everything from breeding and slaughter to sales and export. This reduces export costs while securing higher profits.
Caught in a dilemma
Herders in Gannan argue that rearing methods directly impact the quality of the meat, and believe they can easily tell whether an animal was grain-fed or raised in a feedlot — a housing and feeding operation used in intensive farming.
Yaks reared on natural pastures graze on a variety of plants and get more exercise, resulting in coarser muscle fibres, a tougher texture, and a chewy, firm bite. Those from high-altitude regions are also considered superior in terms of nutritional content, as well as protein and fat levels.
However, health is rarely a priority during marketisation; low prices and profit margins come first. While traders in the pastoral areas of the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau value the nutritional benefits of grass-fed yak meat, believing nothing else compares, they are also acutely aware of the inefficiencies of natural pasture grazing caused by the local climate.
In winter, when the rangelands of northwestern China are covered in snow, the cattle, yaks, and sheep nourished by lush summer pastures begin to lose weight as their food intake decreases and they expend more energy. In late spring, the weather warms, the pastures regrow, and the livestock enter a new growth cycle. However, the frequency and amount of grazing on natural pastures are inconsistent, as the availability of grass is uncertain. Consequently, it can be difficult to control the fattening of livestock.
Naturally, wholesalers have spotted opportunities in this uncertainty. They purchase yaks from herders and transport them to centralised breeding bases, where the animals are given commercial feed to help them gain weight and make the meat more tender. This not only supplies the massive domestic market but also permeates every corner of the grazing regions, where it joins imported meat in competing with naturally grass-fed yak meat.
Since 2022, China has seen a decline in both beef and live cattle prices, according to the Bureau of Animal Husbandry and Veterinary Services. In September, the average price for a live cow or bull was just over 25 yuan per kilogram, while fresh beef cost 68 yuan per kilogram—the lowest price in five years.
These days, a herder in Xiahe or Maqu can earn about 6,500 yuan for a grass-fed adult yak weighing 250 kilograms, while rearing it costs around 1,500 yuan, excluding labour and the maintenance of natural pastures. To cover an average family’s living expenses, they would need to sell at least 10 yaks a year.
This race to the bottom threatens the livelihoods of rangeland herders, leaving them facing a stark dilemma: should they accept their losses and sell their livestock quickly, or invest more in rearing the animals and wait for prices to rebound?
When we met Nyima at a livestock market in Maqu, he had already been waiting for two days for prices to rise so he could sell his three yaks. His family originally had a herd of 60, and in 2021 he secured a 150,000 yuan loan to expand. But as prices continued to drop, his income dwindled, and he fell behind on his repayments. When he defaulted on the loan, a court froze his assets.
The pressure placed an immense strain on his marriage, and Nyima and his wife divorced in 2023. Today, he and his sons have 39 yaks and two horses, along with crippling debts. Yet, despite his financial struggles, Nyima refuses to eat anything other than locally sourced meat—it is one of the few things he feels he still has control over.
“I eat only yak meat and Tibetan mutton,” he says. “I never buy fattened or imported beef or lamb. ‘Fake meat’ not only tastes bad but also affects herders’ lives and the market for local beef and lamb.”
For Nyima, like many herders in his position, the growing dominance of imported meat products in the Chinese market leaves a bad taste in the mouth.
(To protect the privacy of interviewees, all names have been changed.)
The original article is a cross-publication by TyingKnots and Foodthink. It was supported by Foodthink, a Beijing-based non-profit dedicated to improving communication, knowledge, and expertise sharing of sustainable food systems. In 2024, Foodthink provided 18 grants to support journalists and researchers in investigating the fields of food and agriculture.
A version of this article originally appeared in TyingKnots. It has been translated and edited for brevity and clarity, and is republished here with permission.
Translator: Vincent Chow; contributions: Wang Ze’en and Zeng Yukun; editors: Wang Juyi and Hao Qibao; visuals: Ding Yining.
(Header image: A herdswoman at work in Hainan County, Qinghai province, 2019. Zhu Haihua/VCG)
About the Foodthink Collaborative Creation Program
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《’Fake Meat’ Displaces Real Meat: Herders, Dining Tables, and the Amazon》
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