Some accounts credit the Ming dynasty voyages of the admiral Zheng He (1371–1433) for bolstering this trade in later centuries. These “treasure voyages” (1405–1433), which reached as far as East Africa, integrated local polities into a wider tributary-trade system of exchanging exotic commodities for economic gain and political recognition. Bird’s nests may have become one of the tribute items offered between rulers in Asia as part of these developing trade networks.
As time went on, the nest trade became highly lucrative, with their value rivaling that of other prestigious goods like spices, sandalwood, and ivory. Chinese merchants established long-standing relationships with local rulers and Indigenous harvesters in Southeast Asia, sometimes marrying into local communities or gaining monopolies through tribute arrangements. According to anthropologist Mohamed Yusoff Ismail, the Idahan people of Sabah, Malaysia, recount that their ancestors involved in the trade during this period “were quite cautious about disclosing the exact locations of the nesting caves, but assured [the Chinese] of a continuous supply if [they] agreed to wait at the coast.”
Writ large, such relationships comprised dense, overlapping networks of commerce, kinship, and ecology that predated European colonialism and persisted alongside it once the Spanish and Dutch entered the region.
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Fast forward a few hundred years, and the global bird’s nest trade is still booming—but in new forms.
In Palawan, an island in the Western Philippines routinely ranked one of the world’s best tourist spots, hiking guides often double as busyador, or nest harvesters. Busyadors embody centuries-old practices while participating in the enduring historical networks forged by humans and swiftlets alike. When I lived there from 2014 to 2016 conducting anthropological fieldwork, harvesters told me how lucrative it was to collect the nests, with 1 kilogram—a hundred or so nests—fetching thousands of dollars.
But obtaining the nests is difficult and precarious. Busyadors, after acquiring the requisite skills of rock climbing and harvesting with specialized tools, risk injury and even death. Beyond the skills, a certain sensibility is required; geographer Paula Satizábal and colleagues note that “the art of harvesting nests requires conquering the fear of darkness, tight places, and heights”—all while navigating uneven geological landscapes.
