[For centuries, residents of Yumingzui, a village of 562 people in the eastern province of Shandong, enjoyed a quiet life by the ocean, harvesting enough fish, sea cucumbers and abalone to support a prosperous seafood trade. While nearby villages fell victim to tourism and development, Yumingzui persevered, clinging to ancient fishing rites and homes made of seaweed.]
By Javier C. Hernández
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Xue Qingping, a fisherman
in Yumingzui Village, China, drove his boat
from the docks into the
bay at dusk so he could fish at night.
Credit Adam Dean for The
New York Times
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YUMINGZUI
VILLAGE, China — On a
moonless night, when there was nothing in the air except the smell of rotting
seaweed and the songs of drunken fishermen, Wang Xinfeng sneaked onto a boat by
the dock and sailed into the darkness.
Like his father and grandfather before him,
Mr. Wang, 53, made a living combing the Yellow Sea for flounder, herring, fat
greenling and yellow croaker. But now the government, hoping to limit
environmental damage and encourage villagers to find new jobs, had banned
fishing during the summer.
Mr. Wang, desperate to pay medical bills, had
taken to venturing into the water at night to avoid detection.
“I was raised at sea — this is my home,” he
said. “Even if it’s a rough life, I have to fish.”
For centuries, residents of Yumingzui, a
village of 562 people in the eastern province of Shandong, enjoyed a quiet life
by the ocean, harvesting enough fish, sea cucumbers and abalone to support a
prosperous seafood trade. While nearby villages fell victim to tourism and
development, Yumingzui persevered, clinging to ancient fishing rites and homes
made of seaweed.
Now Yumingzui is on the verge of extinction.
Pollution, overfishing and rising sea temperatures, brought on by global
warming, have devastated the supply of fish. Local officials, hoping to
invigorate the economy and reduce reliance on outdated industries, have imposed
restrictions on fishing and ordered the village to be demolished next year to
make way for a luxury resort.
The plan has prompted fear among the people
of Yumingzui, many of whom trace their ancestry back hundreds of years. Some
are wrestling with the loss of a place they consider sacred. Others have deep
anxieties about adopting a modern lifestyle, worried about prospects for a new
career and the high cost of amenities like electricity.
Many fishermen have pledged to keep fishing,
even after the village is destroyed.
“What else can I do, become an accountant?”
Mr. Wang said as he carried buckets of bait and trash through ankle-high mud.
Yumingzui, named for the cries of the fish
that were said to surround its shores, was once a fisherman’s paradise. Its
location near the southern tip of Qingdao, a major port city once occupied by
Japan and Germany, gave it access to a booming market for seafood.
But lax enforcement of fishing and
antipollution rules, as well as the proliferation of commercial fishing boats,
has left the surrounding waters depleted of the delicacies that visitors
demand.
Across eastern China, overfishing has become
a crisis, and species that were once common, like eel and Spanish mackerel, are
now scarce. In 2014, fishermen caught 13 million tons of fish, official
statistics show, exceeding the national limit by more than four million tons.
In hard-hit areas, the government has sought
to promote tourism as an alternative to fishing, encouraging villagers to lead
tours and open hotels and restaurants. In some towns, bulletin boards offer
guidance on being good hosts, reminding people to dress nicely and dutifully respond
to questions from visitors.
In recent years, dozens of villages have been
demolished to make room for resorts catering to the growing middle class, with
names like Golden Sand and Mangrove Tree.
The increase in tourism has helped spread
prosperity to villages like Yumingzui, but the high demand for seafood has also
brought destruction to the environment.
“I love the sea, but not everybody respects
the rule of nature,” said Liu Qiang, 46, who was born and raised in Yumingzui.
“Tourists are the reason fishermen are exploiting the sea.”
Mr. Liu said that today, it takes him about
two weeks to catch the same amount of fish he could catch in one day in the
1990s.
When word came several years ago that
Yumingzui would be razed to make way for a resort, villagers protested. Some
traveled to Beijing in hopes of persuading officials to reconsider the
decision.
To ease the concerns of villagers, the
government offered apartments in a modern complex called South Island Tower,
complete with German-style architecture, high-speed internet and palatial
entryways.
But several residents said they were still
unsatisfied.
Chen Ruifen, 70, who moved to the village a
half century ago when she married her husband, a fisherman, said she thought
the plan would benefit local officials, not ordinary people.
“We don’t even have money to put any
decorations on our walls,” said Ms. Chen, a sweet potato, radish and wheat
farmer.
As she sat at the entrance of her courtyard
home, her hands dyed purple from picking mulberries, Ms. Chen recounted how she
had pleaded with officials to keep her home.
“I’m getting old and dying soon,” she said.
“I don’t know what else I can do.”
Across town, in a house overlooking the
southern shore of the village, Xue Li, 45, said he would miss waking up each
day to blue skies and the wail of the sea breeze. He stared into the distance
as the sun set on a row of high-rise apartments across the bay.
“These are our roots,” he said. “Nobody wants
to move.”
His son, Xue Shenye, 17, who is studying to
become a cook, disagreed. For young people, he said, Yumingzui is quaint and
isolated. “We can’t live like this forever,” he said.
Many fishermen said they would continue to
pursue their lifestyle after they relocated, partly because they considered it
a duty, and partly because they did not have other options.
Xue Qingbin, 48, who has fished near
Yumingzui for more than three decades, said the challenges posed by
environmental destruction were becoming more apparent. He said there were now
only three good months of fishing each year. Still, with a daughter in college
and a son in middle school, he said he had no choice but to fish.
“We need money to pay for our children’s
education,” he said, “and now we’re getting old and can’t find other jobs.”
After fishing all night, Mr. Wang returned
from the sea shortly after 8 a.m. with a bucket of jellyfish. It was a
disappointing catch, and he said he felt the ocean had been particularly unkind
that day.
Mr. Wang crossed a beach riddled with the
remains of crabs and the skeletons of boats that had been abandoned long ago.
He set down his bucket, looked to the horizon and said a prayer for the next
day’s catch.
Karoline Kan and Adam Dean contributed
reporting.
