How imported ‘fake meat’ ended up on Tibetan nomads’ tables
Foodthink says
This is how Sangye, a 60-year-old veteran herder, describes his meat-eating habits.
“Herders of my generation have a huge appetite for meat. I imagine our diet looks quite grisly to you. I often drink the fresh blood of newly slaughtered cattle and sheep while it’s still warm, and eat raw sheep liver and gallbladder. I have a real taste for offal and blood sausages.”
In Tibetan culture, food is traditionally categorised into ‘white food’ (དཀར་ཟས) and ‘red food’ (དམར་ཟས), with the former referring to plant-based items and the latter to meat. However, among herders, ‘white food’ primarily denotes dairy products such as ghee, dried curds, cream, and yoghurt, while ‘red food’ specifically means yak and Tibetan sheep meat. Traditionally, herders have a strong preference for meat and rarely eat duck, fish, seafood, or other meats. Correspondingly, traditional pastoral labour is divided into two types: ‘red work’ (དམར་ལས), which involves slaughtering livestock, skinning, making sausages, and butchering, and ‘white work’ (དཀར་ལས), which covers milking, churning ghee, and fermenting yoghurt. The former is predominantly undertaken by men, while the latter is the domain of women.
The meat-eating habits Sangye describes belong to his youth—a lifestyle he is most proud of. Back then, he not only had an unlimited supply of meat, but he also frequently rode alone across the grasslands. On one occasion, to visit an old friend, he rode his horse from Gansu to Qumalai County in Yushu, Qinghai, a journey of over 1,000 kilometres. Even now, speaking of those days brings a spark of vigour to his eyes.
Today, reality is starkly different: he owns no cattle, no sheep, and no horses, and the carefree freedom of his youth is long gone. He now drives a sanitation truck in County M, Gansu—or, as he puts it, a “garbage truck”. Yet his love for meat remains undiminished; during our conversation, a plate of freshly boiled lamb sat on the table.
The only regret is that this lamb was not Tibetan sheep or yak he slaughtered himself. It is cheap imported meat bought from the market, whether from New Zealand, Uruguay, or Brazil makes little difference. In the vernacular of herders, it all goes by the same name—“fake meat” (ཤ་རྫུན)。
I. “Fake Meat” in the County Town
Between 1984 and the end of the 1990s, grassland contracting reforms were gradually implemented across the pastoral regions of Qinghai and Tibet. Grazing lands that had been communally shared during the era of agricultural collectivisation were divided up and allocated to individual households. Sangye’s family was assigned a plot on steep, difficult terrain with no water source, making fresh water for people and livestock the main challenge of his life on the grasslands.
In the first two years after the land was allocated, every time Sangye needed to water his livestock, he had to cross through a neighbour’s fenced grazing land. He spent over two hours each day fetching water from the river to carry back to the tent for drinking. Over time, this routine also caused inconvenience to the neighbouring herding families.
For Sangye, who grew up accustomed to eating meat slaughtered and prepared by his own hand, dishes or noodles made with “fake meat” are passable enough these days. But boiling imported meat in plain water does little to satisfy his craving; in fact, it tends to whet his appetite further. To a herder’s palate, imported meat lacks the rich, savoury depth of local beef and mutton, tasting far too bland.At least the meat carries no off-flavours and is just about edible—but to truly satisfy that craving, a bite of local meat always has to follow a serving of the imported stuff.
So he simply boiled the imported meat alongside local mutton sausages and stomach-wrapped meat. At least colour-wise, it blended in, and while the taste difference remained noticeable, this proved to be the most acceptable way for Sangje to incorporate imported meat into his diet.
II. Cheap Imported Meat
Much like Sangje, the low price is a primary reason herders choose imported meat.
Dunba, a herder from Deji Village in M County, formerly a village team leader, told us, “Last year (2023), a large lorry was selling non-local meat in the town. It looked very similar to beef and mutton, priced at either 16 or 18 yuan per jin. Buying local meat at the butcher shops cost 30 yuan per jin, so the price gap was substantial.” Although the imported origin was not explicitly stated, any non-local meat priced under 20 yuan per jin could only be imported.
Shopkeeper Ma Chuan, although Hui, speaks fluent Tibetan. He runs a grocery and butcher shop in the busiest part of X County town, having dealt in imported beef for decades. According to his recollections, between 2014 and 2020, the New Zealand beef he regularly stocked held steady at around 20–25 yuan per jin, costing 8–12 yuan per jin less than local beef at retail. Meanwhile, Sonam, who runs a Tibetan restaurant in a nearby tourist town specialising in Tibetan noodles and meat dishes, told us that when he first opened in 2014, the price difference between local and imported beef stood at 12–15 yuan per jin. Faced with such a decisive cost advantage, local eateries universally switched to imported meat for their ingredients. Numerous butcher shops followed suit, adding imported meat to their stock.
We visited 14 butcher shops across M County and X County, which lies 300 kilometres away, piecing together a broad outline of how imported meat sales have shifted locally: Imported meat first appeared in 2008, but sales were initially minimal. Many shops did not openly label it as imported, instead passing it off as local or grain-fattened meat. Between 2016 and 2017, the number of buyers and sellers of imported meat gradually grew. From 2018 onwards, customers began distinguishing between cheap meat (imported) and local beef, leading to a marked increase in both the number of shops selling imported meat and overall sales volumes.
Of the 31 beef and mutton butchers in M County town, only six sold exclusively local grass-fed meat, while the rest all carried imported options. In July 2024, a survey conducted in Qinghai Province by the Natural Resource Management research group at Peking University’s School of Environment revealed that out of 11 butcher shops on Dehelong South Road in Huangnan Prefecture, only three sold exclusively local grass-fattened meat, with the remainder stocking imported meat.
Grass-fattened meat, as the name implies, refers simply to livestock that gain weight grazing on natural pastures, regardless of the specific breed of cattle or sheep. Herders and livestock traders are accustomed to the term, as it draws a clear distinction between animals fattened on grass and those put on weight with commercial feeds and grains. In the mainland’s wet markets and shopping apps, however, it is marketed as ‘grass-fed meat’. Compared with ‘grain-fed meat’ raised on feeds and cereals, this wording actually strikes inland consumers as rather ‘downmarket’.
Tibetan herders like Sangye, who have abandoned pastoral production to settle in towns, represent the primary individual consumers of imported meat in these pastoral regions. Across Qinghai Province alone, more than 500,000 formerly nomadic herders have taken up settled life.
Herders who continue to graze their flocks in the pastoral zones also purchase and consume imported beef and mutton. Among a sample of fifty households in Qinghai’s County Z, at least thirty-two are buying and eating imported meat, spending an average of 7,106 yuan per household annually on beef and mutton. Dorje, a herder from Sangqu Village who has lived by pastoralism for generations, notes that while his own household remains traditional—eating only meat from livestock they slaughter themselves—the vast majority of other villagers in the area buy imported meat to some degree. Purchasing meat has become routine among herders.
III. ‘If You Eat Meat, You Must Accept the Weight of Taking Life’
Beyond the obvious price advantage, in the Qinghai-Tibet pastoral regions, the influence of strict non-harming doctrines from Tibetan Buddhist factions centred on Sertar, alongside younger herders’ growing emotional reluctance to slaughter livestock themselves, has become a cultural factor driving imported meat consumption. Sangye feels this runs counter to traditional herding customs and values:
‘Every year, my “winter stores” consist of local meat from livestock I slaughter myself. I am a traditional herder. I feel no hesitation when killing cattle or sheep to earn a living, because this is the way of life passed down through generations. If you are to eat meat, you must accept the karmic weight of taking life. Yet today’s young people are afraid to kill; they cannot even perform “red work”, nor do they know how to stuff sausages or break down a carcass.’
At the meat market in County M, we observed herders from Sertar in Sichuan Province who had driven more than 500 kilometres to purchase meat, as well as two young local herders who had just married and set up their own households. They explained that they were buying local mutton primarily because their family only raises yaks; when they need mutton, they have to buy it. While they did not explicitly cite a fear of killing, purchasing meat bypasses the labour of slaughter, skinning, and butchering. The convenience of buying simply outweighs the effort of slaughtering their own animals, making it their clear preference.
Sangye embodies the traditional herding attitude towards meat consumption and taking life, and he expresses dissatisfaction with the younger generation’s reluctance to slaughter. To him, this is the herder’s reality: one hand stained with the blood of cattle and sheep, the other turning prayer beads to chant sutras and bless the departed. They understand deeply that this is the inescapable nature of survival, where mercy and slaughter go hand in hand.
In accordance with Tibetan tradition, herders strive to use every part of an animal to ensure its life is not wasted. Meat, offal, and intestines are all consumed, and must be eaten entirely clean. Herding children are taught from a young age that “the cleaner you pick the bones, the more beautiful you will be in your next life.” Sheepskins are fashioned into coats, trousers, felt, and bags, while cattle hides are used for ropes, boots, and rafts. Sheep horns, cattle horns, and bones are repurposed into spoons, knife fittings, handles, toys, and containers.
Although Sangye gave up herding and relocated to a county town more than twenty years ago, he has retained his traditional pastoral skills. He consistently emphasises that the value of livestock extends far beyond their meat, encompassing their hides, fibre, dung, bones, and milk.
IV. A Single Market
A diverse range of livestock products means diversified income.
In their monograph *Pastoralists of Northern Tibet*, anthropologist Gêrê and colleagues document the historical wool trade in Nagqu, Tibet. Before the 1950s, wool was not only a major local pastoral industry but also the single largest commodity in Tibet’s external trade. The seven major tribes of Nagqu produced between 1.8 and 2 million jin of wool each year, shipping it as far as South Asia and Europe. A comprehensive, diversified portfolio of pastoral products formed the bedrock of traditional grassland husbandry across the Qinghai-Tibet region.
Yet today’s reality is that pastoralists’ income from livestock products has grown increasingly narrow.
In Deji Village, M County, Gansu Province, herders have raised only yaks for the past few years, and sheep flocks are becoming a rare sight on the grasslands. Watching the livestock structure shift from the traditional “three livestock” (yak, Tibetan sheep, and horse) to a single species, and seeing the economic value of pastoral products steadily decline, team leader Dunba looks deeply troubled.
“Traditionally we would say, ‘Black-headed herders depend on black cattle, and black cattle depend on the pasture’ (མགོ་ནག་བརྟེན་ས་སྤུ་ནག སྤུ་ནག་བརྟེན་ས་སྤང་དཀར།). In Tibetan, the yak is called “nor” (ནོར), meaning treasure or wealth, and herders have relied on them for generations. Yaks not only meet our everyday needs for food, clothing, shelter, and transport, but also provide significant economic returns. In the past, pastoralists could sell not just live animals, but also yak down, sheep wool, yak hair, sheep and cattle hides, and a variety of dairy products. Today, dairy goods like ghee (shuye) and dried curd (chura) can barely find buyers, while other products have lost all economic value. Ten years ago, a single sheepskin would fetch 50–100 yuan, and a cattle hide 150–200 yuan. Now, no one is buying hides or skins at all. Sheep wool sells for just 5–6 yuan per kilogram, which doesn’t even cover the cost of shearing. Pastoralists’ income has become highly specialised, relying almost entirely on selling live animals.”
Within a modern, meat-oriented single market, the yak has lost not only its traditional cultural and functional significance but also its diversified economic value: today, a herder’s standard of living depends entirely on how many yaks he sells, a yak’s worth is determined solely by its meat yield, and the price per jin of meat is set by the market, leaving pastoralists with no voice in the matter.
V. “Fake Meat” Drives Out “Real Meat”
Every September and October, herders in Gannan Prefecture return from their high-altitude summer pastures to lower autumn grasslands in preparation for winter. At this time, they cull and sell off animals that need to be phased out or replaced, optimising herd size and composition for the coming cold season.
There are two options for selling: either hire middlemen, commonly known as “traders,” to come and buy the animals on the spot, or transport the cattle and sheep directly to a slaughterhouse. Given transport costs and communication barriers with slaughterhouses, the vast majority of pastoralists opt to wait for middlemen to visit.
However, since 2020, cattle and sheep prices in pastoral areas have been in a steady decline. With a sluggish market and squeezed profit margins, middlemen visit less frequently, forcing many herders to travel to trading markets to sell their animals at a loss. Those in urgent need of cash end up selling at the lowest prices.
In September 2024, we visited the cattle and sheep trading market in County M. The yard was already packed with vehicles carrying livestock brought by herders, alongside middlemen buying stock and agents for slaughterhouses. Enquiries revealed that this year, an adult female yak aged five or older would fetch merely 3,500 to 6,000 yuan. In 2019, when the market was at its peak, prices reached 10,000 to 13,000 yuan; over the past five years, prices have fallen by an average of 1,000 yuan annually.
According to the Gannan Prefecture Statistical Yearbook, in purely pastoral counties, income from livestock sales accounts for 70% of pastoralists’ total household income. The steady decline in livestock prices has posed a severe challenge to their livelihoods.
Deciding against selling livestock means rearing them for another year. However, the carrying capacity of natural pastures is limited, so animals withheld from the market require additional spending on purchased feed or rented grazing land. Today, pastoralists are allocating an ever-growing share of their production costs to fodder. To recoup these expenses, the number of animals they must sell each year keeps rising. Driven by the meat market, modern herders have shifted towards a high-input, high-output model, yet this has failed to deliver higher returns.
In County X, we observed the family of pastoralist Tashi, who lives with his wife and a boy of around ten. Their grazing land covers a mere 350 mu, insufficient to sustain their herd of 50 cattle and 230 sheep. Consequently, they must rent additional pasture (50,000 yuan a year) and purchase feed (55,000 yuan a year) annually to maintain the flock. Tashi remarked, “If the herd drops any further, it becomes impossible to keep going. But feed prices keep climbing while cattle and sheep prices fall year after year, driving up the cost of grazing.” In 2023, Tashi’s livestock sales yielded only 90,000 yuan, failing to cover the cost of rearing the animals, let alone support his family of three. As a result, he took out a loan of 300,000 yuan. With no other option, he relies on debt to keep his livelihood afloat.
Over the past two decades of marketisation, range livestock farming has gradually converged into a narrow production model driven entirely by the meat market. In the past, pastoralists were herders and butchers, tanners, bone-carvers, rope-makers, and felt-weavers. They were artisans and masters of their own lives, both producers and consumers.
Today, pastoralists sell their cattle and sheep to the market in droves, but all they get back in return is a meagre income that barely covers the basics, alongside imported cuts dubbed “fake meat”.
VI. Imported Beef in China
Dunba, who has spent his life grazing in the pastoral region, rarely eats imported meat. Yet as a cattle seller, he believes the steady decline in local procurement prices is somewhat linked to the flood of cheap imported meat. “A few days ago, I was short on cash and contacted a butcher I knew to sell a cow in excellent condition. I sent him a video of the animal and asked for his offer. He agreed the cow was of high quality, but his bid fell far short of my expectations. Many in my village say the cheap frozen meat sold in town has dragged down local livestock prices, and I tend to agree.”
Although imported meat did not appear in County M’s butcher shops until 2008, China’s imports of frozen beef date back to 1992. Two decades later, imported meat began to gain real momentum in the domestic market.
Between April and December 2012, domestic beef prices surged by 35% year-on-year, driven by a contraction in breeding herds and reduced slaughter volumes. At their peak, a kilogram of beef shin sold for as much as 120 yuan. As domestic prices soared, Australian beef began flooding into the Chinese market. Imports of Australian beef, which totalled just under 3,000 tonnes throughout 2011, jumped to 27,200 tonnes by 2012.
2018 marked the second major wave of imported beef entering the Chinese market. Since then, China has actively expanded its beef trade network, gradually granting import access to ten countries including Argentina, Uruguay, Panama, and Bolivia, bringing the total number of approved suppliers to 27. That year saw another surge in volumes, with annual imports exceeding one million tonnes.
From 2015 to 2023, imported beef volumes rose from 470,000 to 2.74 million tonnes, while domestic self-sufficiency fell from 92.9% to 73%. Since 2021, Brazil has accounted for 42% of China’s beef imports, firmly establishing itself as the country’s largest supplier.
According to the 2023 financial report of JBS Group, Brazil’s largest meat processor, the group’s export revenue totalled $18.4 billion that year, with 25.4% of its products destined for China. During our fieldwork, we found a considerable volume of beef and mutton products from Friloi and GJ in pastoral regions, both of which are subsidiaries of the JBS Group.
The herders of Gannan Prefecture simply cannot fathom why Brazilian beef, shipped over 16,000 kilometres from the other side of the world to their tables, could possibly be so much cheaper than local meat. Take 2024 as an example: the average price of imported beef stood at 34 yuan per kilogram. Even after factoring in transport and distribution costs, this remains well below the wholesale price for domestic beef in China, which sits at around 68 yuan per kilogram.
The *2022 Brazil Cattle Report* proudly claims that vast grazing lands constitute a resource advantage for Brazil’s beef industry. Brazil boasts 163 million hectares of pastureland and 70,000 hectares of integrated agricultural and pastoral land, accounting for approximately 27.3% of the country’s total land area. This expansive grassland resource, coupled with a stable climate, provides Brazil with a favourable natural endowment for developing its livestock sector.
High-quality natural resources also yield cheap feed such as maize and soybeans, granting Brazil’s intensive production systems greater profit margins. The report indicates that over the 20 years from 2001, the number of intensively fattened cattle in Brazil’s total slaughter count grew from 2.06 million to 6.73 million head—more than tripling. This far outpaced the 20% growth rate in total slaughter numbers, while the proportion of cattle aged three years and over dropped from 47% in 2001 to just 11% in 2021. Moreover, Brazil’s beef supply chain is almost entirely controlled by processors led by the JBS Group. From procurement, breeding, and fattening to slaughter, sale, and export, the entire process can be completed within a single corporation. These lower friction costs enable processors to undercut international competitors with reduced export prices, while still securing substantial profit margins.
The reduced slaughter age, heightened intensification, supply chains dominated by large capital groups, and the foundation of vast natural pastures have all provided Brazilian beef exports with the leverage to captivate global markets in recent years and encroach upon China’s. What Brazilian processors conveniently omit, however, is that their so-called “natural cattle pastures” are largely the product of illegal rainforest burning.
VII. Deforestation for Cattle Ranching Across the Ocean
Since the 1960s, the Brazilian government, in partnership with private enterprises, has gifted or sold large tracts of Amazon rainforest land at bargain prices to farmers and plantation workers from the south, for use in cattle ranching and growing feed maize and soybeans. Data from the Brazilian Institute of Geography and Statistics (IBGE) shows that since the 1970s, as domestic and international beef consumption has risen, Brazil’s cattle farming scale has doubled, with virtually all the increase originating in the Amazon region.
Forest clearance and pasture development stem not only from government direction but also from local agency. In his book *Rainforest Cowboys*, anthropologist Jeffrey Hoelle examines the transition of the Brazilian tropical rainforest from reliance on forest resources, such as rubber tapping, to a large-scale cattle economy. He found that the cattle industry in Acre, a state in Brazil’s western rainforest region, has delivered economic returns, elevated social standing, and forged a cultural identity. In terms of land use and economic gain, clearing forests and establishing pastures is often celebrated as a mark of “progress” and “hard work”, whereas preserving the forest is frequently stigmatised as “laziness” or “backwardness”. Cowboys are revered as bold, progressive rural heroes, standing in stark contrast to the “backward and impoverished” forest rubber-tappers or smallholder farmers (*caipiras*). Consequently, many residents of Acre do not see forest preservation as necessary; some even believe that government and environmental groups are curtailing their livelihoods and economic opportunities. They frequently invoke America’s westward expansion, arguing that they should be free to pioneer the Amazon much as early Americans did, rather than being told to “protect the forest” as they are today.
Citing “traditional slash-and-burn” as justification, they have set raging fires to consume the Amazon rainforest, seizing the land beneath it. Yet nature has struck back against those who “steal” the earth. The Amazon was once renowned for its remarkable resistance to fire; its damp canopy meant that natural wildfires typically occurred centuries, even millennia, apart. However, climate change driven by deforestation and burning, coupled with rising temperatures and drought brought on by global warming, has transformed deliberately set fires into uncontrollable, all-consuming wildfires. In 2024, approximately 37.42 million acres of land (equivalent to nine times the size of Beijing) across the Amazon were scorched. Forests, buildings, roads, and indigenous homesteads continue to burn and turn to ash.
Clearing forest for cattle ranching not only turns trees from carbon sinks that capture CO2 into carbon sources that release it; the intensive agricultural and pastoral activities that subsequently take place on deforested land also emit vast quantities of greenhouse gases. The first comprehensive carbon footprint assessment of Brazilian beef, published in 2011, found that producing each kilogram of meat emits 103 kilograms of CO2 – three times the amount generated by industrialised farming in Europe. As Brazil’s largest beef importer, China triggered approximately 494,000 hectares of cattle-driven deforestation in Brazil in 2020 alone (accounting for 1% of the country’s total forest cover).
JBS, Brazil’s largest meat processor, is a major culprit behind this deforestation. Despite pressure from Greenpeace and other organisations, the JBS Group pledged in 2009 to cease purchasing cattle from deforested pastures or those encroaching on indigenous territories. Yet Brazil’s forest monitoring agency found that, even as recently as this year, JBS continued to buy large numbers of cattle from deforested ranches and purchase corn and soy from cleared farms for use as fattening feed.
This alliance between the agricultural giant and Brazil’s smallholder farms and ranchers continues to produce cheap meat at a devastating environmental cost. Meanwhile, butchers across the Tibetan and Qinghai pastoral regions have long been integrated into the global supply chain. Revenue that should have remained with local herders is instead funnelled into the pockets of Brazilian meat traders via imported beef and lamb.
VIII. Quality Concerns Surrounding Fattened Beef
The rearing method used has a direct bearing on meat quality.Pastoralists with a discerning palate can tell at first bite whether beef comes from confined, concentrate-fed animals. By contrast, yaks free-roaming on natural pastures are highly active, which gives their meat coarser muscle fibres, a firmer texture, and a tighter, more substantial chew. Furthermore, the meat of yaks reared in high-altitude, frigid environments differs significantly from other beef breeds in its nutritional profile, protein and fat content. It boasts a markedly higher average protein level than conventional cattle, alongside a broader range of amino acids, a richer concentration of unsaturated fatty acids, and greater levels of trace elements.
A growing body of research confirms the pastoralists’ belief that this tougher, grass-fed beef also carries superior nutritional value. US nutrition scientist Kate Clancy conducted a comprehensive comparison of the nutritional profiles of grass-fed and grain-fed beef. She found that grass-fed cattle accumulate less body fat and contain specific fatty acids beneficial to human health, such as Omega-3 fatty acids, which can significantly help prevent cardiovascular disease. In purely grass-fed cattle, Omega-3 content can reach as high as 3%, whereas continuous intensive confinement steadily depletes these levels.
Moreover, because pastoralists’ yaks graze on a diverse array of plants across natural pastures, their meat contains higher concentrations of phytonutrients such as terpenes, phenols, carotenoids, and antioxidants, all of which contribute to improved human health.
Yet in the tide of market-driven development, health is rarely the primary consideration; low price points and profit margins always take precedence.
Commercial fatteners, slaughterhouse proprietors, and meat processing plant owners active across the Qinghai-Tibet pastoral region fully acknowledge the nutritional superiority of naturally grass-fed yak meat, maintaining that no other type of meat can compare. Nevertheless, they also keenly recognise that free-range grazing on natural pastures is as much a vulnerability as it is an advantage.
During winter, heavy snow blankets the pastures. Cattle and sheep, having grown fat and strong on the lush forage of spring and summer, begin to lose weight as their intake drops while their metabolic demands rise. By April or May of the following year, as temperatures rise and the grass begins to regrow, the herds enter a new growth cycle. Because the frequency and volume of grazing on natural pastures fluctuate, and forage availability remains unpredictable, the rate at which these animals gain weight and condition is considered highly inefficient.
Commercial fatteners have identified a business opportunity in this very “uncertainty”. They purchase yaks from herders and transport them to centralised fattening facilities, where specially formulated feeds are used to rapidly bulk them up and produce a more tender texture.
It is evident, whether domestically or abroad, that pasture-raised livestock ultimately cannot escape the final stage of intensive fattening. Boss Ma, who operates two fattening facilities with a combined capacity of 10,000 yaks, explains to us: “When cattle are first purchased, they refuse to eat the concentrate properly. During the first month, you must gradually increase the feed dosage to slowly transition their digestive systems. From the second month onwards, they can gain more than a kilo a day.” Excluding that initial adaptation month, it takes six to ten months for a yak to bulk up from an initial 300 kg to 600 kg. Once the animals grow so heavy that they can barely move their necks and legs, the fattening process is essentially complete.
This fattened beef not only caters to the vast inland market but also flows into every corner of the Qinghai–Tibet pastoral regions. Alongside a tidal wave of imported meat, it is undercutting both the price and market share of naturally grass-fed yak meat.
Unlike herders in Brazil, those on the Qinghai–Tibet Plateau do not benefit from expansive, lush grasslands, steady rainfall, or predictable climates. Instead, they continually adapt to some of the harshest environments on earth, carefully stewarding their fragile landscape to eke out a precarious livelihood. Positioned at the very bottom of the regional meat market, these herders supply nutrient-rich, free-range yak meat raised on natural pastures. Yet, after navigating successive layers of middlemen, fattening operators, and slaughterhouses, the yak meat that finally reaches consumers is often reduced to the status of questionable, fattened beef.
IX. Devalued Gold
According to data from the national veterinary and animal husbandry authorities, both beef and live cattle prices in China have been in a steady decline since 2022. By September 2024, the national average price for live cattle had fallen to 25.46 yuan per kilogram, while beef averaged 68.2 yuan per kilogram—both marking five-year lows. In stark contrast, imported beef averaged just under 35 yuan per kilogram, maintaining a clear price advantage.
At these rates, a herder in County X, Gannan, earns roughly 6,500 yuan for selling a single unfattened adult yak weighing around 250 kg. Their direct feeding costs sit at approximately 1,500 yuan per head, a figure that does not even account for the ecological costs of the natural pastures or the herders’ own labour.Herders must sell around ten yaks annually just to cover household living expenses. For a typical household in Village X, which usually keeps only 20 to 30 yaks, this is practically equivalent to liquidating their entire livelihood.
The cutthroat race to undercut prices has pushed contemporary grassland pastoralism and herders’ livelihoods to the very edge of risk. Should they accept losses and sell their livestock quickly, or pour more money into feed costs and wait for cattle prices to rebound? Confronted by this quandary, every pastoralist we spoke to was left unsure how to proceed.
We met Nima at the cattle and sheep trading market in M County. He had already been waiting there for two days, hoping to sell his three yaks.
Nima’s family originally consisted of five people and a herd of more than sixty yaks. In 2021, he took out a loan of 150,000 yuan to expand his livestock, allocating the remainder towards medical bills and daily living expenses. However, with cattle prices in continuous decline, his earnings from sales dwindled, leaving him unable to service the debt. When the loan matured in 2022, the court ordered the seizure of all his subsidies and wages earned as a conservation ranger. By 2023, crippled by debt, Nima divorced and now lives with his two sons. The household still keeps thirty-nine yaks and two horses, yet the loan remains outstanding. Nevertheless, when asked whether he consumes imported meat, he replied:
“I only eat yak and Tibetan lamb. I never buy fattened meat or imported beef and lamb. ‘Fake meat’ not only tastes poor; it undermines our herders’ livelihoods and damages the market for our local beef and lamb. I will absolutely not eat or buy it.” Facing such harsh realities, Nima holds fast to the last shred of a pastoralist’s pride.
Nima’s predicament reflects that of the silent majority among pastoralists. Herders today find themselves trapped in a double bind: they raise cattle and sheep that they cannot sell, leaving them without means to live; meanwhile, they can no longer afford the meat from their own herds and are forced to rely on cheap imported alternatives.
This compels us to ask: why has the yak, known in Tibetan as *nor* (ནོར) – meaning treasure or wealth – depreciated to such an extent? Have yaks truly lost their worth, or have our metrics for value shifted? Is industrialised livestock farming the inevitable end point? And within the vast commercial marketplace, where is there room for genuinely healthy meat products?
(Place names and personal names used in this article are pseudonyms.)
JBS Group Financial Report: https://ri.jbs.com.br/en/financial-information/results-center/
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