Mr Viral
Clusters of yurts and tents stand covered in brilliant white snow. Dotted around are scores of livestreamers, all waving their cameras as they attempt to describe this winter wonderland to audiences across China.
This is Genhe, a city in the hinterland of the Greater Khingan Range, one of the highest latitude areas in the northern Inner Mongolia Autonomous Region. Temperatures here can reach as low as minus 58 degrees Celsius, with the average this winter around minus 30 degrees Celsius.
These frozen peaks have recently become a hot spot for outdoor lifestyle influencers, who make a living by sharing their adventures in exotic or hard-to-reach destinations on livestreaming platforms such as Douyin, the Chinese version of TikTok. The large influx this winter even led to a small community developing in the city suburbs, dubbed “Genhe New Village.”
However, in late November, this community was devastated by the news that one livestreamer, identified only as Zeng, had been found dead of suspected carbon monoxide poisoning inside his vehicle, exposing the real risks of outdoor adventuring in extreme conditions.
The tragedy not only brought more attention to Genhe’s unique scenery but also led many people online to ask: Who are these people risking their lives for social media attention, and why?
The long road
Zeng, who hailed from a rural area of Nanping, in the eastern Fujian province, had been livestreaming on Douyin under the name “Brother Min Travels the Earth” for about a year, and had over 3,000 subscribers. He was 57 when he died.
His daughter, Wang Li, who was raised by Zeng after her parents’ divorce, says that, after gradually gaining confidence as an outdoor lifestyle influencer, her father had decided to head up to Genhe this winter, as it was attracting major attention. He hit the road on Nov. 20, taking along a kitten and puppy for company, and arrived within five days later.
Wang, who lives in Fujian, says she had difficulty contacting Zeng after his arrival due to a cellphone issue, but he had told her that he’d discovered his tent was unsuitable for the severe cold, so his two pets were sleeping there while he slept in his vehicle. She also learned from Zeng’s girlfriend that her father was initially enjoying the scenery and was confident about his livestreaming activities. He was even thinking that his girlfriend could join him there eventually.
However, on Nov. 25, fans noticed that Zeng had not appeared online, which was unusual for him. The next day, around 3 a.m., Wang received a phone call from the police in Genhe to notify her that Zeng had died. Unable to believe the news, she turned to social media and asked other livestreamers in the area about the situation. She learned that Zeng had died in his sleep, likely due to carbon monoxide poisoning caused by burning charcoal in his vehicle.
Gifts and gadgets
According to local authorities, Zeng was among almost 100 livestreamers who flocked to Genhe this winter, with most setting up camp in Aoluguya Evenki Ethnic Township.
Gangzi was one of the first to arrive. The 35-year-old from the central Hubei province used to work as a cosmetics sales associate, but would travel around the country in his recreational vehicle (RV) in his spare time. In May, he started livestreaming and posting short videos on Douyin about modifying his RV, which brought him about 10,000 subscribers, so he decided to go online full time.
While people in southern parts of China were enjoying T-shirt weather in late October, Gangzi was clearing snow from a carport and helping fellow livestreamer Liu Dali capture footage of people setting up tents and other makeshift shelters. Liu had arrived with only a sleeping bag and an electric blanket; his shelter was a modified greenhouse, with cotton insulation and a wood-burning stove, although he slept in his vehicle at night.
Gangzi also slept in his RV, installing a diesel heater and venting the exhaust outside through a pipe. “Everyone (fans online) wanted to see what changes you could make the next day,” he says, adding that the local authorities had provided livestreamers with free access to tourist attractions in exchange for coverage. Gradually, subscribers on Gangzi’s account increased from 10,000 to 80,000.
He would rest during the day and livestream from dusk until midnight, about six or seven hours a day. The e-gifts sent by his Douyin followers have become his main source of income, with some gifts worth up to 3,000 yuan ($420). He also produces sponsored content for outdoor lifestyle brands to promote their equipment, such as the inflatable tent he used in Genhe.
However, turning a hobby into a profession is not easy. “I used to like this kind of life, but I’ve found it a bit tiring since making it my living,” Gangzi says. “Livestreaming every day means you have to always be thinking about scripts and shooting content. To be honest, it’s a full-time job. You have to stream at the right time, even if you’re feeling sleepy.”
Liu also finds the work physically exhausting. After five hours of livestreaming outdoors, “your body feels completely frozen,” he says. “Even after a good sleep, I still ache and don’t feel well.”
He always feels re-energized when he sees an increase in his subscribers, but his income can fluctuate dramatically. On his birthday last year, viewers of his stream sent e-gifts totaling more than 6,000 yuan (Douyin takes a 50% cut), but sometimes he can earn as little as 50 yuan. He believes that for livestreamers without the backing of a multichannel network — organizations that work with video platforms to assist content creators in areas such as programming, products, digital rights protection, and partner management — “it’s just a matter of luck whether there’s traffic or not.”
After graduating vocational college with a degree in film animation, Liu worked as a factory manager in Shenzhen, in the southern Guangdong province, and then as a project manager for an artificial intelligence device company in Suzhou, in the eastern Jiangsu province, earning a monthly salary of 10,000 yuan. Yet, he didn’t feel it was sufficient to be able to get married and buy an apartment.
“I needed a job with an unlimited future, and I thought self-media was a promising track,” he says, adding that he’d first developed an interest in outdoor lifestyles at school after seeing videos about wilderness survival challenges. “I wanted to try it five years ago, but I didn’t get the right opportunity.”
Liu made himself a promise: For the next 12 months, no matter how low the traffic got, he would stick with livestreaming full time. If he hadn’t achieved anything after that, he’d go back to work.
Ah Tao, 32, and his wife started livestreaming in October and each day have been sharing content from Genhe showing them setting up tents, purchasing and installing equipment, and interacting with others. Ah Tao used to co-own a factory producing luggage with more than 100 employees in Wenzhou, in the eastern Zhejiang province. When the business folded in the wake of the global pandemic, and with debts piling up, he decided to try his luck in the online industry. Although statistically there might be only two out of 10 livestreamers who ever make enough money to live on, he felt the sector’s low cost of entry was worth the risk.
Before arriving in Genhe, the couple had livestreamed from China’s northwestern Xinjiang Uyghur and southwestern Xizang autonomous regions. “We basically had no income in our first month. It was only after arriving in Genhe that our followers began to increase,” says Ah Tao, who adds that their earnings since October have largely offset the costs of the trip to Inner Mongolia.
The couple streams four to five hours a day, sometimes longer if the traffic is high. “Livestreaming not only relies on the number of people watching the broadcast but also on the compliments and e-gifts we receive,” Ah Tao says. “Only when the data improves will the platform promote you to a larger pool of traffic. To maintain traffic, livestreamers have to keep improving their data and coming up with content.”
Safe travels
Zeng was considerably older than most outdoor lifestyle influencers, having switched careers in middle age. He used to work as an air conditioner technician, a job that often requires repairing units on the sides of tall buildings, but after turning 50, he no longer felt safe working at such heights.
He began taking an interest in Douyin around 2022 and found it fascinating that people could make a living from livestreaming. Believing that it would provide an opportunity to meet new people, Zeng decided to give it a go.
Few people around him supported his decision. Wang says that Zeng’s boss valued him highly and couldn’t understand why he wanted to quit, even promising to keep his job open should he ever want to return. Friends and relatives also thought it would be better for him to maintain a stable income. Yet, Wang encouraged him to follow his heart, knowing that her father had an exceptional ability to learn new skills.
At first, Zeng even struggled with using a smartphone. Wang had to teach him step by step, showing him how to use shopping apps and other basic tools, and she helped him buy equipment like a microphone. He learned to introduce himself to the camera and welcome the audience, and then would sing, sometimes for five hours straight until he lost his voice.
His first livestream was from his hometown in Fujian, and later he traveled to Xinjiang, Guangdong, and Xizang, where in one day he gained 300 subscribers. Wang says there was a time when her father would have more than 2,000 viewers in his stream at one time.
At the start, Zeng’s income was relatively low, but he still took the work seriously, Wang says. He would watch how other streamers performed, taking notes on what they did well, the number of viewers, and the amount of e-gifts they sent. Within about five months, he gained more than 9,000 subscribers on his channel, although he later had to re-register his account after Douyin restricted traffic to his broadcasts as punishment for a policy violation.
Wang says Zeng had always taken pleasure in livestreaming and made many new friends, adding that his girlfriend had expressed concern about the trip to Genhe, but had been unable to convince him not to go. “It’s what he wanted to do, as he felt he would gain something from it,” she says.
After Zeng’s death, authorities in Genhe advised livestreamers to stay in nearby hotels rather than sleep in tents or their vehicles, to reduce the risk of further accidents, and provided health and safety guidance. Locals also began offering tips online on how to safely burn wood and coal in enclosed spaces.
Gangzi, who prepared for his outdoor adventure in Genhe by topping up his vehicle’s antifreeze, purchasing five stoves, and acquiring two carbon monoxide detectors, says he’s seen several livestreamers burning coal inside their tents. “You have to keep the space ventilated, make sure the coal is red hot, and you’d better have a carbon monoxide detector. Don’t seal the door completely, just leave a small gap.”
In addition to the risk of carbon monoxide poisoning, livestreamers also encountered treacherous driving conditions caused by heavy snow and icy roads.
Liu’s vehicle slipped off the road into snow banks four or five times this winter, while Ah Tao and his wife were involved in a crash in which their vehicle rolled onto its side. “Fortunately, a tree blocked our path, otherwise we’d have plunged into a hole about five or six meters deep,” says Ah Tao. The couple was shooting a livestream at the time and later noticed a significant increase in the number of subscribers. “We were really scared. I’d rather not have the traffic than go through such a terrible experience.”
After Zeng’s death, Wang traveled to Genhe to collect her father’s belongings and to drive his vehicle back to Fujian. During the long journey home, she realized she was seeing all the same scenery that Zeng had, only in reverse. At that moment, she wished she could tell him how she felt: “I admired and appreciated him, and always supported him quietly.”
(Wang Li is a pseudonym.)
Reported by Chen Lei.
A version of this article originally appeared in The Paper. It has been translated and edited for brevity and clarity, and is republished here with permission.
Translator: Eunice Ouyang; editors: Wang Juyi and Hao Qibao.
(Header image: Visuals from @中国冷极·根河 on WeChat, reedited by Sixth Tone)
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