Watch: Crickets Go To Battle

We peer into the ceramic bowl as the two crickets are shaken out of the gourd that houses them in winter. They land softly and began circling the bottom of the fighting ring. After one final pass, the antennas touch and the two bugs rise up onto their hind legs. They begin nipping at each other’s faces.“Oops, that’s an unhappy couple.” Cricket Liu looks up from the bowl and grins, baring his half-set of yellow teeth. “It’s like cricket domestic violence. Ha ha.”

Traditionally in Chinese cricket fighting, males are only given access to females (or “three tails” – as Liu calls them, referring to their third tail) the day before a fight. Mating makes the males aggressive and will improve their chances against other males. There are even ornate “wedding beds” – open-ended ceramic boxes – used for the procedure.

That ritual is months away for Liu Yunjiang and his army of chirpers. Spring is a dull time in Beijing’s bug fighting underworld. Future champions rest with their mates in insulated gourds. The bottoms are filled with a dried mud-paper foundation – more comfortable for the sensitive bugs to lie down. Here in these containers, tucked under their master’s clothing, soothed by his body’s constant temperature, they await the brutal fall selection rounds. The less-preferred crickets are kept insulated in Styrofoam coolers. Liu keeps hundreds of the critters at a time, hoping to identify the perfect fighter by the autumnal equinox – when cricket warriors are in their prime.

A Fierce Cricket Battle

Fighting crickets was a hobby of the Chinese nobility starting in the Tang dynasty. Millions still do it countrywide, sometimes betting gargantuan amounts of money. Famous actors and TV broadcasters are known to spend tens of thousands of renminbi on crickets. There are illegal gambling societies. In extreme cases, people get shot and stabbed over their cricket debt.

According to Liu, cricket markets in Shandong province offer the best quality insects. Players from around the country convene at these fairs; the wealthiest hole up in hotels, putting signs in their windows stating the price ranges and quality of cricket they will consider, so that vendors know whether or not it’s even worth approaching them.

Liu calls himself a simple cricket trainer – he won’t spend more than a few hundred RMB to buy his fighters. He is, however, the official champion of his local cricket fighting society. Liu shows off a certificate his friends made for him at the copy store – perhaps the cultural equivalent of darts champion at a local pub.

“One of my guys fought for over ten minutes straight! Now that was a battle.” Liu jumps out of his chair. He likes to be dramatic for the streams of tourists who stop by to meet him while shopping in Nanluogu Xiang.

He also likes to get distracted and veer off subject, showing people the strange knickknacks that clutter his house – a photo of him with a Norwegian prince or a plate signed by a Japanese ping-pong player. His picture of the ex-Japanese premier’s wife’s visit is hidden behind the one of him with a European banker. “Politics,” he hisses.
Finding out about his training methods – even getting him to talk about crickets at first – takes persistence. Liu bustles around his courtyard, explaining the price of pigeon eggs. His courtyard is an orchestra of bird chirps, cricket buzzes, wing flaps and poultry clucks. The Pekinese dog, Mao Mao, is the only silent pet. She prances in and out of the house with a purple hair band propping up her bangs.

Click to see more photos of Cricket Liu and his exciting hobby

“How do you know about the crickets?” he asks, as if he hadn’t previously agreed to talk about it. He stops and looked me over, appraising me, as a boxing manager would. “OK, I’ll show you. First, I must feed my pigeons.” He climbs up into a bird pen built on the roof of his hutong.

“How do you know about the crickets?” he asks, as if he hadn’t previously agreed to talk about it. He stops and looked me over, appraising me, as a boxing manager would. “OK, I’ll show you. First, I must feed my pigeons.” He climbs up into a bird pen built on the roof of his hutong.

Cricket trainers are secretive. Each has his own methodology, and a champion, even a modest one like Liu, is wary of letting his tactics fall into a competitor’s hands. Unfortunately, too much pride can be a shortcoming of even the best coach.

“My crickets only drink ginseng-infused water.” Liu leans forward in his chair, locking eyes with me. “I feed them lamb intestines!” He leans closer and whispers, “When they’re sick, I make them a secret potion out of lotus leaf.”

Look out for part two of this story later this week.

Bespoke Beijing runs a hutong tour that swings by Cricket Liu’s house. For details, see Bespoke-beijing.com.

A version of this article appeared in the May 2013 issue of the Beijinger

Photos: Mitchell Pe Masilun