How Chinese farmers breed and process millions of snakes to make snake wine.

At first glance, the farm looks like any other in the rural outskirts of Zhejiang province.

A patchwork of greenhouses stretches across the land, rows of tarps covering long, humid enclosures that hum with the sound of crickets.

But step closer, and the hiss of scales against mesh replaces the usual farmyard sounds.

This is no ordinary farm.

This is one of China’s secretive snake farms, where millions of serpents are bred, processed, and bottled—destined for an ancient product known as snake wine.

Snake wine, revered in parts of Asia for its supposed medicinal benefits, has roots that trace back over a thousand years.

Believers claim it can cure arthritis, boost virility, and strengthen the immune system.

Skeptics say it’s little more than strong liquor with a reptilian garnish.

But in rural China, it’s big business.

I was granted rare access to one such farm, after weeks of negotiation and assurances that my reporting would treat the subject with fairness.

When the gates swung open, I was met by Mr. Liu, a stocky man in his early sixties with the leathery hands of a lifelong farmer.

He wore rubber boots, a faded green apron, and carried himself with the calm of someone who spends his days among creatures that terrify most people.

 

“People think snakes are dangerous,” Liu told me, his voice steady.

“But here, they are like chickens or pigs.

We raise them with care, and they provide for us.

Snake wine is not just alcohol—it is culture. ”

Inside the enclosures, the scene was overwhelming.

Hundreds of snakes coiled in woven baskets.

Dozens slithered across damp soil, their bodies glistening under the artificial heat lamps.

The smell was sharp, earthy, mixed with the faint tang of alcohol that wafted from the processing shed nearby.

I asked Liu how many snakes he kept.

He laughed.

“Too many to count.

But in one year, we can produce over half a million bottles of snake wine.

And that is just this farm.

Across China, it is millions. ”

The numbers were staggering.

To imagine millions of snakes raised not for release, not for research, but for liquor, seemed surreal.

Yet for Liu and others, it was an ordinary livelihood.

Walking through the narrow aisles, I noticed species that made me pause.

Cobra.

Viper.

Rat snake.

 

Some coiled tightly in corners, eyes flickering with suspicion.

Others moved lazily, accustomed to human presence.

I asked Liu about the danger.

He shook his head.

“Snakes are not dangerous if you understand them.

Farmers who are careless get bitten.

But we treat them with respect.

They are our partners. ”

In the processing shed, the tone changed.

Here, workers in plastic gloves and aprons moved with brisk efficiency.

Large glass jars lined the walls, each filled with clear rice wine and a serpent suspended inside like a surreal ornament.

Some jars contained a single snake, fangs bared in a frozen snarl.

Others had entire clusters, tangled together in a grim sculpture.

One worker, a young man named Chen, guided me through the process.

“We take snakes that are about two years old,” he explained.

“They are strong, healthy.

We place them directly into high-proof rice wine.

The alcohol kills them quickly, and then we seal the jar.

The wine extracts their essence. ”

I asked him how it felt to handle venomous snakes every day.

He shrugged.

“At first, I was afraid.

But now, it is just work.

Like butchering pigs or chickens.

The difference is, foreigners find snakes scary. ”

The bottles themselves told a different story.

Some were elegant, with embossed golden labels, marketed to wealthy businessmen.

 

Others were plain, sold in bulk to local markets.

But each one contained the unmistakable silhouette of a snake, coiled and suspended in amber liquid.

Liu poured me a small glass.

The liquid was sharp, pungent, with a faintly earthy undertone.

It burned my throat as it went down, leaving a lingering bitterness that clung to the tongue.

“To health,” Liu said, raising his own glass.

The cultural weight behind snake wine is enormous.

In traditional Chinese medicine, snakes are symbols of transformation and vitality.

Practitioners believe their blood and bile contain potent healing properties.

For centuries, snake wine has been prescribed to treat joint pain, poor circulation, and even infertility.

But not everyone is convinced.

I spoke with Dr.

Wang, a physician in nearby Hangzhou who specializes in modern medicine but grew up around traditional practices.

“Snake wine is more cultural than scientific,” he told me.

“There are no strong studies proving its effects.

But belief is powerful.

If people think it helps, sometimes that belief alone makes them feel better. ”

Ethical questions, however, loom large.

Animal welfare activists argue that drowning live snakes in alcohol is cruel and unnecessary.

International organizations have criticized the practice, pointing to the suffering of animals and the risk of illegal wildlife trade.

When I raised these concerns with Liu, his expression hardened.

“Foreigners do not understand.

This is our tradition.

We do not waste the snake.

Every part is used—meat, skin, gallbladder.

The wine honors the animal, not abuses it. ”

In the courtyard, I met Mrs.

Zhang, a middle-aged woman who had come to buy wine for her husband.

She clutched a small jar with a cobra inside, the snake’s mouth frozen in a silent scream.

“My husband has back pain,” she explained.

“He drinks a small cup every night.

It helps him sleep.

Doctors give him pills, but he trusts this more. ”

The business side is hard to ignore.

According to Liu, a single jar of snake wine can sell for the equivalent of $100 to $500 depending on the rarity of the snake.

Exported bottles fetch even higher prices, especially in Southeast Asia and among overseas Chinese communities.

 

Snake farms like Liu’s generate millions annually, forming a quiet but powerful industry.

Yet the secrecy is deliberate.

Many farms operate out of view, wary of government inspectors, activists, and journalists.

Some rely on wild-caught snakes, even though regulations prohibit harvesting endangered species.

The line between legal farming and illegal trade blurs easily.

I asked Liu whether he feared authorities shutting him down.

He shook his head with confidence.

“We have licenses.

We follow the rules.

Snake farming is legal here.

The government understands it provides jobs and preserves tradition. ”

Still, whispers of underground operations persist.

In neighboring provinces, I was told, some farmers breed highly venomous snakes for elite clients, creating “luxury” snake wines that fetch thousands of dollars.

These bottles, often adorned with gilded labels and rare species, are traded discreetly through networks that skirt regulations.

Back in the processing shed, I watched as another jar was prepared.

A worker gently grasped a live viper with tongs, sliding it into the waiting liquid.

The snake writhed for a few seconds before going still.

The jar was sealed, labeled, and placed on the shelf among dozens of others.

It was a moment both mesmerizing and unsettling.

The ritual carried centuries of tradition, yet to a Western eye it looked cruel and grotesque.

Was this culture or commerce?
Medicine or myth?

To the farmers, the answer didn’t matter.

Snake wine kept their families fed.

It kept villages employed.

And for many, it kept their culture alive.

Before leaving, I asked Liu one final question.

“Do you drink snake wine yourself?”

He smiled.

“Every night.

Just one small glass.

I am sixty-two, and I still work every day.

The snakes give me strength. ”

As I walked away from the farm, the image of rows upon rows of jars lingered in my mind.

A thousand glass eyes stared back, silent witnesses to a tradition that straddles the line between ancient wisdom and modern controversy.

Snake wine may never win approval from scientists or animal rights groups.

But in villages across China, it will continue to flow, poured into small glasses with the quiet confidence of a practice too deeply rooted to die.

Because for men like Liu, snakes are not monsters.

They are partners.

And in every bottle of snake wine, there is not just alcohol, but a story—a story of belief, survival, and a culture unwilling to let go of its serpentine legacy.