The morning fog clung to the stone steps like spider silk as I descended into the heart of Guilin's old fishing village. My guide—a woman in her seventies with hands weathered by decades of river work—gestured for me to follow her to the water's edge. She didn't speak English. I didn't speak Mandarin. But when she handed me a cormorant to hold, its sleek black feathers trembling against my forearm, we understood each other perfectly.
The Li River stretched before us like molten jade, limestone karsts rising from its surface in impossible formations. This wasn't the tourist Guilin of postcard panoramas and selfie crowds. This was the fishermen's river, where tradition still moved with the current, where birds and humans worked in ancient partnership.
My guide tied a delicate knot around the cormorant's throat—tight enough to prevent swallowing large fish, loose enough to breathe. The bird dove from the bamboo raft with the grace of an Olympic swimmer, disappearing into the murky water. Seconds later, it surfaced with a thrashing carp in its beak, returned to the raft, and deposited its catch at her feet. She rewarded it with a smaller fish, which slid easily past the knot.