explains. We each have an opportunity to “kill the green” by toss-
ing leaves in a giant wok placed over a roaring fire. The aroma is
intoxicating. The leaves crackle. It’s hard work, shoving gloved
hands along the heated wok’s surface, then lifting and tossing the
leaves, but it’s not as exhausting as the next task. The hot leaves
are placed on a woven bamboo mat and kneaded like dough to
extract even more liquid. “If you don’t love tea,” Ahbu says as we
lay out the leaves to rest overnight, “you can’t make good tea.”
Then it’s time for Mr. Li to drive us down the mountain to
Menghai and then up another road toward Yiwu, one of the
ancient collection centers for what were once called the Six Great
Tea Mountains, a starting point of the Tea Horse Road, and the
home of the “queen of Pu’erh teas,” which are known for their
feminine, alluring, and radiant flavors. Today the town is in
transition. Most of the original buildings on the main street have
been replaced by concrete storefronts: beauty salons and barber-
shops, cafés, and small enterprises selling dry goods, produce,
and meat. Construction noise and dust fill the air. That said,
our hotel is modern and clean. It’s been built in a faux-Chinese
palace style and caters to those who’ve come in search of Pu’erh.
On our first morning, we eat at an open-air stand, where fiery
broth boils furiously in a big vat and then is poured over freshlymade noodles. A side table offers condiments to add to our bowls:
fresh chilies, cilantro, hot sauces, and a variety of pickles. We sit
on kiddie-size chairs around a low table right on the street. The
other customers are like us—men and women seeking tea. Most of
them are Chinese, but there are a few Koreans and Japanese, too.
Many of them are on the instant-messaging system WeChat, mak-
ing plans to visit farmers or talking to dealers about the volatility
of tea prices. There’s a gold rush atmosphere to the goings-on, a
sense of people hunting for an unknown vein, of buying their way
to knowledge. Every person seems to be checking out the other
customers: How prosperous are you? Can I compete with you?
Can I beat your price? One man sheds his caution, opens a valise
tucked between his feet to show us bundles of hundred-yuan
notes, and asks, “Where are you going today? Who do you think
will have the best tea this year?” We’re vague about our answers,
just as he’s coy when it comes to responding to our inquiries.
Yiwu is home to 40 tea factories—not counting all the mom-
and-pop establishments—and every family picks and homeUnderneath portraits of Communist leaders, friends gather at a teahouse
in Luocheng, an ancient Sichuan town known for its traditional teahouses
where generations have sipped and savored perfect cups of tea.explains. We each have an opportunity to “kill the green” by toss-
ing leaves in a giant wok placed over a roaring fire. The aroma is
intoxicating. The leaves crackle. It’s hard work, shoving gloved
hands along the heated wok’s surface, then lifting and tossing the
leaves, but it’s not as exhausting as the next task. The hot leaves
are placed on a woven bamboo mat and kneaded like dough to
extract even more liquid. “If you don’t love tea,” Ahbu says as we
lay out the leaves to rest overnight, “you can’t make good tea.”
Then it’s time for Mr. Li to drive us down the mountain to
Menghai and then up another road toward Yiwu, one of the
ancient collection centers for what were once called the Six Great
Tea Mountains, a starting point of the Tea Horse Road, and the
home of the “queen of Pu’erh teas,” which are known for their
feminine, alluring, and radiant flavors. Today the town is in
transition. Most of the original buildings on the main street have
been replaced by concrete storefronts: beauty salons and barber-
shops, cafés, and small enterprises selling dry goods, produce,
and meat. Construction noise and dust fill the air. That said,
our hotel is modern and clean. It’s been built in a faux-Chinese
palace style and caters to those who’ve come in search of Pu’erh.
On our first morning, we eat at an open-air stand, where fiery
broth boils furiously in a big vat and then is poured over freshly
made noodles. A side table offers condiments to add to our bowls:
fresh chilies, cilantro, hot sauces, and a variety of pickles. We sit
on kiddie-size chairs around a low table right on the street. The
other customers are like us—men and women seeking tea. Most of
them are Chinese, but there are a few Koreans and Japanese, too.
Many of them are on the instant-messaging system WeChat, mak-
ing plans to visit farmers or talking to dealers about the volatility
of tea prices. There’s a gold rush atmosphere to the goings-on, a
sense of people hunting for an unknown vein, of buying their way
to knowledge. Every person seems to be checking out the other
customers: How prosperous are you? Can I compete with you?
Can I beat your price? One man sheds his caution, opens a valise
tucked between his feet to show us bundles of hundred-yuan
notes, and asks, “Where are you going today? Who do you think
will have the best tea this year?” We’re vague about our answers,
just as he’s coy when it comes to responding to our inquiries.
Yiwu is home to 40 tea factories—not counting all the mom-
and-pop establishments—and every family picks and homeUnderneath portraits of Communist leaders, friends gather at a teahouse
in Luocheng, an ancient Sichuan town known for its traditional teahouses
where generations have sipped and savored perfect cups of tea.