The first time I stepped into a souvenir shop in Jiuzhaigou, I was overwhelmed by the sheer vibrancy of color. Handwoven brocades in electric blues and fiery reds hung from the ceiling like prayer flags. Tiny silver amulets, each one hand-hammered by a Qiang or Tibetan artisan, clinked softly in the breeze from an open window. A woman named Dolma, her face weathered by the high-altitude sun but her eyes bright with humor, offered me a cup of butter tea while I browsed. “This scarf,” she said, holding up a piece of yak wool so soft it felt like clouds, “took my mother three weeks to make. Every thread has a story.”
That was in 2019, a lifetime ago.
Now, as the world slowly emerges from the shadow of COVID-19, the souvenir shops of Jiuzhaigou are not just selling trinkets. They are selling survival. They are selling resilience. And for the traveler who walks through their doors, buying a simple wooden comb or a hand-painted thangka is no longer just a transaction—it is an act of solidarity.
To understand what was lost, you have to understand what was there. Before the pandemic, Jiuzhaigou was a juggernaut of domestic tourism. The valley, a UNESCO World Heritage Site famous for its turquoise lakes, multi-tiered waterfalls, and snow-capped peaks, drew millions of visitors annually. And those visitors didn’t just come for the scenery—they came for the culture.
The local economy surrounding Jiuzhaigou was a finely tuned ecosystem. Hotels, restaurants, and transportation services formed the backbone, but the souvenir trade was the heartbeat. In the villages of Zhangzha, Pengfeng, and Longkang, entire families depended on the sale of traditional crafts. Tibetan incense sticks, hand-carved yak bone jewelry, Qiang embroidery, and local honey infused with高山雪莲 (Gaoshan Xuelian, or snow lotus) were more than merchandise—they were a living archive of ethnic heritage.
I remember talking to a young man named Tenzin in a small stall near the Shuzheng Lakes. He was twenty-two, already a master of silver inlay work. “My father taught me when I was twelve,” he said, his hands never stopping as he filed a delicate curve into a bracelet. “He learned from his father. If the tourists stop coming, this knowledge dies with us.”
Then came 2020. The border closures, the lockdowns, the fear.
For Jiuzhaigou, the impact was immediate and brutal. In January 2020, the scenic area was closed entirely. When it reopened in March, the number of daily visitors was capped at a fraction of normal capacity. The crowds that once filled the boardwalks and spilled into the village markets vanished.
I spoke to Dolma again via a crackling WeChat voice call in mid-2020. Her shop, which had been in her family for three generations, was shuttered. “We had boxes of scarves that nobody bought,” she said, her voice flat. “I tried to sell them online, but the shipping costs were too high. And who wants a luxury scarf when you are worried about your health?”
The souvenir vendors were caught in a double bind. Unlike large hotel chains or state-owned tourism companies, they had no financial buffer. No government bailout. No digital infrastructure. Many of them were elderly artisans who had never used WeChat Pay, let alone operated an e-commerce store. The cash economy that sustained them evaporated overnight.
According to local reports, by the end of 2020, nearly 60% of small souvenir businesses in the Jiuzhaigou area had either closed permanently or were operating at a loss. The supply chain for raw materials—yak wool from the grasslands, silver from Tibetan workshops, wood from sustainable forestry—also ground to a halt. It was a domino effect of economic pain.
Fast forward to 2024. The pandemic is no longer a global emergency, but its scars remain. Jiuzhaigou is welcoming tourists again, but the landscape of tourism has changed.
Domestic travelers now dominate the scene. International visitors, who once made up about 15% of the total, are trickling back slowly. The Chinese government has aggressively promoted domestic tourism through subsidies and travel coupons, and it is working. On a crisp autumn morning in October 2023, I saw long lines at the entrance of Jiuzhaigou again—but the faces were almost exclusively Chinese.
This shift has forced souvenir vendors to adapt. The products that once catered to international tastes—English-language guidebooks, generic “China” T-shirts, and oversized panda plushies—are being phased out. In their place, a new wave of hyper-local, artisanal, and story-driven souvenirs is emerging.
One of the most heartening trends I observed is the rise of what I call the “conscious souvenir.” These are items that come with a narrative, a guarantee of authenticity, and a direct link to the artisan.
Take, for example, the work of the Aba Tibetan and Qiang Autonomous Prefecture Women’s Cooperative. This group, founded in the wake of the pandemic, connects female artisans in remote villages directly to tourists. When you buy a piece of Qiang embroidery from them, you receive a small card with the artisan’s name, her village, and the hours she spent on the piece. “It makes the buyer feel connected,” said Lhamo, the cooperative’s coordinator, during a visit to their small storefront. “They know their money is going to feed a family, not to a faceless factory.”
Another example is the revival of traditional papermaking. In the village of Shuzheng, a handful of elders have begun teaching younger locals how to make paper from the bark of the local paper mulberry tree. The resulting notebooks and postcards have a rough, organic texture that no machine can replicate. They are expensive by local standards—a single notebook can cost 80 yuan—but they are selling briskly to tourists who want something that feels real.
It is easy to romanticize the idea of “supporting local businesses,” but the mechanics are worth understanding. When you buy a souvenir in Jiuzhaigou post-COVID, you are not just buying an object. You are injecting cash directly into a fragile economic pipeline.
Consider the economics of a single yak wool scarf.
The raw wool comes from a herder in the high pastures of Hongyuan County. The herder sells it to a local cooperative, which cleans and spins it. The yarn is then purchased by a weaver like Dolma’s mother, who spends roughly 20 hours hand-weaving it on a traditional loom. The finished scarf is then sold to a shop, which marks it up to cover rent, utilities, and the shopkeeper’s own modest profit.
In the pre-COVID era, a scarf like this might sell for 300 to 500 yuan. Dolma’s mother would receive about 100 yuan for her labor. After COVID, with fewer tourists, the price has dropped to around 200 yuan. But here is the crucial point: even at that lower price, the money is still circulating. It is still paying for the herder’s children’s school fees. It is still buying medicine for the weaver’s elderly parents.
When you buy that scarf, you are not just getting a beautiful accessory. You are completing a circuit of economic survival that involves at least four different families.
I sat down with a shopkeeper named Wang Hao in the Pengfeng market. His store is a narrow, dimly lit space crammed with wooden carvings, Tibetan singing bowls, and jars of local medicinal herbs. “Before COVID, I could make 10,000 yuan in a good week,” he said, rubbing his temples. “Now, I am lucky if I make 2,000. But I cannot close. This is my life.”
Wang Hao’s story is typical. He took out a small loan in 2021 to keep his business afloat. He started offering live-streaming sales on Douyin (the Chinese version of TikTok), but he admits he is not very good at it. “I am a woodcarver, not a performer,” he laughed, a little bitterly.
Yet, he persists. And the tourists who do come are often his lifeline. “Some of them buy a small thing, like a keychain, and I know they are just trying to help. I appreciate it more than they know.”
One of the most innovative responses to the post-COVID slump has been the pivot from selling things to selling experiences.
Several local families now offer “souvenir-making workshops.” For a fee, tourists can spend an afternoon learning to make their own Tibetan butter tea, weave a small bracelet, or carve a simple wooden charm. The cost is higher than buying a finished product, but the value is immense.
I participated in a silver-smithing workshop run by Tenzin, the young artisan I had met years earlier. His workshop is now a small studio behind his family home. For 250 yuan, he provided a piece of raw silver, a set of tools, and three hours of patient instruction. I left with a misshapen but deeply meaningful ring on my finger.
“This is the future,” Tenzin told me, hammering away at a piece of scrap metal. “The tourist gets a memory. I get paid for my time and my knowledge. And they will tell their friends about the experience, not just about the item.”
These experiential souvenirs have a higher profit margin for the artisan and create a deeper emotional bond with the traveler. They also solve a perennial problem: the tendency of mass-produced souvenirs to end up in a drawer, forgotten. A ring you made yourself? That stays on your hand.
No discussion of post-COVID recovery would be complete without addressing the digital shift. For years, the souvenir vendors of Jiuzhaigou were analog creatures. They relied on foot traffic, word of mouth, and the occasional busload of package tourists.
COVID forced them online, whether they were ready or not.
WeChat has become the de facto marketplace for many vendors. Artisans create “moments” (a feed similar to Instagram Stories) showcasing their latest work. Tourists who visited Jiuzhaigou and made a connection with a vendor can now order products remotely.
I have a friend in Shanghai who regularly orders dried matsutake mushrooms from a farmer she met in Jiuzhaigou three years ago. “It is more expensive than the supermarket,” she admits, “but I know exactly who picked them. I have seen his face. I have shaken his hand. That trust is worth something.”
This direct-to-consumer model, facilitated by WeChat, has been a lifeline. It allows vendors to bypass the middlemen who often take a large cut. It also builds a loyal customer base that transcends geography.
Livestreaming is another frontier, but it is a double-edged sword. On Douyin and Kuaishou, charismatic hosts can sell thousands of items in a single session. But the market is saturated, and the algorithms favor the flashy and the loud.
Many of the Jiuzhaigou artisans are quiet, humble people. They do not have the personality for high-energy sales pitches. “I tried to livestream once,” an elderly Qiang embroiderer told me. “I sat there for two hours, stitching, and nobody watched. I felt like a fool.”
To address this, local tourism bureaus have started organizing collective livestreaming events. A professional host pairs with an artisan, telling the story while the artisan works. These collaborations have been more successful, but they are still a drop in the bucket compared to the volume of traditional retail.
If you are planning a trip to Jiuzhaigou and want to make a positive impact, here is some practical advice.
Not everything labeled “handmade” is genuine. In the scramble to recover, some vendors have started selling machine-made goods as artisanal. Look for imperfections. Ask questions. A real handwoven scarf will have slight irregularities in the weave. A machine-made one will be perfectly uniform.
Many older vendors still prefer cash. Credit card fees and digital transaction delays can eat into their already thin margins. Having small bills on hand makes a real difference.
A carved yak horn that sits on a shelf for years is a waste. A set of hand-painted chopsticks that you use every day is a treasure. Buy things that integrate into your life. This honors the craft and reduces the likelihood that your souvenir will end up in a landfill.
The souvenir shops inside the Jiuzhaigou scenic area are convenient, but they are often run by larger commercial entities. The real artisans are in the surrounding villages. A short taxi ride to Zhangzha or Longkang will take you to workshops where you can see the work being done and meet the people doing it.
One category of souvenir that has exploded post-COVID is food. Edible souvenirs are low-cost, easy to transport, and universally appreciated.
Local honey from the mountains of Jiuzhaigou is a standout. The bees feed on wildflowers and高山雪莲, giving the honey a complex, floral flavor that is unlike anything from a commercial apiary. I bought a jar from a beekeeper named Tsering, who maintains his hives on a steep hillside accessible only by foot. “The pandemic almost killed my business,” he said, handing me a sample on a wooden stick. “Hotels stopped buying from me. But now, individual tourists come directly. It is slower, but it is more personal.”
Another edible souvenir gaining traction is the “Jiuzhaigou Tea Brick.” This is not the polished, vacuum-sealed tea you find in supermarkets. It is a rough, hand-pressed brick of fermented dark tea, often mixed with local herbs like cordyceps or rhodiola. The taste is earthy and slightly smoky. The process of breaking off a piece and brewing it is itself a ritual.
This is the question that keeps me up at night. The souvenir culture of Jiuzhaigou is not just about commerce. It is about identity. The patterns on a Qiang embroidered apron encode centuries of folklore. The shape of a Tibetan silver amulet reflects a cosmology that predates written history.
If the souvenir shops close, if the artisans give up and move to the cities for factory jobs, that knowledge does not just disappear—it decays. It becomes a museum exhibit rather than a living tradition.
But I am cautiously optimistic. The post-COVID recovery has forced a necessary evolution. The vendors who are surviving are the ones who have adapted: who have learned to tell their stories, who have embraced digital tools without losing their soul, who have shifted from selling products to selling meaning.
Dolma, the woman who offered me butter tea in 2019, has reinvented her shop. She now runs a small café that also sells her mother’s scarves. “People come for the coffee, but they stay for the stories,” she said, pouring me a cup. Her mother, now seventy-two, still weaves every day, sitting by the window where the light is best.
I bought a scarf that afternoon. It was deep blue, the color of the Five-Color Pond at dusk. I wrapped it around my neck and felt the weight of it—the weight of wool, of labor, of hope.
When you visit Jiuzhaigou, do not just look at the lakes. Look at the hands of the people selling the crafts. Those hands have survived a pandemic, a tourism crash, and the slow grind of economic uncertainty. They are still weaving, still carving, still hammering. And all they ask is that you see them, and that you buy something real.
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Author: Jiuzhaigou Travel
Source: Jiuzhaigou Travel
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