Text and photographs by Chris Cherry

A small bird is hovering high up in the air, flapping impatiently. The elderly man puts a metal tube to his lips, tilts his head back, and spits hard. The bird, opening its mustard-yellow beak, somersaults and swoops low. Banking hard left, its sharp mouth snaps shut with a percussive ‘tink.’ The man smiles at the sound and offers his hand. After a series of balletic twists, the bird arcs back to land softly on the palm, where it deposits a small plastic ball. The man caresses its neck and reaches into his pocket for a reward. “Does it do any other tricks?” someone asks. The birdman narrows his eyes. “Is that not enough?”

Mr. Bai spends all of his days in the open space between Beijing’s Drum and Bell Towers, playing catch with his birds, and sitting chatting with other ‘birdmen’ caught up in the same passion. “I only stay at home if it snows,” he reveals, nodding towards the thawing remains of yesterday’s snowfall on a nearby rooftop.

Mr. Bai is a retiree and has been training birds to fetch for 2 years now, learning from a friend. “Old people don’t have very much to do,” he says, pulling a cigarette from a crumpled packet. “I got bored listening to the radio all day.” His bird squawks, and begins to squabble with another on a neighboring perch. The old man reaches over to chide it with a firm tap on the head. “And keeping birds is peaceful,” he smiles, “Good for the health.”

These birds, with their distinctive yellow beaks, are called ‘wutong’ birds, and are caught from the wild. They are subsequently sold in markets in Beijing for 70 to 80 yuan, and can be trained to catch within a week. Trainers begin by tossing seeds into the air, with a hungry bird eager to play. Seeds are then swapped for small plastic balls, big enough to prevent choking, and these are thrown gradually higher and higher. Birds receive food upon a successful retrieve.

As with most pastimes, bragging rights are important, and the men like to boast about whose pet can soar highest. The camaraderie of the birdmen, interrupted by regular bouts of gentle mocking and playful insults, seems to be a big part of what draws each of them back, day after day.

“We are here all winter,” nods Mr. Bai. “But we let the birds go in April. Beijing’s summer months are too hot and the birds pant like dogs, with their mouths always hanging open. Then they are useless for playing catch. We just buy more when it gets cooler.”

He doesn’t know exactly where the birds go. Another man thinks maybe they return to their origins in the northeast of China, the traditional homeland of the Manchu ethnic group. “I think teaching birds tricks is actually part of Manchu culture.” He pauses and shakes his head blankly. “But I’m not really sure.”

A third man sighs and interjects. “All he knows is how to eat and defecate,” he blusters, and they all fall into laughter. “There is a Manchu man that sometimes comes here with his birds. But usually he plays near the National Stadium. He knows more about history than we do.”

As light fades and a slight chill descends, the men attach perches to bicycles, checking birds are tightly secured, and head for home, disappearing into the warren of hutongs (alleys) that make up Old Beijing.

Lian Cheng Ye is shouting at the trees. “Come down! Get back! No food for you!” His wutong bird stands on a branch, whistling, nodding its head in mocking metronome. The other birdmen can’t help but laugh, and Mr. Lian is soon joining them. “We try to come to a place with no trees,” he sighs. “But they always find one somehow.”

These men like to bring their birds to a dusty concrete square north of the National Stadium, colloquially known as the “Bird’s Nest” for its striking lattice framework, which provides a fitting backdrop. “Bird’s nests are lucky in Chinese folklore,” announces Lian, flicking his eyes towards the vast structure. “They wanted to bring luck to the Olympics.” Another man tuts loudly: “That’s not it. It was built like that because foreigners think Chinese like to eat bird’s nest soup. It was designed by foreigners. Don’t you know?” Bird’s nest soup is regarded as a delicacy in China, only consumed by the rich. The gathered men begin to argue.

61-year-old Lian is of Manchu origin, one of the 55 designated minority groups in China, and has a compelling backstory. “My ancestors were originally brought to Beijing by the Qing emperors,” he recounts, stepping away unnoticed from the squabble over stadium design. “They were nobles. My grandfather was in charge of the garments the imperial family wore to weddings and funerals. My father used to get free rice every year from the emperor Pu Yi. That was until the Republicans came.”

Like Lian’s forefathers, the wutong birds also hail from the Manchu heartlands of China’s northeast, though they migrate southwards to escape the brutal winter months. It was on one such journey, Lian claims, that they got their name. “The Empress Dowager Ci Xi was said to have been resting in the Forbidden City when one landed on a tree outside her window. The bird began to sing and she became captivated, summoning an attendant to ask what it was called. But they had no idea. Not wanting to lose face, the attendant quickly looked at the tree and saw that it was a wutong. So that’s what he blurted, and that became the name.”

During the Qing Dynasty of Ci Xi’s time, the families of Manchu nobles who had helped vanquish the Ming were arranged under 8 banners, and occupied the hutongs surrounding the Forbidden City (such as those near the Drum Tower) as additional protection for the monarch inside. They were not allowed to work (this was considered undignified, or more likely, counter to the emperor’s requirement they be battle-ready), and so spent a great deal of time sitting redundant, awaiting orders.

A large number began to idle away their days in Beijing collecting and playing with birds, so that the image of a robed Manchu clutching a cage became something of a disdainful stereotype among the conquered Han majority, who increasingly came to resent their new masters. Indeed, in the Mandarin language, to call someone a ‘niaoren’ or ‘birdman’ became a derisory insult, indicating a wretched person of no worth (this phrase is still used as a pejorative today, though its etymology is open to dispute).

The Han Chinese of this time were forced to adopt some of the cultural tropes of the Manchu group, such as growing long ‘queue’ ponytails (which became the obligatory hairstyle on pain of death.) But, as with other ‘foreign’ conquerors of China (such as the Yuan Dynasty), it was the Manchus who were largely assimilated by the dominant culture of the Han, appropriating much of their heritage and traditions.

Today, for Mr. Lian, little remains of the Manchu legacy. “I don’t even know how to speak Manchurian,” he says, with the Chinese equivalent of a shrug. “I suppose for me, playing with these birds is a way to connect with my culture. They must be in my blood. I remember my father doing this when I was a boy, and so I guess they also connect me to him.” A birdman hovering nearby offers a more inclusive perspective: “Traditionally, Chinese believe we should live alongside nature. This is us doing what we can.”

The vast concrete expanse on which Lian and his friends gather was originally built as a bus parking lot for the recently-held Olympic Games. It has since been reclaimed by the locals as a playground for a variety of pastimes, both traditional and modern. A girl on rollerskates weaves her way between distracted kite fliers. A man in polished shoes sits hunched over a remote-controlled car, spinning its wheels with his fingers. Nearby, someone else fidgets with electronic buttons, attempting to maneuver a small helicopter to a flawless landing.

Mr. Lian’s thoughts have trailed off, and he puts the pipe quickly to his lips to spit another ball at the graying autumn sky. As his bird dances in the air, there is a sudden “WUMP” noise, followed by the dreadful sound of shattering plastic. The birdmen spin around. A man is rushing across the square with a pained expression. His helicopter has thudded into the concrete.

“Ahhhhhh!” blurts one of the birdmen. “You won’t be able to fly that anymore, brother!” The other men chuckle to one another, as if they already sense the punchline. “Now is your chance to come play with real birds!”