“This must be terrace tea from bushes,” Mr. Huang says. “It will have a monotonous flavor from the first brew to the last. It has no qi—no life force, no richness.”
A new pot is brewed from Second Brother’s pollarded tea trees. This time the stranger takes a sip, sets the cup back on the floor, and says, “Pollarding does not lead to strong roots, because they grow laterally to match what’s aboveground. You’ll get a sweet flavor, but it’s an empty one. I’m looking for Pu’er. You know Pu’er?”
No, I don’t know that word. It’s as foreign to me as vocation and connoisseur.
He motions for me to approach. “Young lady, I can tell you’ve looked outward. You’ve studied the national language. You must make your family very proud, for you’ve followed the country’s desire for transformation. You may not understand it here,” he says with a wave of his hand, “but change is happening across China.”
I translate this to make it sound more polite.
“You all must arise and greet the new day!” Mr. Huang exhorts the men. “This is the era of Reform and Opening Up. Even Americans are coming to China to see the Great Wall, the Forbidden City, and the Yangtze River.”
The ruma clicks his tongue, then mutters in our dialect, “Too talky.”
My brothers’ snickers have a sobering effect on our guest.
“Where I come from,” he continues, “we discuss business for many hours. I tell you some of what I want. You tell me some of what you want in return. This is how civilized men behave, but perhaps this is not your way. I’m not that familiar with the hill tribes. No one is.”
The gathered men may not know the Mandarin expression for hill tribes, but Mr. Huang’s insulting and condescending tone is one they recognize too well.
The ruma slaps the floor with his palm. “Ask the stranger what he wants.”
After I relay this, Mr. Huang answers, “I already told you. I’ve come in search of your special tea. I’ve come to buy Pu’er.”
I dutifully repeat the request. The ruma asks the question I’ve been too shy to ask. “Pu’er? What is Pu’er?”
Mr. Huang looks bewildered. “It’s a special aged tea. It comes from here—”
“Maybe he means tea from old trees,” Third Brother suggests.
The idea of serving the Hong Kong man tea from Third Brother’s worthless trees amuses everyone. The tea is made and brought to the table. Mr. Huang and his son pick up their cups at the same time, drawing breath through their mouths as they noisily suck the liquid onto their tongues. The boy nods in appreciation, and his father smiles.
“This is better. When trees grow from seeds, the main roots extend endlessly, creating as much growth belowground as above. This gives tea flavor and depth,” Mr. Huang says agreeably. “I’ve always heard that tea from Nannuo Mountain has special characteristics: it’s more floral, and the mouth feel is medium. I can taste a hint of apricot, with some tobacco notes. And the astringency is moderate.” He smells the empty cup, savoring the lingering aroma. The boy does exactly as his father does. Then Mr. Huang reaches into his pocket, pulls out a little box, and extracts two toothpicks. He gives one to his son, and the two of them pluck leaves from the pot, stretch them out on the floor, and examine them as A-ma might a boil or insect bite. “Look, Son. Brewing has returned the leaves to their original state, making them plump and pliable. That is exactly what we want to see.” Then they each pick up a leaf and chew it. “This is not a bad raw tea,” he proclaims, “but I’m still waiting to taste your aged tea.”
“Aged tea?” A-ba asks, after I translate.
“I myself have tea cakes that are thirty years old, but there are others even older. They are antiques, but they are still alive.”
“Who would drink such a thing?” A-ba asks, not bothering to mask his amusement.
My brothers laugh at the stranger’s idiocy. Emboldened, First Brother speaks: “We pick our leaves. We process a few for our family, and they’re drinkable after three days. If we left tea for six months, we would feed it to our pigs. No good.”
“Pu’er, Pu’er, Pu’er,” Mr. Huang repeats as though somehow we will have magically learned what it is. “Ponay? Could you have heard this word instead? It’s Cantonese for Pu’er. No? No.”
The bald boy casts a concerned look at his a-ba, who pulls his shoulders up to his ears and juts his chin. When Mr. Huang returns his gaze to me, he asks, “You mean to tell me you don’t age your tea? How can this be? I’ve come a long way to find the birthplace of Pu’er. This is the place, I tell you.”
Unimpressed by the stranger’s bluster, the ruma scratches his chin and belches.
Mr. Huang spreads his hands, moving them outward as though he’s erasing everything that’s happened so far. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and relaxes his shoulders. When he opens his eyes, a decision has been made. “Young lady.”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to tell you a story.” He’s completely changed the tone of his voice. “I want you to pass it on to your father and the others with respect. Do you understand?” He draws his son onto his lap and begins. “For centuries, caravans with as many as a thousand men carrying one-hundred-and-fifty-kilo packs—twice their own body weight, maybe more!—filled with tea cakes journeyed fifteen hundred kilometers overland to the north and west along the Tea Horse Road to Tibet—”
“We know the Tea Horse Road,” First Brother interrupts my translation. “My wife is from Yiwu, where the caravans left—”
“They encountered rain, heat, cold, and humidity,” Mr. Huang carries on, undeterred, “which caused the tea to change its nature. It began to ferment. It aged naturally. Upon reaching Tibet, the fermented tea cakes were traded for warhorses.”
“We—”
“The tea was also carried south along another route to Guangzhou and Hong Kong,” Mr. Huang continues. “Those cities are known for their heat and humidity. The cakes were stored in dank basements, where they also began to ferment. In Hong Kong, we go to restaurants to eat dim sum, special savory dumplings that are very rich. We drink Pu’er—again, what we Cantonese call Ponay—to cut through the grease and oil.” He chortles, and I’m thinking, Restaurants? “China was closed a long time. That means our tea has been aging in basements for decades. We go to certain restaurants for that particular tea, because each basement is different. The climate, the light, the packaging, what else was stored there, all had an effect on the taste of that restaurant’s tea. You see?”
I answer for all of us. “Maybe.”
“That tea has become more valuable over time. To us, it is a treasure.”
“A treasure,” I explain to the top men of my village, who silently contemplate the idea.
Mr. Huang glances from face to face. “It’s not alcoholic, but you should think of it like French wine.” (I don’t attempt to translate that. What would be the purpose?) “As you know, Hong Kong will be returned to the mainland in three years. One country, two systems,” he recites. “It sounds good, but can we Hong Kongers believe it? Many people are leaving the territory and taking their Pu’er with them—to Taiwan, to the United States, to Canada. Others are selling off their Pu’er stockpiles to finance their moves. Taiwan is the biggest buyer.”
The outside world must be very strange.
“It seems to me there’s only one thing to do,” he continues. “You’ve never heard of Pu’er, but you have tea trees. You are poor and . . . unaware; I have capital and access to the market.” He barely gives me enough time to finish translating. “Tea-picking season starts tomorrow, if I’ve been informed correctly. You will work for me instead of selling your leaves elsewhere. We must try to re-create aged Pu’er. No pesticides, all natural, using traditional methods. I’ve come to you first. Spring Well Village. The name appealed to me. I’m giving an opportunity to your family and your village.”
After I translate this, A-ma, who hasn’t spoken since the man entered our house, nudges me. “Tell him to go to Yiwu instead.
There’s someone there, a tea master, elderly now, who remembers the old ways of processing. For leaves, he should go to Laobanzhang. Their trees are ancient—”
“Shut up, woman!” A-ba cuts her off. “Let him buy his leaves from us. Third Son has old trees, and we can go into the mountains to pick leaves from wild trees. And—”
“Don’t say it!” A-ma comes back sharply.
“We have Girl’s trees. They have to be good for something.”
A-ma’s eyes flash. “Never!”
It’s so rare to see an Akha angry that A-ba and the other men are taken aback, but the stranger knows he’s hit on something even if he can’t discern the meaning.
“How much do you currently earn per kilo of fresh leaves?” he asks.
I don’t translate this for the men, but I start much higher than is true.
“Sixteen yuan per kilo.” It’s four times what we make at the tea collection center, an exorbitant amount when you remember that we can each pluck between ten and twenty kilos of leaves a day.
“I will pay . . .” He studies me with an intensity I don’t understand. “Twenty yuan per kilo of perfect leaves from old trees.”
Even more than I stated! Why would he do such a thing?
Mr. Huang knocks his knuckles on the floor. Is he doing this to ask for more tea, as is the custom, or is he impatient for an answer?
“For that price, I will buy all your leaves to make Pu’er,” he adds, pressing me. “Together we’ll save Pu’er from extinction.”
I dutifully translate, once again.
“Our village will help you,” the headman says.
I repeat his agreement in Mandarin. The little boy claps his hands. A-ma abruptly leaves the room. I stay behind to aid with the arrangements. Mr. Huang will go to Yiwu to find the tea master A-ma mentioned. He’ll also scour the mountains—and even go to Laobanzhang—to find farmers who still have tea trees. He’ll return to us every day to check our pickings. He also wants us to drink tea made from the leaves of wild trees to make sure they aren’t poisonous or have bad flavors sucked in from surrounding plants. I’m not sure if he realizes what he’s asking—or how dangerous it could be—but A-ba and the others are convinced the risk is worth it.
We walk Mr. Huang and his son to the spirit gate. Once the rattling of their mountain vehicle has been swallowed by the forest, we return to the village. A-ma waits for me at the top of the steps to the women’s side of the house.
“You must stay away from that stranger,” she orders. “I forbid you from meeting with him again!”
“How can I do that, A-ma? A-ba and all the men in the village will insist I help. I’m the only one who can.”
A-ma squeezes her hands into fists and doesn’t say another word.
* * *
Overnight, life in Spring Well changes as all regular routines are dropped. Yes, we still wake early and trek into the mountains, but we’re no longer going to the tea terraces or pollarded gardens. Instead, we search the slopes, crawling like ants over rocks and through undergrowth, to find wild tea trees. I see even the very old scamper sure-footed branch to branch up into trees—just like A-ma showed me how to climb the mother tree to care for it—to pick the newest buds.
Someone must have told Mr. Huang about my grove or A-ma’s special tea, because not a day goes by that he doesn’t ask, “When are you going to take me to your tea trees, young lady?” or “I hear your trees are the oldest,” or “People say your mother provides the best cures on the mountain. Tell me, where do they come from? Your trees?” Aware of his entreaties, A-ma doesn’t allow me to give him even a single leaf.
I have no time to miss San-pa, but I carry thoughts of him always. I have no time to spend with Ci-teh, but I catch glimpses of her here and there. I might smile in her direction, and she’ll wave back. Or Mr. Huang will ask her to do something, and I have to translate as though she’s just another villager instead of my best friend. I have no opportunity to explain myself, because I’m always at Mr. Huang’s side. In the mornings, his little boy stays close, and he so quickly picks up Akha words and phrases that I think soon Mr. Huang won’t need my help any longer. In the afternoons, the boy rests in the women’s side of our house. (Even though A-ma doesn’t care for the father, she’s become quite fond of Xian-rong, brewing him tea, and letting him stay with her when he needs to nap or requires a break from his father’s obsession. “All Akha love their sons,” A-ma observes, “but that man would take a life for his boy.”) We also have a newcomer to our village—the tea master from Yiwu whom A-ma had recommended without considering that he might come here. Tea Master Wu is nearly blind, but he seems to know what he’s doing.
Mr. Huang and Tea Master Wu inspect each family’s baskets as they enter the village. Sometimes people bring leaves from trees they claim to be eight hundred years old. Some are; most aren’t. Some promise that the leaves have grown in a completely natural environment. Again, some are; most aren’t. Mr. Huang has an uncanny ability to see through the layers of declarations and lies.
The next step is a period of wilting. “So the brittle stems can soften,” he explains, “while increasing resilience in the leaves and buds.” Then comes “killing the green.” Wood fires are set under woks stationed outside our homes. One family member stokes the fire, while another tosses and turns the leaves in the wok. It’s hot and very hard work, and lasts long into the night. Then the leaves are dropped into flat baskets and kneaded. This is even harder work. By the next morning, the leaves are ready for their sunbath. “So they can absorb that great orb’s fragrance,” he tells us.
Most families decide that the area just outside their homes is perfect because it’s flat, but the dogs, cats, chickens, and pigs all come nosing around, pawing, scratching, and doing who knows what else right on the exposed leaves. Others ignore the sun requirement and lay mats in their houses, where people are living, eating, and doing the intercourse, smoke fills the rooms, and kids are picking their noses, drooling, and crying. At the end of three days, each batch of twenty kilos of fresh tea leaves has been reduced to five kilos of what Mr. Huang calls maocha—raw tea made from the leaves of trees. Then comes the most tedious chore: sorting. Every woman and girl in Spring Well joins in this activity, sitting in groups around large woven trays to sort through every single leaf—one at a time!—to remove those that are yellow or otherwise defective.
At this point, Mr. Huang and the tea master divide the tea so it can undergo two separate processes to create two separate test batches. The first process is for natural fermentation. The highest-grade leaves are wrapped in muslin, which is tied into a distinctive knot, steamed, and pressed under a heavy stone into a flat cake round in shape. Once this is done, the cake is placed on a rack with other cakes to dry. In a day or so, the cakes are individually wrapped in paper on which we’ve printed a design from woodblocks. These are bound together in sets of seven to seal in the flavors but still allow the tea to breathe. The tea is now ready to be stored to ferment naturally.
Mr. Huang is striving for something none of us have heard of—huigan, mouth feel or returning flavor. “The taste should be slightly bitter as the tea first enters your mouth, then will come the cool minty sensation that will linger on the sides of the tongue and open the chest, followed by a fragrance that will rise back up from the throat,” he explains. “I’m hoping for specific flavors and scents to emerge: orchid, lotus, camphor, apricot, or plum.” Time will tell if any of that happens.
The second method is for experimenting with artificial fermentation.
“We don’t have time to wait decades for our tea to ripen,” Mr. Huang says, “but I have a solution for that. Artificial fermentation was invented in Kunming almost twenty years ago. We’ll use those techniques, and invent some of our own, to make the perfect Pu’er.”
His enthusiasm never ebbs, but the results are disastrous. The sun-dried tea leaves are gathered into big piles, water is splashed on them, and then the whole mess is blanketed wit
h cloth. The piles are uncovered every so often, the tea turned, more water sprinkled, and everything covered again. The stink! Like rotting forest undergrowth. Every so often, Mr. Huang and Tea Master Wu make a tea from one of the piles. They are less than satisfied. Mr. Huang calls some of the tea “too earthy,” an insult we know all too well. Some piles smell like ox dung. Others are as moldy and foul as the armpits of a man’s tunic at the height of monsoon season. One pile even catches fire!
The only thing we can do to his standards is provide springwater for brewing. “Springwater provides a flavorless flavor.”
When A-ba says, “How fortuitous,” I know he means, Whatever the stranger says is fine, so long as he keeps opening his money pockets.
Our water is acceptable, but we have to learn how to heat it! Mr. Huang lectures from The Classic of Tea, which, he tells us, was written in the eighth century by Lu Yü, “the greatest tea master the world has known.” Mr. Huang instructs us on what to look out for. “First, the heating water should look like fish eyes and give off barely a hint of sound. In the second stage, the water should look like pearls strung together and chatter at the edges of the pot like a bubbling spring. Water has reached the perfect stage when it leaps and foments like the ocean and sounds like waves crashing on the shore . . .”
In the end he has taught us nothing, because what do we know of pearls, the ocean, or waves?
Mr. Huang talks about the connections between tea, Daoism, and Buddhism. Oh, how he goes on about hua—a Daoist concept he admires. It means something like transformation, and he applies this to the making of Pu’er in the sense that the astringent qualities of the raw tea are transformed—“metamorphosed,” he enthuses—through fermentation and aging. “You see? Bad into good!” He believes tea can promote longevity, although people in our village don’t live to be ancients. “Tea reminds us to slow down and escape the pressures of modern life,” he says as though he’s forgotten where he is and to whom he’s speaking.