We wake to the news that, in the night, two deer have been shot. It is 6am on our second day in camp and the sun has been up for hours. 'There's deer meat!' people yell. 'How can you still sleep?' The idea of deer for breakfast makes it hard to get up. That the animals were shot illegally, poached with the aid of a rifle, jeep and spotlight, makes it worse. Eyes half open, we straggle to the hunter's home. Two deer lie on his doorstep. The poachers wait eagerly but deferentially for Ge Qingfu to skin them.
Ge, one of the oldest Orochon hunters, does not approve of modern hunting methods. Ge still hunts as he always did, with his horse, gun and dogs. But his way can take months and we have only a few days. We are here to witness the life of the last remaining traditional Orochons, and apparently deer meat is required. So we stand there, mouths gaping at last night's kill. 'I guess one, and one and a half years,' says Ge's wife Meng Yufang, sneering. 'They're a bit small but they'll do. This winter was really rough, not much game. Besides, young ones have the sweetest meat.' I approach the deer and the dogs lunge at me, gnashing their teeth and spitting.
Ge works his knife with quick, deft strokes. Fifteen minutes later he has skinned and gutted one animal and begins tossing offal to four hunting dogs chained to their kennel. Then he hands the liver to Meng, who cuts thin slices for us to eat. I baulk. Our group leader, Francois Chao, known as Hing, scoffs a piece like it is sashimi. Hing, a shipping tycoon's son from Hong Kong, originally came to northeast China to study horseback archery. Having befriended the Orochon he is now determined to spread the word about their disappearing culture.
I extend a reluctant hand for a slice of meat. It is the size of my thumb and I slurp it down. The gag reflex hits immediately, followed by a feeling of nausea - and a surge of energy. Meng, bent over a blood-filled basin, bites into the meat, looks up and flashes a crimson grin. The dogs lick their jowls. Ge allows the closest to lick the blood and hair off his skinning hand.
'Without deer hair there'd be no Orochon. That's what my father said when he caught me picking the hair out of my meat,' lectures Qu Wen, one of last night's hunters. We have moved inside Ge's home, a large shack, one of about a dozen together in the wilds, and are sitting around a table piled high with steaming deer's hearts, ribs and forelegs, and a plate of raw deer liver topped with raw onion and accompanied by vinegar dipping sauce, raw vegetables and a bowl of steamed buns.
