Two-hundred-year-old lychee trees: witnesses to the fortunes of the fruit growers
At the height of the lychee boom, purchase prices of 70 to 80 yuan per jin allowed many growers to make a fortune. The villagers of Yinlin once shared this ‘lychee dream’, planting lychee trees across vast areas starting in the 1990s. Yet, in recent years, why have most of these trees been left to grow wild, forgotten by all?
What follows is a story of Yinlin and its relationship with the lychee.
I. From Citrus to Lychee
Most of the 200-year-old lychee trees in the village are of the *Huaizhi* variety (also known as Green Lychee), which is likely the local cultivar of Yinlin Village. With their large seeds and somewhat sour taste, *Huaizhi* lychees are not the most sought-after variety. Nevertheless, under conventional cultivation, their yields are impressive; some trees are said to produce as much as 2,000 *jin* of fruit a year.
However, such productivity comes with immense height—some trees tower as high as several storeys—making the harvest perilous. A fall could be fatal or leave a worker seriously injured, and the profits from the fruit might not even cover the medical bills. For this reason, farmers now prefer dwarf varieties and often graft more marketable cultivars, such as *Guiwei* and *Nuomici*.
Meanwhile, the price of lychees soared. At the height of the boom, *Nuomicí* lychees could fetch seventy or eighty yuan per *jin*, sometimes even reaching a hundred, while other varieties commonly sold for seven or eight yuan. This prompted villagers to switch to large-scale lychee farming, planting trees even in the paddy fields once reserved for rice.
From that point on, countless lychee trees were planted across the village’s flatlands, marking the beginning of the dense lychee forests that today stretch endlessly along both sides of Yinlin Road towards the foot of the mountains.
II. The Villagers’ ‘Lychee Dream’
At one point, the market price of lychees soared to match that of roast duck. Zhong Ge recalls that when he was a child eating lychees at home, his father would jokingly scold him: “Do you want a jin of lychees or a jin of roast duck? If you eat the lychees, you can’t have the duck.” Hearing this, Zhong Ge would immediately put down the lychee and reach for the roast duck instead.
While the profits were high, the initial investment was equally steep. Once planted, a lychee tree takes about seven or eight years to bear fruit and over a decade to reach a stable yield. It is not hard to imagine that the farmers who began planting lychees in large quantities in the paddy fields during the 1990s, hoping to cash in on the boom, did not see their “lychee dreams” realised overnight.
Conversely, those who already had producing trees had to be cautious. Back then, it was common to pitch tents and spend the night armed under the trees; it was equally common for children to guard the trees after school.
Unfortunately, these high prices did not last, and they have fallen over the last six or seven years. Opinions on the cause are divided. Zhong Ge believes that those who secretly used sulphur to roast the dried lychees ruined the reputation of the product, dragging down the overall price. Guo Rui, however, suggests it is simply due to increased cultivation; with Hainan and Guangxi becoming major producing regions, supply has overtaken demand, causing prices to drop.
III. Misaligned ‘On-Off’ Years
Usually, the farm focuses more on vegetable cultivation, leaving the lychees to fend for themselves without fertiliser or pruning.
Over the years, the lychees at the Yinlin farm have received “nutritional intervention” only twice. First, a few years ago, when a delivery of TCM dregs for composting arrived and there was nowhere to put them, they were piled beside the lychee trees. Second, last year, pond mud dug out from the fish ponds was piled there for the same reason.
When Wang Pengcheng first settled in Yinlin Village six or seven years ago to practice natural farming, he had no intention of monetising the lychees. However, a few years ago, the neglected trees unexpectedly bore an abundant crop, which prompted Pengcheng to take a real interest in the farm’s lychees. That said, the yields at Pengcheng’s farm remain unstable; this year is an “off-year”, with an estimated harvest of barely a thousand jin.
For those who have been following the lychee season recently, it will be known that this has generally been an “on-year”. In March, while visiting Zhanjiang as a member of the Guangdong Harvest Celebration team, I saw massive lychee trees in full bloom.
There, Lin Zijie, a young returnee who has spent years exploring ecological fruit tree cultivation, explained to us that these “on-years” and “off-years” are a self-protection mechanism of the trees. Under conditions of drought or other adverse weather, fruit trees will bloom and fruit desperately in an attempt to ensure the survival of their offspring, resulting in an “on-year”. Following this, the trees need to recuperate, leading to fewer flowers and fruits—the “off-year”.
Some growers exploit this principle by using techniques such as girdling or applying salt to force the trees into continuous “on-years” to guarantee a stable output.
Before the Spring Equinox this year, there was almost no rain in Guangdong, one of the primary lychee-producing regions. This unusual drought created this year’s general “on-year”. Yinlin Village, however, was an exception; the drought did not trigger this “crisis-induced fruiting” here.
Around the Qingming Festival, the lychees bloomed, but it was clearly visible that there were far fewer blossoms in Yinlin Village than in previous years. Last year, the blossoms were so lush that if you stood quietly beneath a tree, you could hear the soft rustle of falling petals. Now that the fruit has set, only a few scattered clusters can be seen among the branches.
Guo Rui also noted that in the past, when villagers relied on lychees for their primary livelihood, the trees were well-nourished, meaning there were no marked fluctuations between these years. In recent years, as the lychee market has lost its lustre, many villagers have begun to neglect the trees, and it is only now that these distinct ‘on-off’ cycles have emerged.
The reduction in fruit set is also linked to this year’s rainfall. Zhong Ge added that excessive rain during the flowering period hindered bee pollination and caused the young fruit to mould and rot, preventing them from reaching maturity.
IV. Have lychees been profitable for the villagers?
Last year, Yinlin had a bumper harvest. When the lychees first appeared, they fetched over ten yuan a jin; by mid-season, the price plummeted to three or four yuan, or even lower. This is because prices are typically highest at the start and end of the season, dipping in the middle—the simple logic of scarcity.
At the time, many of the village uncles and aunts did indeed load their motorbikes and head to the market to sell their crop. However, more often, the lychees were simply left hanging on the trees, unpicked. Even those who did harvest them often preferred to give them away for free rather than endure the trip to town to sell them.
Different lychee varieties flower, fruit, and ripen at different times. The irony is that the varieties appearing first and last on the market—Feizixiao and Huaizhi—are not the most flavourful. The widely acclaimed Guiwei and Nuomici varieties happen to ripen exactly during that mid-season price dip.
If it were me, knowing I had grown the most delicious lychees only to receive the lowest price, I certainly wouldn’t want to endure the hardship of picking and selling them. Cruelly, the market uses volume, not quality, as the lever for price.
And even when it comes to quality, consumers are likely less concerned with taste or nutrition than with how the fruit looks.
In the Conghua District where Yinlin is located, a variety called Jingganghong is being vigorously promoted. It doesn’t taste great, but it is striking—a red so vivid that consumers are happy to pay for it.
Other villagers have chopped down the lychee trees by the paddies to plant the more sought-after fragrant lemons. These trees fruit in just two years, or even less. Zhong-ge says that once those lemon trees all bear fruit next year, these people will realise just how low the price will drop.
V. Lychee trees, are you happy?
On an afternoon in June, following the rain, I walked with Zhong-ge into the grove and touched the two-hundred-year-old lychee trees.
Zhong-ge told me that these trees no longer have any value, so they are ignored; as a result, they have withered and are not as grand as they once were.
Guo Rui added that because the lychees are neglected and left wild, fewer herbicides, fertilisers, and pesticides are used. The ecology has improved; there are more birds and fewer pests.
I gazed at the trees, lost in thought:
Does the market push high-quality products to the consumer?
Does the market encourage producers to create something of quality?
Does the market make the lychee trees happy?
I wanted to ask the trees: after more than two hundred years, do you feel free now?
The lychees of Conghua, Guangzhou, are nearly ripe, and the residents of Yinlin—both old and new—have begun preparing for the second Yinlin Lychee Festival. Although this year is an off-year for Yinlin with very little fruit, we still hope to use this opportunity to share more stories of the local lychees.
We hope that participants will reflect on whether the desire for “food” fulfils our true needs, and how that desire has transformed the producers, the environment, the supply chain, and the consumers.
And then, let us all embrace those two-hundred-year-old “valueless” lychee trees, and feel a life that is ancient and steady, yet still vibrant and thriving.
Perhaps, one day, when we as humans are also labelled “valueless”, we can find solace in the life story of these ancient lychee trees.
All images in this article are by the author
Editor: Zen