How Imported ‘Fake Meat’ Ended Up on the Plates of Qinghai-Tibet Herders
Foodthink Says
Sangje, a 60-year-old herder, told us about his eating habits.
“Herders of my generation have a huge addiction to meat. I imagine our diet seems quite bloody to you; I often drank the fresh blood of newly slaughtered cattle and sheep while it was still hot, and ate raw liver and gallbladders. I love the offal and sausages of cattle and sheep.”
Tibetans divide food into “white food” (དཀར་ཟས) and “red food” (དམར་ཟས), the former referring to vegetarian fare and the latter to meat. However, for herders, “white food” places more emphasis on dairy products such as butter, curd, milk skin, and yoghurt, while “red food” specifically means yak and Tibetan sheep meat. Traditionally, they have a strong appetite for meat but rarely eat other types, such as duck, fish, or seafood. Accordingly, there are two types of traditional labour division among herders: “red work” (དམར་ལས), which involves slaughtering livestock, skinning, making sausages, and butchering, and “white work” (དཀར་ལས), which involves milking, churning butter, and brewing yoghurt. The former is primarily done by men, while the latter is the work of women.
The eating habits Sangje described were typical of his youth and are the life he is most proud of. Back then, he not only had an endless supply of meat but often rode across the grasslands alone. Once, searching for an old friend, he rode from Gansu to Qumalai County in Yushu, Qinghai—a journey of over 1,000 kilometres. Speaking of those days, he is still full of vigour.
In reality, however, he has no cattle, no sheep, and no horses, nor the carefree spirit of his youth. He is a sanitation truck driver in M County, Gansu—or, as he puts it, he “drives the rubbish truck”. But he does still love meat; a plate of freshly boiled mutton sat on the table while we spoke.
Unfortunately, this plate of meat was not Tibetan sheep or yak that he had slaughtered himself, but cheap imported meat from the market—from New Zealand, Uruguay, or Brazil. It didn’t matter where; in the language of the herders, it all goes by the same name: “fake meat” (ཤ་རྫུན).
I. “Fake Meat” in the County Town
From 1984 through the late 1990s, grassland contracting reforms were gradually implemented across the Qinghai-Tibet pastoral regions, and the communal grasslands of the agricultural collectivisation era were partitioned among individual households. Sangje’s family was allocated a plot with rugged terrain and no water source, making the supply of drinking water for both people and livestock his primary struggle.
For the first two years after receiving the land, Sangje had to cross the fenced pastures of other families every time he watered his livestock. He spent over two hours a day carrying water on his back from the river to the tent for human consumption. Over time, this became an inconvenience to his neighbours.
For Sangje, who was used to eating home-slaughtered meat as a herder, “fake meat” is acceptable in dishes or noodles. However, eating imported meat simply boiled in water not only fails to satisfy his craving but actually triggers a stronger longing for real meat, as the “meaty flavour” of imported meat is far too faint compared to local varieties. Fortunately, the meat has no off-putting odour and is edible—but to truly satisfy the craving, he must follow a mouthful of imported meat with a bite of local meat.
Consequently, he simply boiled the imported meat together with local mutton sausages and *du bao rou* (belly-wrapped meat); this way, it was at least difficult to distinguish the imported meat by colour. Although the difference in taste remained, for Sangjie, this was the most acceptable way to consume imported meat.
II. Cheap Imported Meat
Like Sangjie, the low price is a primary reason why nomads opt for imported meat.
Donba, a nomad from Deji Village in M County and former village squad leader, told us: “Last year (2023), large trucks came to town selling non-local meat. It looked very similar to beef and mutton; one variety was 16 yuan per jin, the other 18 yuan. If you buy local meat from a butcher, it’s 30 yuan per jin. The price gap is huge.” Although the meat wasn’t explicitly labelled as imported, any non-local meat priced below 20 yuan per jin can only be imported.
Despite being Hui, the owner Ma Chuan speaks fluent Tibetan. He has run a grain, oil, and meat shop in the busiest part of X County for decades, specialising in imported beef. He recalls that between 2014 and 2020, the price of the New Zealand beef he regularly stocked remained stable at around 20–25 yuan per jin, which was 8–12 yuan cheaper than the retail price of local beef. Sonam, who runs a Tibetan restaurant in a nearby tourist town specialising in various Tibetan noodles and meats, told us that when he first opened in 2014, the price difference between local and imported beef was 12–15 yuan per jin. Faced with such an overwhelming price advantage, local restaurants all switched to imported meat as their primary ingredient. Simultaneously, many butcher shops began trading in imported meat.
We visited 14 butcher shops in M County and X County (which is 300 kilometres away) to piece together a rough outline of the changes in local sales of imported meat: Imported meat first appeared in 2008, though sales were low and many shops did not disclose its origin, selling it instead as local or ‘fattened’ meat. Between 2016 and 2017, the number of buyers and sellers gradually increased. From 2018 onwards, customers began to distinguish between ‘cheap meat’ (imported) and local beef, leading to a marked increase in both the number of shops selling imported meat and the volume of sales.
Of the 31 beef and mutton shops in M County, only six sell exclusively local grass-fattened beef and mutton; all others sell imported meat. In July 2024, a natural resource management research group from the Department of Environmental Management at Peking University found during a survey in Qinghai Province that among 11 butcher shops on Dehelong South Road in Huangnan Prefecture, only three sold exclusively local grass-fattened meat, while the rest sold imported meat.
‘Grass-fattened meat’ (*caobiaorou*), as the name suggests, refers to livestock that has gained weight on natural pastures, regardless of the breed of the cattle or sheep. Both nomads and meat traders are accustomed to this term, as it intuitively distinguishes animals that have fattened on grass from those fattened on feed or grain. In inland vegetable markets or on shopping apps, this is called ‘grass-fed meat’, though in those contexts, the term can ironically sound more ‘low-grade’ compared to grain-fed meat.
Tibetan nomads like Sangjie, who have abandoned livestock production to settle in towns, are the primary individual consumers of imported meat in pastoral areas. Across Qinghai Province, there are over 500,000 such settled nomads.
Those still herding in the pastoral regions also buy and eat imported beef and mutton. Among a sample of 50 nomadic households in Z County, Qinghai, at least 32 were buying and consuming imported meat, spending an average of 7,106 yuan per household annually. Dorje, a nomad from Sangqu Village whose family has lived off livestock for generations, said that while his own family remains traditional and only eats meat they slaughter themselves, the vast majority of other nomads in the village buy imported meat to some extent; buying meat has now become commonplace for nomads.
III. “If You Are a Meat-Eater, You Must Accept the Fate of Killing”
Beyond the obvious price advantage, cultural factors in the Tibetan pastoral areas are also driving the consumption of imported meat. These include the influence of extreme ‘non-killing’ ideologies—primarily from Tibetan Buddhist sects like those at the Sertar Five Sciences Academy—as well as an increasing emotional reluctance among young people in these regions to slaughter livestock themselves. Sangjie believes this contradicts traditional nomadic habits and values:
“Every year, my ‘winter meat’ consists of local meat that I slaughter myself. I am a traditional ‘nomad’; I do not hesitate for a moment to slaughter cattle or sheep for the sake of survival, because this is the way of life passed down through generations. If you are a meat-eater, you must accept the fate of killing. But today’s young people are afraid to kill; they won’t even engage in the ‘red trade’, and they don’t know how to stuff sausages or butcher a carcass.”
At the M County meat market, we saw nomads who had driven over 500 kilometres from Sertar, Sichuan, to buy meat, as well as two newlywed local nomads buying mutton. They stated they were buying local mutton because they only raise yaks at home and must buy mutton when they want to eat it. While they didn’t say they were afraid to kill, buying meat removes the need for slaughtering, skinning, and butchering, making it far more convenient. Thus, they prefer buying meat over slaughtering it themselves.
Sangjie represents the traditional nomadic eating habits and attitude towards slaughter, and he is dissatisfied with the current reluctance of the youth to kill. In his eyes, this is the essence of being a nomad: one hand stained with the blood of cattle and sheep, the other turning prayer beads to pray and chant for the souls of the departed. They understand that this is the inevitability of life; that good and evil exist side by side.
According to Tibetan tradition, to ensure that every animal dies with purpose, nomads make use of every part. Meat, offal, and intestines are inevitably eaten, and they must be eaten thoroughly; nomadic children are taught from a young age that “the cleaner you gnaw the bones when eating meat, the more beautiful you will be in your next life”. Sheepskins are used for coats, trousers, felt, and bags; cowhides for ropes, boots, and rafts; and horns and bones for spoons, knife handles, toys, and containers.
Although he left the pastoral life for the county town over twenty years ago, Sangjie still retains his traditional nomadic crafts. He constantly emphasises that the value of livestock lies not just in the meat, but also in their hides, wool, dung, bones, and milk.
IV. A Single Market
Diversified livestock products mean diversified income.
In their monograph *The Nomads of Northern Tibet*, anthropologists such as Grele documented the historical wool trade in Nagqu, Tibet. Before the 1950s, wool was not only a major local livestock industry but also the largest commodity in Tibet’s overall foreign trade. The seven major tribes of Nagqu produced 1.8 to 2 million catties of wool annually, which was exported to South Asia and Europe. A comprehensive and diverse range of livestock products formed the foundation of traditional grassland pastoralism in the Qinghai-Tibet region.
The current reality, however, is that the income herders derive from livestock products is becoming increasingly monolithic.
In recent years, herders in Deji Village, M County, Gansu Province, have focused solely on raising yaks; flocks of sheep are becoming a rarer sight on the grasslands. Facing a livestock structure that has shifted from the traditional ‘three livestock’ (yak, Tibetan sheep, and horse) to a single species, and as the economic value of livestock products continues to dwindle, team leader Donba is fraught with worry.
“Traditionally, we would say ‘black-headed herders rely on black cattle, and black yaks rely on the grassland’ (མགོ་ནག་བརྟེན་ས་སྤུ་ནག སྤུ་ནག་བརྟེན་ས་སྤང་དཀར།). In Tibetan, the yak is called ‘Nor’ (ནོར), meaning treasure or wealth; for generations, herders have survived on yaks. Yaks provided for our daily needs of clothing, food, shelter, and transport, and brought us significant economic gain. In the past, herders could sell not just live animals, but also yak down, wool, hair, sheepskin, oxhide, and various dairy products. Nowadays, dairy products like butter and qula (dried curd) can still barely be sold, but other products have lost their economic value. Ten years ago, a sheepskin could sell for 50–100 yuan, and an oxhide for 150–200 yuan. Now, no one comes to buy hides, and a kilogram of wool sells for 5–6 yuan—not even enough to cover the cost of shearing. Income is now entirely dependent on the sale of live animals.”
In a modern, meat-oriented monolithic market, the yak has not only lost its traditional cultural meaning and functional value, but its economic value has also become singular: today, a herder’s standard of living depends on how many yaks they sell, the value of a yak depends solely on how much meat it carries, and the price per catty is determined by the market, leaving the herder with no voice.
V. ‘Fake Meat’ Driving Out Real Meat
Every September and October, herders in Gannan Prefecture move their herds from the high-altitude summer pastures back to the lower autumn pastures in preparation for winter. During this time, they sell off livestock that need to be culled or replaced, adjusting the size and composition of their herds to the optimum for the coming cold.
There are two choices for selling: either contact middlemen—commonly known as ‘second-hand dealers’—to buy on-site, or take the cattle and sheep directly to the slaughterhouse. Given the transport costs and communication barriers with slaughterhouses, the vast majority of herders choose to wait for the middlemen.
However, since 2020, the price of cattle and sheep in pastoral areas has fallen continuously. With the market in slump, middlemen can no longer make a decent commission and visit less and less frequently. Many herders are forced to take their animals to trading markets to sell them cheaply, with those most desperate for money accepting the lowest prices.
In September 2024, we visited the cattle and sheep market in M County. The yard was crowded with herders pulling carts of livestock, gathered alongside livestock buyers and slaughterhouse agents. We learned that this year, an adult female yak over five years old could only fetch 3,500–6,000 yuan. At the peak of the market in 2019, they could sell for 10,000–13,000 yuan—an average annual price drop of 1,000 yuan over five years.
According to the Gannan Prefecture Statistical Yearbook, in purely pastoral counties, income from the sale of live livestock accounts for up to 70% of total household income. The continuous decline in livestock prices has posed a massive challenge to the livelihoods of herders.
Failure to sell livestock means keeping them for another year. However, the carrying capacity of natural grasslands is limited; livestock that aren’t sold require the additional purchase of fodder or the renting of more pasture. Consequently, the proportion of production costs spent on fodder has risen year by year. To offset these costs, herders must sell more livestock annually. Driven by the meat market, herders are now leaning towards high investment and high turnover, yet they are not achieving high incomes.
In X County, we observed the family of a herder named Tashi, who lives with his wife and a ten-year-old son. Their family pasture covers only 350 mu, which is insufficient to support their 50 cattle and 230 sheep. Therefore, they must rent additional pasture (50,000 yuan/year) and buy fodder (55,000 yuan/year) to maintain the herd. Tashi said: “If I have any fewer animals, the operation is simply not viable. But fodder prices keep rising while livestock prices fall year after year; the cost of grazing is becoming too high.” In 2023, the livestock Tashi sold brought in only 90,000 yuan, which barely covered the cost of feeding the animals, let alone the living expenses of his family. To cope, he took out a loan of 300,000 yuan; he had no other choice but to rely on debt to sustain production.
Over the past 20 years of marketisation, grassland pastoralism has gradually formed a monolithic production space based on the meat market. In the past, herders were also butchers, leatherworkers, bone-carvers, rope-makers, and felt-makers; they were artisans as well as masters of their own lives, both producers and consumers.
Now, herders sell their herds by the hundreds to the market, and the only things they receive in return are a meagre income that can barely sustain them and imported meat, known locally as “fake meat”.
VI. Imported Beef in China
Donba, who has spent his life grazing, rarely eats imported meat. However, as a seller of cattle, he feels that the continued decline in local purchase prices is partly related to the proliferation of cheap imported meat. “A few days ago, I was short of cash and contacted an acquaintance in the meat trade to sell a female cow in excellent condition. I sent him a video of the cow; he agreed the quality was very high, but the price he offered was far below my expectations. Many people in the village say that the cheap frozen meat sold in town is affecting local livestock prices, and I tend to agree.”
Although imported meat only appeared in the butcher shops of M County in 2008, China’s import of frozen beef began as early as 1992. Twenty years later, imported meat gained significant momentum in the Chinese market.
Between April and December 2012, domestic beef prices rose by 35% year-on-year, driven by a decrease in breeding scale and slaughter volume, with beef shank reaching as much as 120 yuan per kilogram. As domestic prices soared, Australian beef began to enter the Chinese market in large quantities. The import volume of Australian beef, which was less than 3,000 tonnes in 2011, surged to 27,200 tonnes by 2012.
2018 marked the second wave of imported beef entering the Chinese market. Since then, China has actively expanded its “circle of friends” in the beef trade, gradually opening import access to ten countries, including Argentina, Uruguay, Panama, and Bolivia, bringing the total number of approved countries to 27. That year, imports surged again, with the total annual volume exceeding one million tonnes.
From 2015 to 2023, the volume of imported beef grew from 470,000 tonnes to 2.74 million tonnes, and the beef self-sufficiency rate dropped from 92.9% to 73%. From 2021 onwards, 42% of China’s imported beef has come from Brazil, making it China’s largest supplier of imported beef.
According to the 2023 financial report of JBS, Brazil’s largest meat processing group, the group’s export revenue that year reached 18.4 billion US dollars, with 25.4% of its products destined for China. During our research, we found a large number of beef and mutton products from Friloi and GJ in the pastoral areas; both companies are subsidiaries of the JBS Group.
Herders in Gannan Prefecture simply cannot fathom how Brazilian beef, transported over 16,000 kilometres from the other side of the world to their dinner tables, can be so much cheaper than local meat. In 2024, for instance, the average price of imported beef was 34 yuan per kilogram; even with transport and distribution costs included, this remains far below the domestic wholesale price of approximately 68 yuan per kilogram.
The *2022 Brazil Beef Cattle Report* proudly asserts that Brazil’s vast grasslands are a primary resource advantage for cattle ranching. Brazil boasts 163 million hectares of grassland and 7,000 hectares of integrated agricultural and livestock land, accounting for approximately 27.3% of its total land area. These expansive grassland resources, combined with a stable climate, provide Brazil with a superior natural endowment for the development of livestock farming.
These high-quality natural resources also ensure cheap feed, such as maize and soy, providing greater profit margins for intensive production. The report shows that between 2001 and 2021, the number of cattle from intensive farming among the total slaughtered increased more than threefold, from 2.06 million to 6.73 million head. This growth far outpaced the 20% increase in the total number of slaughtered cattle. Furthermore, the proportion of slaughtered cattle aged three years or older dropped from 47% in 2001 to 11% in 2021. Moreover, the beef cattle industry chain in Brazil is almost entirely controlled by processors, led by the JBS Group. From acquisition, breeding, and fattening to slaughter, sale, and export, the entire process can be completed within a single conglomerate. Low friction costs allow these processors to lower export prices to compete on the international market while still raking in immense profits.
The lowering of slaughter age, the increase in intensification, a supply chain controlled by massive capital groups, and vast natural pastures as a foundation have given Brazilian beef exports the momentum to sweep the globe and encroach upon the Chinese market in recent years. However, what Brazilian processors never mention is that their so-called “natural cattle pastures” are largely the product of the illegal burning of rainforests.
VII. Deforestation for Cattle Ranching Across the Ocean
Starting in the 1960s, the Brazilian government collaborated with private enterprises to grant or sell vast tracts of the Amazon rainforest at low prices to farmers and plantation workers from the south for cattle ranching and the cultivation of feed maize and soy. Data from the Brazilian Institute of Geography and Statistics (IBGE) reveals that since the 1970s, as domestic and international beef consumption grew, Brazil’s cattle population doubled, with almost all of the increase coming from the Amazon region.
The clearing of forests to create pastures was driven both by government leadership and local agency. In his book *Rainforest Cowboys*, anthropologist Jeffrey Hoelle explores the transition of the Brazilian rainforest from a reliance on forest resources (such as rubber tapping) to a large-scale cattle economy. He found that ranching brought economic gain and social status to the state of Acre in the western rainforest, creating a new cultural identity. In terms of land use and economic return, deforestation and the creation of pastures were often viewed as symbols of “progress” and “hard work,” whereas preserving the forest was frequently labelled as “lazy” or “backward.” Cowboys were seen as daring, progressive rural heroes, standing in stark contrast to the “backward, poor” rubber tappers or smallholders (*caipira*). Consequently, many residents of Acre did not believe preserving the forest was necessary; some even felt that the government and environmental organisations were restricting their way of life and economic opportunities. They often cited the American Westward Expansion, believing they should be free to pioneer the Amazon just as the early Americans had, rather than being forced to “protect the forest.”
Using “traditional slash-and-burn” as an excuse, they ignited raging fires across the Amazon rainforest to seize the land beneath. However, nature has fought back against those who “stole” the land. The Amazon was once renowned for its extreme fire resistance; its humid canopy meant that natural forest fires were often separated by hundreds or even thousands of years. However, the climate change brought about by deforestation and burning, combined with rising temperatures and droughts caused by global warming, has turned man-made fires into uncontrollable wildfires that consume everything in their path. In 2024, approximately 37.42 million acres of land in the Amazon (roughly the size of nine Beijing municipalities) were burned, as forests, buildings, roads, and indigenous homes turned to ash.
Deforestation for ranching not only transforms trees from carbon sinks that capture carbon dioxide into carbon sources that release it, but the subsequent high-intensity agricultural and livestock production on deforested land also emits vast amounts of greenhouse gases. The first comprehensive carbon emission assessment of Brazilian beef in 2011 found that producing one kilogram of meat released 103 kilograms of carbon dioxide—more than three times that of industrial farming in Europe. As the largest importer of Brazilian beef, China contributed to the deforestation of approximately 494,000 hectares (1% of Brazil’s total forest area) for cattle ranching in 2020.
JBS, Brazil’s largest meat processor, is a chief culprit in this deforestation. Despite pressure from organisations like Greenpeace and a 2009 pledge to stop sourcing cattle from deforested pastures or indigenous lands, Brazilian forest monitoring agencies have found that JBS continues to buy cattle from deforested pastures and purchase maize and soy from deforested farms for fattening feed.
This livestock giant, together with Brazilian smallholders and ranchers, has formed a community of interest that continuously produces cheap meat at an extreme environmental cost. Meanwhile, butcher shops in the Tibetan plateau region have long since become globalised; income that should have remained with local herders is now flowing into the pockets of Brazilian meat traders through the import of beef and mutton.
VIII. Concerns Over Fattened Meat
Farming methods directly impact the quality of meat products. Whether an animal has been stall-fed and produced as “fattened meat” using processed feed is something sensitive herders can taste immediately. In contrast, yaks raised on natural pastures are more active, resulting in coarser muscle fibres and a firmer, tighter, and chewier texture. Yak meat from high-altitude cold regions also differs significantly from other types of beef in terms of nutritional composition and protein and fat content; its average protein content is markedly higher than that of yellow cattle, containing more amino acids, richer unsaturated fatty acids, and more trace elements.
An increasing number of studies confirm that the grass-fed beef herders describe as “chewy” also possesses superior nutritional value. American nutritional scientist Kate Clancy conducted a comprehensive comparison of the nutritional components of grass-fed and grain-fed beef. She noted that grass-fed cattle have lower deposited fat and contain specific fatty acids beneficial to human health, such as Omega-3 fatty acids, which can significantly prevent cardiovascular disease. Omega-3 levels in purely grass-fed cattle can reach 3%, whereas continuous stall-feeding causes these levels to steadily decline.
Furthermore, because herders’ yaks graze on a variety of plants in natural pastures, they possess higher levels of phytonutrients, such as terpenoids, phenols, carotenoids, and antioxidants, all of which contribute to improved human health.
However, in the tide of marketisation, health is never the priority; low prices and profit margins always come first.
Fattening agents, slaughterhouse owners, and meat processing plant owners active in the Tibetan plateau region fully recognise the nutritional value of natural grass-fed yak meat, believing nothing else compares. Yet, they are also acutely aware that grazing on natural pastures is both an advantage and a weakness.
In winter, snow covers the pastures. Cattle and sheep, which grew fat and strong on the delicious grasses of spring and summer, begin to lose weight due to reduced intake and increased energy expenditure. In April and May of the following year, as the weather warms and grasses regrow, the livestock enter a new growth phase. Because the frequency and quantity of feeding on natural grasslands are inconsistent and the amount of available forage is uncertain, the efficiency of weight gain and fat accumulation is considered very low.
Fattening traders have found a business opportunity in this “uncertainty.” They purchase yaks from herders and transport them to centralised farming bases, where they are fattened using carefully formulated feed. This not only rapidly increases the animal’s weight but also makes the meat more tender.
It is evident that, whether domestically or abroad, livestock raised on natural pastures eventually face the same fate: the fattening pen. Mr Ma, who owns two fattening bases capable of housing 10,000 yaks, told us: “When the cattle first arrive, they won’t eat the feed properly. In the first month, we have to increase the amount of feed slowly to transition their digestive systems. From the second month onwards, they can gain over a kilogram a day.” Excluding the first month where no weight is gained, it takes 6 to 10 months for a yak to increase from an initial weight of 300 kilograms to 600 kilograms. Once the animal is so fat that it can barely move its neck or legs, the fattening process is essentially complete.
This feedlot beef not only supplies the vast inland markets but also flows into every corner of the Qinghai-Tibet pastoral areas, joining the flood of imported meat to undercut the price and market share of natural grass-fed yak beef.
Unlike their counterparts in Brazil, nomads on the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau lack expansive, fertile grasslands and stable climate or rainfall. Instead, they must constantly adapt to one of the harshest environments on earth, struggling to make a living while safeguarding their land. They sit at the very bottom of the entire pastoral meat market. While they supply the market with nutrient-rich yak beef raised freely on natural pastures, by the time it passes through the hands of middlemen, feedlot operators, and slaughterhouses, the yak beef the final consumer receives has become feedlot meat of questionable quality.
IX. Devalued Gold
According to data from the National Bureau of Animal Husbandry and Veterinary Medicine, both beef and live cattle prices in China have been on a downward trend since 2022. As of September 2024, the national average price for live cattle was 25.46 yuan/kg and the average price for beef was 68.2 yuan/kg—the lowest in nearly five years. In contrast, the average price of imported beef was less than 35 yuan/kg, maintaining a significant price advantage.
Based on these averages, a nomad in County X, Gannan, earns only about 6,500 yuan for every unfattened adult yak sold (weighing approximately 250kg), while the rearing cost is roughly 1,500 yuan (excluding the ecological costs of natural pastures and labour). To meet a family’s basic living needs, they must sell around 10 yaks a year. For a household in Village X with an average of only 20 to 30 yaks, this is almost equivalent to selling off ‘all their possessions’.
This race to the bottom, driven by low prices, has pushed current grassland livestock farming and nomadic livelihoods to the front line of risk. Should they accept the losses and send the livestock to market as quickly as possible, or invest more in rearing costs and wait for prices to recover? Faced with this dilemma, every nomad we encountered was at a loss as to what to choose.
When we met Nyima at the cattle and sheep market in County M, he had already been waiting for two days to sell three of his yaks.
Nyima’s family originally consisted of five people and over 60 yaks. In 2021, he took out a loan of 150,000 yuan to expand his herd, with the remainder used for medical and living expenses. As beef prices continued to plummet, Nyima’s income from selling cattle dwindled, leaving him unable to repay the loan. After the loan fell due in 2022, the court forcibly seized all his subsidies and his income as a conservation steward. In 2023, burdened by debt, Nyima divorced and now lives with his two sons. He currently has 39 yaks and two horses, but the loan remains unpaid. Yet, when asked if he eats imported meat, he replied:
“I only eat yak beef and Tibetan mutton; I never buy feedlot meat or imported beef and mutton. ‘Fake meat’ is not only tasteless, but it also ruins the lives of us nomads and destroys our local meat market. I firmly refuse to eat or buy it.” Faced with a brutal reality, Nyima clings to the last shred of stubbornness befitting a nomad.
Nyima’s situation represents the silent majority. Today’s nomads are caught in a cruel paradox: they raise livestock they cannot sell, leaving them with no money to live on, yet they cannot afford the meat they raise and are instead forced to eat cheap imported meat.
This compels us to ask: why has the yak—known as ‘Nor’ (ནོར), meaning treasure or wealth in Tibetan—devalued to such an extent? Is it that the yak has truly lost its value, or has the standard by which we measure value changed? Is industrial livestock farming the inevitable destination? And in a commercialised mass market, is there any room left for a healthy meat product?
(Place names and personal names used in this text are pseudonyms)
JBS Group Financial Reports: https://ri.jbs.com.br/en/financial-information/results-center/
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