Dawn, over the karst hills of Guilin. These remarkable hills owe their peculiar shapes to the mildly acid waters of the Li River, whose meandering course over eons of time has corroded away their bases until only the rocky cores remain.

 

The Li is one of the cleanest rivers in China, a favorite spot for fishermen with their trained cormorants. The men, all called Huang, come from the same village; now in their 70s and 80s, they've been fishermen all their lives.

 

Before they release the birds, they tie a noose loosely around the neck to stop them swallowing any fish they may catch. Chanting and dancing, the Huangs encourage their birds to take the plunge.

 

Underwater, a cormorant's hunting instinct kicks in, turning them into fish-seeking missiles. Working together, a good cormorant team can catch a couple of dozen decent-sized fish in a morning.

 

The birds return to the raft with their fish because they've been trained to do so. From the time it first hatched, each of these cormorants has been reared to a life of obedience to its master. The birds are, in effect, slaves. But they're not stupid. It's said that cormorants can keep a tally of the fish they catch, at least up to seven; so unless they get a reward now and then, they simply withdraw their labor. The fishermen of course keep the best fish for themselves; the cormorants get the leftover tiddlers. With its collar removed, the bird can at last swallow its prize, best of all, one it isn't meant to have.

 

These days, competition from modern fishing techniques means the Huangs can't make a living from traditional cormorant fishing alone. And this 1300-year-old tradition is now practiced mostly to entertain tourists.

 

But on the Caohai Lake in nearby Guizhou Province, an even more unusual fishing industry is alive and well. Geng Zhongsheng is on his way to set out his net for the night