A Hard Swallow: Chinese Herders’ ‘Fake Meat’ Dilemma (English Version)
Selected work of the 2024 Foodthink Lianhe Creative Programme“Fake Meat” Ousts Real Meat: Dining Tables, Herders and the AmazonThe English version has been officially published on Sixth Tone (澎湃新闻’s English-language platform). It has been slightly abridged from the original draft. We thank Sixth Tone’s editors and our readers for their support.
Click “Fake Meat” to read related articles and event details. Add Foodthink’s WeChat account (ID: foodthinkcn) with the note “Fake Meat” to join the discussion group.
With the influx of cheap imported meat, nomadic herders are having to tighten their belts. Some can’t 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 sanitation 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 shredded 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 consisted largely of treacherous terrain and had no water source, meaning he had to spend two hours each 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 worker.
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 of 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 Gannan’s Xiahe County and has stocked imported beef for decades. He says that from 2014 to 2020, the retail price of New Zealand beef remained stable at around 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 difference between local and imported beef was 12 to 15 yuan per 500 grams. As a result, his establishment, along with many other eateries, began sourcing beef from abroad.
After visiting 14 butcher shops in Maqu and Xiahe counties, which are 300 kilometres apart, we discovered that outlets have been selling imported meat products since 2008, although initially sales were low and it was typically advertised as “local fattened meat” rather than from overseas. Sales began to pick up around 2016 and increased significantly in the following years. Of the 31 stores selling beef, lamb and yak meat in Maqu today, only six exclusively sell local grass-fed varieties.
The herders still working in the pastoral areas also consume imported meat. In a survey we conducted of 50 households in one Qinghai county, 32 said that they purchase beef and lamb shipped from abroad, spending an average of 7,106 yuan a year.
Following the herd
As well as the price advantage, the influence of certain Tibetan Buddhist teachings emphasising non-violence, alongside a growing reluctance among younger people in pastoral regions to slaughter their own livestock, are key cultural factors driving the consumption of imported meat.
“I am a traditional herder and have no compunction about slaughtering cattle and sheep, as it is a way of life handed down through generations,” says Sangye. “Nowadays, however, young people are afraid to kill, and some do not even partake in sausage-making and butchery.” In his view, a herder ought to have one hand stained with blood, whilst the other holds prayer beads to offer prayers for the lives taken.
Within Tibetan herder culture, men have traditionally been responsible for “red work” – encompassing slaughtering, skinning, butchering, and sausage-making – whilst women handle “white work”, such as milking, churning butter, and fermenting yoghurt. Not a part of the animal goes to waste: sheepskins are fashioned into coats, trousers, and bags; cowhide is worked into rope, boots, and rafts; and horns and bones are transformed into spoons, knife handles and sheaths, toys, and containers.
This diverse array of livestock products once underpinned traditional rangeland pastoral industries. For instance, prior to the 1950s, wool from Nagchu in the Xizang Autonomous Region constituted the region’s principal export commodity, according to a monograph by the anthropologist Ge Le. Yet today, herders struggle to derive an income from selling such goods. Over the past two decades, the pastoral livestock sector has shifted into a single-product market centred around fresh meat.
Sheep flocks and horses were once ubiquitous across the rangelands of Maqu County, but are now rarely seen, with most households keeping only yaks. Alongside this shift in livestock holdings, the economic value of animal by-products has also fallen.
‘In the past, we sold not just live animals, but also yak wool, sheep wool, cow hair, sheepskins, cowhides and various dairy products,’ says Dompa, a herder from Maqu. ‘Now we still sell dairy, but everything else has lost its worth. Ten years ago, a sheepskin could fetch 50 to 100 yuan, and a cowhide 150 to 200 yuan. Nobody buys them anymore. One 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.’
Yet even that income is fraught with uncertainty. In Tibetan, yaks are called nor, meaning “treasure” or “wealth”. For generations, nomadic families on the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau have depended on them for survival. But in modern times, their cultural, functional and economic significance has waned. A herder’s earnings now hinge on the weight of meat their yaks yield and the volatile market price.
In September and October, herders in Gannan move their livestock from summer pastures to lower-altitude autumn grazing lands in preparation for winter. During this migration, they sell animals that need to be culled or replaced to optimise herd size and composition, either through a middleman or by taking them directly to a slaughterhouse.
Given transport costs and the time needed to coordinate with slaughterhouses, most herders prefer to wait for a middleman. However, since 2020, livestock prices in pastoral regions have steadily fallen due to a sluggish market. Middlemen have lost interest, forcing more herders to take their animals to market themselves to secure the best price they can.
In September, the yard of a livestock market we visited in Maqu was packed with vehicles loaded with cattle and sheep. Last year, female yaks over five years old fetched just 3,500 to 6,000 yuan, down from a peak of 10,000 to 13,000 yuan in 2019. Over the past five years, prices have fallen by roughly 1,000 yuan each year.
Our survey indicates that livestock sales account for up to 70% of household incomes in pastoral counties. The relentless price decline is therefore posing severe challenges, compounded by rising fodder costs.
Tashi, a herder with a wife and a ten-year-old son, holds about 233,300 square metres of rangeland in Xiahe. Yet he must pay 50,000 yuan a year in rent to secure additional grazing space for his herd of 50 yaks and 230 sheep. He spends a further 55,000 yuan annually on stored grass. ‘If we had fewer animals, we couldn’t make ends meet,’ he says.
In 2023, he sold his livestock for 90,000 yuan, barely covering rearing costs, let alone 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 artisans, herders now rely entirely on selling their herds, earning meagre incomes that afford only cheap imported meat.
Rising volume
China actually began importing frozen beef in 1992, but it took another 20 years before it began gaining traction in the market. From April to December 2012, the price of locally sourced beef increased by 35% year on year due to a sharp reduction in domestic stock and slaughter volume. In that same year, the import volume of Australian frozen beef reached more than 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 more countries and regions, including Argentina and Uruguay, eventually taking the total number 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 dropped from 92.9% to 73%.
For the past four years, 42% of China’s beef imports have come from Brazil, its largest supplier. The country’s biggest meat processing company, JBS Foods, reported $18.4 billion in export revenue in 2023, with 25.4% of its products heading to China. Many Brazilian beef and lamb products from brands such as Friboi, a JBS subsidiary, and GJ can be found in stores across the pastoral areas on the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau.
For the herders in Gannan, it remains a mystery how meat from Brazil — which is frozen and transported over 16,000 kilometres — can sell 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 in China.
Brazil’s vast rangelands and stable climate provide natural advantages for its livestock industry. However, its 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, from 2.06 million to 6.73 million. In addition, 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 pack and overseeing everything from breeding and slaughter to sales and export. This reduces export costs while delivering higher profits.
Caught in a dilemma
Herders in Gannan argue that rearing methods directly affect meat quality and maintain that they can easily tell whether an animal was grain-fed or raised in a feedlot, a housing and feeding system typical of intensive farming.
Yaks grazing on natural pastures feed on a wider variety of plants and are far more active, which yields coarser muscle fibres, a tougher texture, and a firm, chewy bite. Those from high-altitude regions are also regarded as nutritionally superior, boasting better protein and fat ratios.
However, health is seldom a priority during commercialisation; low prices and profit margins take precedence. While merchants in the pastoral regions of the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau prize the nutritional benefits of grass-fed yak meat—believing nothing else can match them—they are also acutely aware of the inefficiencies inherent in natural grazing, largely due to the local climate.
In winter, when snow blankets the rangelands of northwestern China, the cattle, yaks, and sheep that thrived on lush summer grasses begin to lose weight as their food intake drops and energy expenditure rises. By late spring, warmer weather allows the pastures to recover, and the livestock enter a new growth cycle. However, grazing frequency and duration on natural pastures fluctuate, as grass availability remains unpredictable. Consequently, managing the fattening process for livestock proves difficult.
Of course, wholesale businesses have spotted opportunities in this uncertainty. They purchase yaks from herders and transport them to centralised breeding bases, where they are given formulated feed, helping the animals gain weight and making the meat more tender. This not only supplies the vast domestic market but also flows to every corner of the pastoral region, joining imported meat in competing with naturally grass-fed yak meat.
Since 2022, China has seen declines 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, with fresh beef costing 68 yuan per kilogram — the lowest for 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 requires around 1,500 yuan, excluding labour costs and the upkeep of natural pastures. To cover an average family’s living expenses, they would need to sell at least 10 yaks a year.
This competition on rock-bottom prices threatens the livelihoods of rangeland herders and leaves them facing a tough 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 herder Nyima at a livestock marketplace in Maqu, he’d 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 buy more. But as prices continued to drop, his income dwindled, causing him to fall behind on repayments. When he defaulted on the loan, a court froze his assets.
The stress put 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 problems, Nyima refuses to eat anything other than locally sourced meat — it’s one of the few things he feels he 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 Lianhe Creative Programme
Following multiple interview rounds with a panel of six judges, 18 creative projects were selected for support under the Foodthink Lianhe Creative Programme. Five pieces have been published so far:
Cleaner A-Mei Wants to Eat Properly | The Worker’s Table
In Malaysia, Chinese Buyers Only Want Grade-A Durians
“Fake Meat” Drives Out Real Meat: Herders, Dinner Tables, and Amazon
Sweetness Guaranteed for Watermelons, Bitterness for Growers
A Single Termite Mushroom Sparks a Foraging Frenzy