This is the first entry in a series of first-person accounts of work around the world.

Introduction by Beimeng Fu

Durian, the spiky fruit with a pungent smell and sweet taste, has long been known as the “king of fruits” in its native Southeast Asia. Over the past decade, it has also become very popular in China – especially on Chinese social media. Restaurants host all-you-can-eat durian feasts. On Douyin, China’s TikTok, influencers explain how to use the fruit in desserts like ice cream and mooncakes, and even in hot pot. Livestreamers sell thousands of pieces per session. In 2025, China imported more than $8 billion worth of durian, making up 90% of the global market.

This soaring demand is fuelling a new wave of Chinese investment and small-farmer emigration to Southeast Asia, notably to Laos. The country doesn’t have a long history of durian cultivation, but it attracts newcomers with its suitable climate and cheap operating costs. Many of these new arrivals have no prior farming experience; they have quit jobs in sectors like tech, manufacturing or public service to take a chance in the agricultural gold rush.

Li Tian is one of them. I met him in Vientiane, the capital of Laos, in the summer of 2024, when I began studying the durian trade. A bubbly 28-year-old in navy blue pyjamas and sandals, he spoke to me about the challenges of his new profession, the pleasures of Laos, and his side-career as a durian influencer.

In 2020, when my girlfriend invited me to visit her in Laos, I initially thought it was a scam. We had met online, playing Honor of Kings – both of us are avid gamers – and by then had been video chatting for a few months. During our calls, she showed me glimpses of downtown Vientiane, such as the city’s Sanjiang market – places that seemed safe enough, with plenty of Chinese around. Still, I was wary: Douyin is full of stories about people who were conned into travelling to the Golden Triangle, trapped in a compound and forced to commit cyber-fraud. I’m glad I eventually overcame my worries and made the trip to benxian (meet up “in real life”). Today we live as husband and wife in Phonhong, in rural Laos.

Before moving here, I used to work as an IT professional in Chengdu, the capital of Sichuan province. Like many Chinese, I was on a “996” schedule (9 AM to 9 PM, six days a week) – we only had Sundays off. Mine went beyond even 996 – I usually set out for work at 6 AM, reached the office by 8 AM and often stayed there, handling client requests and such, until 11 PM. On the way back, if the subway was no longer running, I would call a taxi and pay out of pocket. Along with my day job, I also ran a small IT studio with some friends. We would scour websites like zbj.com or Taskdodo, on which clients would post tasks they needed help with. But since there were many studios offering their services – all it takes to form one is a few tech professionals – we found it tricky to get regular commissions.

At the time, my thinking was simple: as long as I didn’t die, I would work like hell. That was how things were. If you don’t do the work, someone else will. If you don’t maintain a client relationship, someone else will take it over. There was no alternative. My brain was in a constant haze. Thinking back on it now, I wonder how I survived.

Life in Laos has proven a lot easier. People here simply are not as neijuan [literally ‘turning inwards’, a Chinese term for the burnout caused by a culture of excessive competition]. For instance, there are hardly any boba shops. If you open one, you will get all the customers. Even supermarkets: there are only one or two in any area. What explains this state of affairs? It might be the Laotian culture. The locals here spend what they earn and don’t plan for the future. If they earn 10 million kip (equivalent to about 3,000 yuan or $450) at a job, they’ll quit, return home, spend most of it – and then look for a new job.

It’s we Chinese who have brought the neijuan mentality to Laos. Chinese entrepreneurs dominate in most economic sectors. They control banana, watermelon and durian plantations – the country is still predominantly agricultural – and have also set up many fertiliser factories; they own some of the largest supermarket chains; they sit in hardware stores and grocery stores; they run bars, karaoke clubs and guesthouses.

For my part, I have abandoned the neijuan approach. These days, I spend most of my time having fun with my wife. She introduced me to games that are big in Southeast Asia, like Mobile Legends: Bang Bang, and I taught her to play Chinese games like Game for Peace and Honor of Kings.

My one productive enterprise is farming. With the help of my father-in-law, I purchased some agricultural land, and am now growing durians. Durians don’t really have much competition; they are one of a kind. In Chengdu, I’ve seen many shops that sell only durian, nothing else. I am told there are durian shops like this across China. Are there such speciality shops for other fruit? Nope.

As well as that, I post about my farming on Douyin, and have found a wide audience there. Right now, I have 12,000 followers. People in China are very interested in my life.

My first impression of Laos was that Chinese people are everywhere. Even in remote villages you’ll find Chinese-owned hardware stores. Some communities are ethnically Han, especially in Phongsaly, the northernmost province; others are mixed, half-Lao and half-Han – like my wife’s family. She in fact studied in Yunnan (a south-western Chinese province bordering Laos) when she was little, so her spoken Mandarin is even more standard than my own, which still betrays a Sichuan accent.

In many ways, Laos is like smalltown China. Many of the amenities here aren’t up to par. For instance, food delivery and ride-hailing services are not common. But things have improved in recent years, especially in Vientiane and Vang Vieng, perhaps thanks to the Chinese government’s Belt and Road Initiative, which has brought high-speed rail and highways to Laos.

It’s very hot here – so hot that it makes me dizzy, especially between March and May, the season of the water festivals. Thankfully, my wife’s family is quite well off: the air conditioner is switched on at our home all the time. Without it, I could not survive – no Chinese person could.

There were other things that took getting used to. Most Laotians do not wear regular shoes. After a while, I followed suit and adopted slippers as well. My old shoes are now gathering dust. As for Laotian cuisine – it will make a Chinese person lose their appetite just from the smell, especially because of ingredients like padaek (a thicker, more seasoned fish sauce). My wife knows this and instead cooks me Chinese food. At home, her family eats on one side, over there, and I eat separately, over here.

My parents could not comprehend why I would leave Chengdu for a rural backwater like Laos. It was only when they learned that I was investing in land that they began to see the merits of this small country. In China, it costs around 1,000 yuan per year to lease one mu (one-fifteenth of a hectare) of good state-owned land. You can purchase one mu of land in some parts of Laos for the same price, and pass it down to your descendants – even if you are non-citizen, as long as you are married to a local.

Chinese agricultural policies are always shifting. In 1999, after terrible flooding, the Party announced the Grain for Green programme, encouraging responsible cultivation. Hearing of this, a family might have leased 100 mu of land for an orange orchard. But within a few years, the state might well have ordered them to cut all the trees down because of some new environmental imperative. Not so in Laos: here the government stays out of your way.

On Douyin, people claim that Laotians have achieved “durian freedom” – that is, the ability to eat durian freely and often. Not quite. It is, in fact, quite expensive here. I confess I was not initially a fan of this stinky fruit, despite its popularity in China. It was my wife who loved durian and encouraged me to try it. Today I find it almost addictive.

In 2021, a year after I arrived in Laos, my father-in-law took us to visit a friend who owned a durian orchard of 200 trees. My wife ate some of the fruit and found it delicious. This gave us an idea. We purchased 50 hectares of land up north, near Vang Vieng, where the water is of good quality. The plot was covered with shrubs and wild grass, and had a stream running down the middle. We had to hire an excavator to clear the vegetation and dig the seed beds.

To get to the plot, you have to leave the main road and follow a dirt path for half a kilometre, passing another farm that belongs to a Laotian Hmong family. They are too poor to grow fruits, and instead cultivate paddy.

Last January, when my wife and I were back in China for our wedding, an old friend named Xiao Wang called me to ask if I knew of any land for sale. He was growing durian in Hainan province: he had 1,000 trees on 100 mu of land. With the help of my father-in-law, Xiao purchased 34 hectares – more than 500 mu – near our plot up north.

His aspiration to expand into Laos was not uncommon. Chinese people are increasingly attracted by the idea of moving here for agriculture, and they often ask me for advice. That is in part why I began posting about the experience on Douyin. Many Laotian farmers do the same: we have a kind of online community.

The comparison between China and Laos is not so straightforward. Yes, the land here is easier to acquire, and the labour is much cheaper: you can pay a worker just 50 yuan per day, or even 40 yuan if you provide food and water (as compared with around 300 yuan in China). The climate and soil is also well suited to fruit cultivation. But there are other challenges. While we Chinese like flat land, durian plantations need a slight slope. The trees are very sensitive to waterlogging, while also requiring regular watering, especially as they grow older. So a solid irrigation system is necessary. As I said, the general state of public infrastructure in Laos is quite poor. Unlike in China, farmland is quite far from towns. It might take you an hour to drive from your home to your plot, along bumpy dirt paths.

The biggest challenge is patience: you will have to wait five or six years for your first proper annual harvest. Until then, there are no revenues. I have met a lot of Chinese who moved to Laos hoping to become farmers. The costs here strike them as low, and the annual profits high, compared with back home. But after a few years without any revenues, they give up. Out of a hundred, maybe five stayed.

It might even be the end for my own experiment. Our original budget for the durian project was 3 million yuan. But then I lost a lot of money in a catastrophic crypto investment; now my savings are running low. Our new plan is to sell the orchard and buy a smaller plot instead. In the meantime, I want to open a store selling ice cream and boba.

The reporting for this story was supported by the Pulitzer Center