The Snake Catcher

One hot summer noon in the 1970s, I was walking home after visiting a classmate when I passed by the entrance of Zhijiang County People's Hospital. As I approached the hospital’s front gate, I saw a crowd of about ten people gathered in the shade near the stone steps by the wall. Curious, I walked over to see what was happening.  

At the center of the crowd sat a man in his thirties on a makeshift stretcher made from a bamboo recliner. His tanned face and upper body were bare except for a pair of shorts, and his lower leg was wrapped in gauze. He was talking to those around him.  

“Why don’t you give it a try? The doctors might be able to help,” someone asked.  

“The doctors don’t know as much about this as I do. They won’t have a solution,” the man replied. 

“You can’t just go back like this,” another person said.  

“If they can’t cure me, staying here will only leave my family with a debt they’ll never be able to repay,” the man responded.  

After listening for a while, I began to understand the situation.  

The man was a farmer who caught snakes in the mountains to supplement his family’s income. His father had been a snake catcher and had taught him the skill from a young age. The two often ventured into the mountains together to catch and sell snakes. 

Zhijiang, located at the edge of the Yunnan-Guizhou Plateau, is rich in subtropical forests with dense trees and lush vegetation—ideal conditions for snakes. Even in the city, it wasn’t uncommon to encounter snakes, and in the countryside, snake bites and deaths occurred regularly. Some killed snakes that entered their homes or gardens and cooked them, enjoying the meat. However, I had never heard of anyone catching snakes specifically to sell.  

At the time, life was hard. Farming alone couldn’t provide enough food, let alone money for necessities. The government purchased snakes for medicinal use or for making products like erhu strings from their skins. Snake catching became a good way to earn money, and while selling vegetables was prohibited, selling snakes was not. Few people had the skill, but the demand was high, making it a viable livelihood. 

However, snake catching was dangerous. The man’s father had died from a snake bite. Despite knowing the risks, the man continued the trade to support his family. Each year, he caught dozens of snakes, sometimes more, sometimes less, easing his family’s burden. 

Aware of the dangers, he carried antidotes his father had passed down and developed some of his own. Whenever bitten, he would immediately apply the medicine to neutralize the venom. He had been bitten before but had always survived thanks to these remedies.  

Yet, no matter how cautious, mistakes happen. A few days ago, while catching snakes, he was bitten but found he had forgotten his antidote at home after changing clothes. He tried to find herbs on the mountain, but by the time he returned home to apply the antidote, it was too late—the venom had already spread.  

Though he knew the hospital couldn’t help, his family insisted on bringing him. Understanding their concern, he agreed to come, but the doctors confirmed they had no antidote and could only perform basic tests.  

The crowd fell silent, the air heavy with the weight of his calm recounting. He spoke as if describing someone else’s story—his steady voice and composed demeanor hid the gravity of his condition.  

When asked if he had ever considered the risk, he said he had. From the moment he started catching snakes, he was mentally prepared for the possibility of being bitten and killed. He knew it was part of the job.  

Though calm, his family was distraught and desperate to save him. However, he didn’t want to pursue futile treatments that would leave them in debt.  

Some tried to console him, suggesting divine intervention or a hidden expert who might know the cure. The man smiled and said, “That’s impossible. No one knows more about snake venom than I do. Look—my body is already swollen, and my limbs are starting to shine. This means the venom has reached my bloodstream and bones. It’s too late.”  

I stood there silently, unable to say anything. The man sat quietly without bitterness or fear, his composure leaving a lasting impression on everyone present.  

He said he was waiting for his family to complete the hospital procedures before returning home. Before his family arrived, I left.  

I never saw or heard about him again, but I have never forgotten him.  

 

Written in 2017.