Wild China (2008) s01e06 Episode Script

1
From the eastern end of the Great Wall,
China's coast spans 14,500 kilometres
and more than 5,000 years of history.
This is the area which shows
the greatest contrast
between China's past and its future.
Today China's eastern seaboard
is home to 700 million people,
packed into some of the most
dazzling hi-tech cities on earth.
Yet these crowded shores remain hugely
important for a wealth of wildlife.
Now, as ancient traditions
mingle with new aspirations,
is there any room at all for wildlife
on China's crowded shores?
In northern China's
Zhalong Nature Reserve,
a pair of red-crowned cranes
have staked out their nesting territory
in the stubble of
a commercially managed reed bed.
For centuries,
cranes have been revered in China
as symbols of longevity.
Their statues were placed
next to the Emperor's throne.
The cranes have cause to celebrate.
This chick is a sign of hope
in difficult times.
Red-crowned cranes are one of
the world's most endangered species.
Over the last century,
China has lost nearly half
of its coastal wetlands
and most of what remains is managed for
the benefit of people, not wildlife.
A few months from now,
this chick and its parents will face
a long migration south
to escape the harsh northern winter.
Their route will take them along a coast
which has been greatly affected
by human activity.
Along their journey,
the cranes will be joined
by many thousands
of other migrating birds.
All heading south across the Bohai Gulf
and along the shores of
the Yellow and East China Seas,
some even reaching as far as
the South China Sea
in search of a safe winter haven.
The annual bird migration has been
going on for thousands of years.
Here at Mount Jinping
on China's northeast coast,
there is surprising evidence
that people have lived here
almost as long.
Seven thousand years ago,
members of the Shao Hao tribe
carved magical symbols
representing significant elements
of their daily lives.
The petroglyphs show wheat sheaves
connected by lines to human figures,
the first known recordings of
cultivation in China.
Familiar with the spectacle
of yearly bird migrations,
the Shao Hao people chose
a symbol of a bird as their totem.
Mount Jinping lies near
the Shandong peninsula,
an important wintering site
for migrant birds,
and even today there are still
communities along this coastline
who retain a special affinity
with their local birdlife.
Yandun Jiao village,
on the north-eastern shore
of the peninsula,
is famous for its traditional
seaweed-thatched cottages.
On a chilly morning in early spring,
Mr and Mrs Qu venture out at first light
armed with the traditional seaside
accessories of bucket and spade.
As the Qus head down into the harbour,
a flock of whooper swans,
known affectionately here
as "winter angels",
are waking out in the bay.
The Qus and their neighbours
search for tube holes
in the mud at low tide,
the sign of cockles and razor shells
hidden deep below.
While gathering shellfish
is a popular pastime,
the main business of Yandun Jiao
happens further out at sea.
As the boats set out,
with Mr Qu on board,
the swans set a parallel course.
The whole of the bay is
a gigantic seaweed farm.
The men work all day cleaning
and tending the kelp fronds
that are grown on ropes linked to
a vast armada of buoys.
The swans eat native seaweeds
growing on the surface ropes
rather than the valuable crop of kelp,
so they do no harm
to the commercial operation.
In the afternoon,
as the wind picks up out at sea,
the workers and swans return to shore.
While the culture
of seeking balance with nature
goes back a long way in China,
it is rare to see such harmonious
relationships on China's crowded coast.
As evening draws on,
the Qu family prepare
their evening meal of cockles,
steamed bread and seaweed.
Leftovers are given to
the village children to feed the swans.
It's fun for the kids and provides
an extra energy boost for the birds
as they face another cold night.
The swans have been using
this sheltered bay
at as a winter refuge
for many generations.
As long as the tradition
of respect for nature persists,
this remarkable association between
the Yandun Jiao community
and their winter angels
looks set to continue.
Out in the Bohai Gulf,
northeast of the swan village,
a small rocky island provides a quiet
resting spot for migrating birds.
But Shedao Island has hidden dangers.
Pallas' pit vipers trapped here
6,000 years ago by rising sea levels
have evolved a sinister lifestyle.
For 10 months of the year
there is nothing substantial to eat
on the island,
so the reptiles conserve their energy
by barely moving at all.
As the sun warms their rocky home,
the snakes climb up
into the bushes and trees.
But they aren't here to sunbathe.
More and more vipers appear
until virtually every perch
where a bird might land
has been booby-trapped.
Then the waiting game begins.
The serpents' camouflage is remarkable,
but so are the birds' reactions,
as this high-speed shot reveals.
The birds will only stay on the island
for a couple of weeks.
But although the snakes
have been starving for months,
their only hope of bagging a meal
is to be patient
and sit tight.
The slightest miscalculation
and the snake is left with
a mouthful of feathers.
The dropped meal is tracked down
mainly by smell,
the viper using its forked tongue
to taste the air until
it is close enough to see its quarry.
The final challenge is to swallow a meal
that's twice the size of its head.
It does so by dislocating its jaws
and positioning its prey
so the beak is pointing backwards.
For the reptiles,
this time of plenty is all too brief.
In a couple of weeks,
the migration will be over
and the birds will have moved on.
This could be the snake's last meal
for six months.
But it isn't just islands
that experience cycles
of feast and famine.
The sea, too, has its seasons,
a fact well known to fishing communities
along the neighbouring coasts.
In Chuwang harbour,
the start of a new fishing season
provides the excuse for a massive party.
But for boat owner Mr Zhao,
it's a day of prayer
as well as celebration.
Zhao hopes that by presenting gifts
and showing respect to the sea goddess,
he can help ensure a prosperous
and safe year ahead
for him and his crew.
Meanwhile, drums, firecrackers and
fireworks reflect the ancient belief
that loud noises will frighten off
dangerous sea devils and bad fortune.
Occupying centre stage
is a representation of the sea dragon,
mythical ruler of water and weather.
In the calm of the evening,
Mr Zhao and his family
light paper boat lanterns.
Each flickering flame
carries a wish to the sea goddess,
a tradition passed on from parents
to children over countless generations.
On China's crowded coasts,
fishermen need to be
extremely resourceful.
Hauling in the nets is hard work,
and so far there's not a fish in sight.
Only jellyfish.
Each year, millions of jellyfish
are carried south with the currents
in the Bohai Gulf.
The ecological story
behind this event is complex,
but by no means unique to China.
Jellyfish are fast-breeding
plankton feeders.
In recent years, human sewage and
fertilisers from intensive farming
have increased plankton blooms
in the Gulf,
providing extra jellyfish food.
While over-fishing has reduced
their enemies and competitors.
It's a phenomenon that has become
increasingly widespread
across the world's seas.
However, what is seen elsewhere
as a problem,
in China is perceived as an opportunity.
Back on shore,
mule carts transport the jellyfish
to nearby warehouses
where they will be processed
and sold as food all over China.
Four generations tuck into
a bowl of sliced jellyfish,
the recipe for a long and healthy life.
Leaving the Bohai Gulf behind,
migrating cranes,
spoonbills and ducks
are joined by other birds,
all heading south
in search of a safe winter haven.
The birds' migration route follows
the coast of the Yellow Sea
down into Jiangsu Province,
a fertile agricultural landscape
with some of the last remaining
salt marshes in China.
At Dafeng,
a small salt marsh reserve is home
to an animal which is lucky to be alive.
The Chinese see these Milu as
a curious composite animal,
with a horse's head,
cow's feet,
a tail like a donkey
and backwards-facing antlers.
In the West, we know it as
Père David's Deer,
after the first European to describe it.
During the rut,
stags decorate themselves
with garlands of vegetation
collected in their antlers.
Fierce battles decide mating rights.
The females still have
last year's fawns in tow.
They haven't been weaned
by the time of the rut
and band together in large crèches,
only returning to their mothers to feed.
This unique behaviour helps to keep
them clear of the aggressive males.
Today, there are just
2,500 Milu in China,
but it is remarkable that
there are any at all.
In the early 1900s
Milu became extinct in the wild,
but luckily, some of the Imperial herd
had been sent as a gift to Europe.
Those at Woburn Abbey,
in England, prospered.
And in the early 1980s, 40 of the deer
were returned to their homeland
where they continue to thrive.
The migrating cranes
have so far travelled
over 2,000 kilometres southwards
along the coast.
Passing the Milu Deer Reserve at Dafeng,
they are approaching another salt marsh
which will provide the perfect
conditions for them to spend the winter.
This is Yancheng,
the largest coastal wetland in China,
visited by an estimated
three million birds each year.
Crane chicks that were only born
seven months ago
have now completed the first leg
of a round trip
which they will repeat every year.
The hardy cranes can cope
with winter temperatures
which may drop below freezing.
However, other migrating birds, like
the endangered black-faced spoonbill,
are less cold-tolerant
and will continue even further south
in search of warmer climes.
At this point,
many of the migrating bird flocks
are barely halfway along
their southward journey.
Ahead of them lies a new challenge,
China's greatest river, the Yangtze,
and the venue for
a very different kind of migration.
Each year, millions of tons of cargo
travel up and down the river,
making this one of
the busiest waterways in the world.
These are Chinese mitten crabs,
named for their strange hairy claws.
They may migrate as much as
1 ,500 kilometres
from tributaries and lakes
to the river mouth,
where they gather to breed.
A similar migration is made
by the giant Yangtze sturgeon,
which can reach four metres long
and weigh half a ton.
In recent years,
its numbers have declined dramatically
as its migration is impeded
by ever more river dams.
But it isn't just animals like
the sturgeon that are in trouble,
the entire Yangtze River
ecosystem is being poisoned.
In spite of being the subject
of an ambitious clean-up plan,
today the river is
reckoned to be the biggest
single source of pollution
entering the Pacific Ocean.
Situated right at the mouth
of its estuary,
Chongming Island provides
a vital resting and feeding spot
for migrating shorebirds,
and a place which offers
welcome evidence
of changing attitudes towards
the Yangtze's beleaguered wildlife.
For centuries these coastal
mudflats have attracted hunters,
like Mr Jin,
who have honed
their trapping skills to perfection
to put rare birds on the tables
of Shanghai's elite.
For 40 years Mr Jin has used a net,
simple decoy birds and a bamboo whistle
to lure passing birds towards his nets.
It takes both patience
and consummate skill.
But all is not as it seems.
Mr Jin, like many of
the best conservationists,
is poacher turned gamekeeper,
using his hunting skills
to benefit his old quarry.
The staff here at Dongtan Bird Reserve
will measure, ring
and weigh the trapped birds
before releasing them unharmed.
The information gathered
by Mr Jin and his colleagues
helps to protect
over 200 different species of birds
which visit the island each year.
Just south of Chongming Island
lies China's largest coastal city,
Shanghai.
Situated on a major migration route
for birds as well as river life,
Shanghai is now preparing
for an even bigger invasion.
Barges loaded with building materials
constantly arrive in the city's docks,
feeding one of the greatest
construction booms in the world.
Last year, half the world's concrete
was poured into China's cities,
all in preparation for
the biggest mass migration of people
in the history of the world.
In the next 25 years,
well over 300 million people
are predicted to move from
rural China into cities like Shanghai.
The migration of people
from country to city
is being mirrored around the world,
and by 2010
over half of the world's population
will be urban dwellers.
As night falls,
Shanghai reveals its true colours.
China's fastest-growing financial centre
is in the midst of a massive boom.
With an estimated population
of more than 20 million,
Shanghai is officially China's largest
and certainly its most dazzling city.
But there is an environmental cost.
Shanghai residents now use two and
a half times more power per head
than their rural cousins.
The city's seemingly
insatiable energy demands
currently require the output
of 17 power stations.
South of Shanghai
the city lights gradually fade
as we enter an ancient world.
This is Fujian Province,
a rugged terrain
guarded by sheer granite mountains
which have helped to forge and preserve
some of China's most ancient sites
and traditional cultures.
Towering above the coast,
the 1 ,400-metre-high Taimu Mountains
are known to the Chinese
as "Fairyland on the Sea".
Moist sea breezes condense
on the cool mountaintops
and combine with well-drained acid soils
to produce
the perfect growing conditions
for acid-loving plants
like wild azaleas.
It's also home to camellias,
including the most famous of all,
the tea plant.
Similar growing conditions
all along the Fujian coast
make this the treasure chest
for China's tea,
the heart of an industry dating back
almost 4,000 years.
One of the most traditional
tea-growing cultures in the area
is that of the Kejia people.
Every morning, goats are let loose
among the tea terraces,
a centuries-old tradition.
This might seem surprising
given goats' reputation
for eating anything green,
but tea isn't as defenceless
as it looks.
Tea leaves are loaded
with bitter chemicals
designed to repel browsing animals.
It works on the goats,
who leave the tea untouched
and instead eat up the weeds,
fertilising the tea plants
with their droppings.
The surprise is that we humans
should find the same
bitter chemical cocktail
utterly irresistible.
Among the Kejia people,
tea-growing is a family business.
Women do the picking,
while the men process and pack it.
Mrs Zhang belongs to a Kejia family
that has lived and worked
for generations
among these same tea terraces.
The finest tea needs to be
gathered quickly in warm sunshine
as this brings out the flavour-enhancing
oils inside the leaves.
This sustainable industry has protected
one of China's finest landscapes
and one of its most
traditional cultures.
At the end of the morning's picking,
Mrs Zhang returns home to drop off
her tea ready for processing.
This fort-like design
has survived from a time
when the Kejia needed to
protect themselves
against hostile local tribes.
Each house has three or four levels
designed to accommodate
50 to 250 people.
The ground floor houses
the kitchens and animal stock
with access to a well for water.
The first floor rooms
are used for storage
and the upper floors are bedrooms.
Some of these remarkable buildings
are 800 years old
and have survived earthquakes
and typhoons.
Once enough tea has been gathered in,
the processing begins.
Turning green leaves into saleable tea
involves at least
eight different stages,
including drying, bruising,
sifting, squeezing and twisting,
before the finished product
is finally ready for packing.
The Zhang's village produces
"little black dragon",
or oolong tea,
so called because of the way
its twisted leaves unfurl
when water is poured over them.
Tea plays a vital part in Kejia life,
not only as a source of income,
but also as a way to welcome visitors
and bring people together.
In traditional Chinese life,
even the simplest cup of tea is poured
with an intricate amount of ritual.
In the past,
the Kejia people's other main income
came from transporting goods like tea
across the treacherous topography
of mountains and river estuaries.
Their route was suddenly
made easier when, in 1059,
this remarkable bridge was built.
Made from massive
10-ton slabs of granite,
it is one of China's lesser-known
architectural gems.
Luoyang Bridge has withstood
earthquakes and tempestuous tides.
Known as "10,000 ships launching",
the bridge's 46 piers
have withstood time and tide
for almost a millennium.
According to folklore,
its success is due to a far-sighted
piece of bio-engineering.
Oysters were seeded on the piers
and ever since,
their concretions have helped cement
the granite blocks together.
Today, oysters are still cultivated here
in the traditional way by Hui'an women.
Stones are stood in the mudflats
below the bridge
to encourage the oysters to grow.
Luoyang Bridge
is now mainly used by locals
carrying goods across the estuary
towards the coastal ports.
For more than 2,000 years,
coastal trade in China has depended
on a remarkable and
pioneering type of ship,
known to us as the junk.
This working vessel follows
a general design
that's been in use in Fujian
for at least 600 years.
Its bows take the form of a beak,
with two large painted eyes
evoking the traditional
seafarers' belief
that the bird's image
would help sailors return safely,
like the migrants that return
each spring and autumn.
Tea and other goods
were stored in strong bulkheads,
each waterproofed and separated
from the next to minimise flood damage.
This innovation, introduced
to keep precious tea cargos dry,
spurred on the improvement
of not only Chinese boats,
but Western ones, too.
The distinctive rigging of
the junk's sails
allows easy handling in bad weather,
essential along
this storm-battered coast.
Each year from July to November,
up to a dozen typhoons,
a corruption of the Chinese word
for "great wind",
head northwest towards China.
Typhoons are becoming more frequent
as sea temperatures rise,
aided by a global increase
in greenhouse gases,
such as carbon dioxide.
But satellite pictures have revealed
a surprising twist.
It seems that typhoons can pull
deep, nutrient-rich seawater
up to the surface
causing plankton blooms,
which in turn soak up
large quantities of carbon dioxide.
When a typhoon strikes,
one of the best places to be
is Hong Kong harbour
with its sheltered anchorage.
A centre of international trade,
the city is famous
for its jumble of skyscrapers
and its bustling commercial centre.
But there's a side to Hong Kong
that's less well known.
Behind the urban sprawl
lies a swathe of wetlands
which include the Mai Po Nature Reserve.
Managed principally for the benefit
of migrating birds,
the reserve maintains a series
of traditional prawn farms,
known as gei wais,
and their adjoining mangroves
and mudflats.
Every two weeks from November to March,
one of the gei wais is drained
by opening up the sluice gates.
As the water level falls,
birds begin to gather.
Herons, egrets and cormorants
mingle with a far rarer visitor,
the black-faced spoonbill.
These endangered migrants
have travelled the length of
the Chinese coastline
from Northern China and Korea.
Mai Po marks the end of
a 2,000 kilometre journey
during which the birds may have lost
up to a third of their body weight.
Four hundred black-faced spoonbills,
a quarter of the world's population,
pass the winter here.
At low water,
trapped shrimps and fish
become easy prey,
a life saver for these endangered birds.
The Mai Po marshes
are part of the Pearl River estuary,
whose muddy shores abound with crabs,
worms and mud-skippers.
Exposed at low tide,
this smorgasbord of mud-life attracts
both waders
and the gei wai birds.
Here on the mudflats of Inner Deep Bay,
each kind of bird has
its own specific feeding zone
defined by the depth of the water,
the length of its beak
and its feeding technique.
Once refuelled,
they revel in synchronised
aerial displays.
More than any other place
on China's coastline,
Inner Deep Bay
demonstrates that, with help,
resilient nature can still thrive,
even when boxed in
and overshadowed by
towering cities like Shenzhen.
Another successful example of
man's intervention
on behalf of nature
can be glimpsed in the waters
around Lantau Island.
While egrets make the most of
an easy meal,
other creatures have their eye on
the fishermen's catch.
Chinese white dolphins
are estuary specialists.
Found widely in
the Indian and Pacific Ocean,
this species is rare in China.
The young are born dark grey
and become spotted as adolescents,
finally turning creamy white as adults,
though on some occasions
they may blush a delicate shade of pink.
Three groups of dolphins
live close to Lantau Island.
As the tide comes in, they move with it
to feed on small fish or squid
which travel with the currents,
using echolocation to see their prey
through the murky water.
They also use sound to communicate.
But they face a deafening problem.
The Pearl Estuary has become one of
the busiest shipping channels in China,
and the dolphins are constantly
bombarded with sound.
New research suggests that
they may now pack more information
into shorter calls in a bid to be heard.
Local conservationists have now set up
a protected zone near Lantau Island.
So, for now, China's white dolphins
are holding on.
South of Hong Kong
lies the South China Sea,
studded with more than
200 islands and reefs.
Potential reserves of fish, oil and gas
make each one strategic,
and the whole region has become
a political hot spot
as territorial disputes simmer
between its many neighbouring countries.
The waters themselves
are low in nutrients
and would be poor in life
if it wasn't for the other resource
that's here in abundance.
Sunlight.
In the shallows of the coral atolls,
small jellyfish point their tentacles
towards the sun.
Like many animals here,
they depend on a close partnership
with microscopic algae,
which turn solar power into food.
The most famous of these relationships
is the reef-forming corals,
which provide the foundation of
the sea's most dazzling ecosystem.
Their branches provide shelter
for a wealth of small
and vulnerable creatures,
many of them beautifully camouflaged.
But the ultimate master of disguise
has to be the octopus,
able to change not only
its shape and colour,
but its skin texture, too.
Where the reefs meet deeper waters,
upwelling currents carry nutrients
to the surface.
Reef fish swim out to gorge themselves
on the resulting food,
in turn attracting larger predatory
fish to the reefs.
Trevally prowl in dense packs.
Giant rays sweep in on graceful wings
to hoover up the remaining plankton,
which also attracts the king of fish.
Growing up to 12 metres long,
the whale shark is a gentle giant.
And these days, a rare sighting.
As sharks, small and large,
are plundered to supply
the East Asian shark meat trade,
the fate of these fabulous creatures
hangs in the balance.
While healthy coral reefs
still survive in the remote islands,
the situation close to
the Chinese coast is quite different.
The waters along the shores of Hainan,
China's largest tropical island,
have been fished for thousands of years.
As the reefs become
less and less productive,
fishermen from Tanmen harbour
need all their resourcefulness
to make a living.
Dicing with death, they breathe air
pumped through hose pipes
in a desperate bid to catch
the last remaining sea life.
Over the years, increased sedimentation
and the use of dynamite and cyanide
means the corals close to shore
are barely hanging on.
Recently the government has
recognised that regulation is needed
if the local fishery
is to survive for the future.
Fishing is now banned for two months
of the year
to allow marine life a chance to breed.
One of the most important
tropical habitats
for young fish is mangrove swamps.
In the last 40 years,
eighty percent of China's mangroves
have been destroyed.
But at the Dongzhaigang Mangrove Reserve
in Hainan,
a remarkable conservation initiative
is bringing young
Chinese volunteers together
to plant mangrove saplings
in the glutinous mud.
For many of these city-born students,
such unglamorous work
demonstrates their commitment
to their country's environment.
Like other heavily populated countries,
China today is faced with a challenge.
How best to protect nature
in an increasingly crowded space?
These wild macaques
live on a tiny Hainan Island reserve
where they are carefully managed
and looked after.
Most of the island's hillsides are
covered with tropical woodland,
but there are also
areas of flower meadows
where the monkeys gather to feed.
Each morning,
as the tropical sun heats their island,
the macaques head downhill
in search of somewhere cooler.
And what could be more refreshing
than a dip in the pool?
To the Chinese,
combining a wildlife reserve
with a tourist development
makes perfect commercial sense,
and the monkeys don't seem
at all unhappy with the deal.
The question is where to draw the line.
Like the rest of the world,
China is still feeling its way towards
a harmonious relationship with nature.
Six hundred years ago
the people who lived here carved
this calligraphy in the rocks,
announcing it to be
"the end of the world".
In recent years that world has undergone
a massive expansion
as tourists from all over China
have discovered the delights
of Hainan's tropical seaside resorts.
By 2010, China's total tourism revenue
is expected to hit £75 billion a year.
While insensitive development could
destroy China's natural environment,
well-managed eco-tourism could provide
huge benefits for China's wildlife.
The issues that face China today,
increasing pressure on resources
and living space and
quality of environment,
are those that face us all.
If there is any country in the world
equipped to solve environmental problems
on a vast scale,
it has to be China,
with its tremendous human resources
and powerful political control.
The path it chooses will affect
not just its own people
and its natural environment,
but the rest of the world, too.