Deep in the heart of Southern Yunnan there exist tea trees unlike any other on Earth. The jungles of Xishuangbanna Dai Autonomous Prefecture and the districts of Simao and Lincang are home to the oldest tea trees in the world. In these regions grow tea trees that range in age from several centuries to over a millennium, and the tea that is made from their leaves is called Pu’er.

Over the past 30 to 50 years, however, the number of these ancient trees has steadily decreased. Since China’s reform and opening up policies were implemented in 1978, the Chinese tea industry has grown rapidly.

In early 2001, the Pu’er market took off. Large corporations moved in and producers and retailers proliferated. Before long, demand couldn’t keep up with supply. Prices inflated and hype ran its wild course. In 2007, the bubble burst and the market crashed, sending many businesses into bankruptcy. Since then, the market has steadied, but the unsustainable industrial approach to agriculture that was initiated during the market’s quick expansion has continued.

With increased demand for Pu’er tea, the industry changed course from quality to quantity. Today, the majority of large corporate players that have a strong-hold on the Pu’er market only produce plantation tea, which is cultivated in monocultures sustained by the use of agricultural chemicals that erode the land, lessen the quality of tea leaves, and sometimes poison people.
Large areas of forest are now being cut away for high yielding tea plantations, and according to one farmer, “Plantation tea in Xishuanbanna didn’t exist until after 1978.”

Nonetheless, many century-old, big leaf tea trees still exist (there are two primary species of tea trees: small leaf and big leaf). These trees have lived for hundreds, some for thousands of years in rich, bio-diverse environments. Now, these trees and environments are nearing a state of endangerment.

Along my travels, I encountered herbicide bottles scattered throughout ancient tea gardens. Herbicides are used to make these gardens look prettier and keep “weeds” away, but they harden the ground and destroy biodiversity. When the surrounding foliage is killed off and the environment is no longer diverse, insects then further target the tea trees. Once the insects begin heavily attacking the tea trees, pesticides are generally the next step. Before long, a once-thriving, bio-diverse environment becomes not too much different from the plantation tea growing on adjacent mountain sides.

When I did find environments that were chemical free, I often came across other disturbing signs of environmental destruction. Many trees are simply over-cultivated. One farmer told me that he harvests his 500 year-old tea trees twice a month for nine months out of the year. When I tasted his tea, it was very weak in flavor and energy compared to teas that don’t come from over-cultivated trees. The same farmer showed me a tree of his that was over 800 years old.

“How often do you harvest this tree?” I asked.
“Once a year,” he replied. “It harvests two kilograms.”

I found it odd that he’d only harvests his prized tree once a year, but his other ancient tea trees he over-harvests. As a result, many of his 500 to 600 year-old trees were showing signs of illness.

In order to increase production, cultivators have begun chopping ancient tea trees in half. By doing so, the tree sprouts more branches and more leaves, allowing the farmer to harvest more tea and earn a higher income. The problem is that chopping a tree in half is not healthy for it, and so this practice is leading to the illness and death of many ancient tea trees.

When these trees die they are gone forever. It took several centuries for them to culminate into their current state and thus it will take several centuries for new trees to reach this level, assuming all other environmental factors are in place.

Saddened by what I saw, I unfortunately did not find any signs of formal protection for the last of the world’s ancient tea trees. With a lack of regulation and a strong emphasis on money, the very trees that filled many farmers and producers’ pockets are being destroyed for the sake of filling them further.

Andrew Stein founded and runs Project Releaf. Funded by a J William Fulbright Research Grant, Andrew takes us on a journey through some of China’s most remote and ancient tea localities. Seeking to better understand the balance between China’s massive economic growth and its rapid environmental deterioration, he analyzes these effects of China’s swift modernization through the lens of China’s deeply-rooted tea industry.

The Wuyi Mountains, located in northwest Fujian Province, became a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1999. According to UNESCO, “Mount Wuyi is the most outstanding area for biodiversity conservation in southeast China and a refuge for a large number of ancient, relict species, many of them endemic to China.” Home to the “most representative example of a largely intact forest encompassing the diversity of the Chinese Subtropical Forest and the South Chinese Rainforest,” the Wuyi Mountains are also one of the world’s most ideal locations for the cultivation of camellia sinensis, the tea plant.

The tea grown on Mount Wuyi is unique to all other tea in the world. It is called cliff tea because it grows on the sides and bottoms of mineral-rich cliffs, coddled and protected by steep gorges.

Camellia sinensis is a very sensitive plant. Every element of nature from soil to water to sunlight strongly impacts the final outcome of the tea that we drink. When Luyu, the great Tang Dynasty tea sage, wrote the Classic of Tea (Chajing), he described the perfect conditions for cultivating it—Wuyi contains all of them.

Wuyi’s high cliffs protect its old tea trees from natural hazards and balance the level of sunlight, ensuring that the tea trees don’t receive too much. Wuyi Cliff Tea is highly sensitive, and when I tasted two versions of the same varietal grown on the same mountain, one on the north side and one on the south side, the difference in flavor and qi was unmistakable. The tea growing on the north face had received a more balanced level of sunlight and so its energy, flavor, and fragrance were rounder, smoother, and more even.

The cliffs also help to regulate the temperature in the region. During the day the cliffs absorb heat from the sun, and, at night, when the air cools off, they release heat, keeping the temperature in the valley relatively constant.

Water is crucial to all plants. Each morning the Wuyi gorges guide mist through their humble openings, covering their tea trees in a nutrient-rich veil of moisture. The waterfalls here also seem endless. Even days after the last rainfall, water pours from cliff tops, ensuring that the tea trees are always vitalized.

As I moved along a high mountain pass, weaving in and out of waterfalls and walking alongside fluttering butterflies, it was impossible to ignore the power of the mountains before me. As I took a rest by a water-covered cliff next to a group of old tea trees, I inhaled deeply. The smell of the wet, mineral-rich cliffs and the sweet oolong tea trees intermingled, merging into one great spirit; that’s the taste of true Wuyi Cliff Tea.

In the Song Dynasty, the father of Neo-Confucianism—Zhu Xi—chose the Wuyi Mountains as the setting to revive Confucian thought. It was here that he proclaimed, “The Wuyi Mountains stand like the high pillars at the gates of heaven, supporting all the East. To live is to know the infinite universe, though its creative forces remain forever a mystery.”

Fuding, Fujian Province is known for some of the finest white tea in the world. Intrigued to see how the modern climate of a market economy was affecting this region, I hopped on a bullet train from Hangzhou and shot down to Fuding. Flying through the Chinese country side at several hundred km/hour, I gazed out at the verdant green and orange rock covered mountains as they whirled by; the same mountains that the great Chinese painters Shitao and Bada Shanren painted centuries ago. Riding on the back of one of man’s modern muscle machines, while watching farmers plow their land via water buffalo, I was reminded of the vast disparities separating modern China.

White tea in Fuding, Fujian province

Stepping off the train in Fuding, I found myself surrounded by sun-covered, little tea mountains stretching as far as the eye could see. My host informed me that their tea growing region was located 45 minutes away, up in the high mountains of Bai Lin (白琳), which literally means “white gem,” a suitable name for the home of China’s most glorified white tea (keep in mind that Fuding white tea is white tea in the processing sense).

The next day, winding up through Bai Lin’s misty mountains, I caught my first glimpse of Fuding’s famous Taimushan Mountain (太姆山). When we reached my host’s tea mountain, I stepped out of the car and gazed at the beautiful mountain vista surrounding me.

My first observation in Bailin was the abundance of birds, insects, and lizards, which meant that pesticide use must be absent or less than many tea farms that I’ve seen. My host was certified organic by the Chinese Tea Research Institute (TRI), but his operation also bought fresh tea leaves from farmers in the surrounding area, and one professor from the TRI told me that much of that tea was not organic.

My second observation was that the tea trees in this area were very densely cultivated. I was unable to discern one tree from another and sometimes could not discern between roots! The same monoculture mentality that has taken over the majority of Chinese tea farms has also taken over here. The tops of the tea trees had a thin layer of foliage and their sides were all twigs. The teas, or rather hedges, were planted so densely and harvested so frequently that their foliage had been reduced to a thin layer. This is the result of high-yield production with short-term gain in mind.

Moving along, I came to a field of stumps. I later found out that every seven-to-eight years, most Bailin farmers chop down their trees (known as Dabaihao and Xiaobaihao) because they yield more leaves between years two and seven. Never mind the quality of the leaf that is being sold, quantity seems to be king in China’s modern tea market, even for one of China’s most famous teas (名茶).

A bit disillusioned, I returned to the processing facility to compare teas. There I heard from behind me talk of wild tea trees (野茶). Excited to see tea trees that had sustained themselves for over 100 years, as I was told, I immediately went with one of the interns to find them (the Fujian University of Agriculture had an intern program with this tea processor).

Into the thick brush we went, finding signs of wild hogs and other animals. Indications of a strong, well balanced eco-system are also indications of good, healthy tea.

After an hour of searching we finally found our first signs of wild tea. Standing high and tall we found a bed of wild tea next to its over-cultivated, small, and weak counterpart. It looked like the young dreadlocked hippy standing next to an over-worked businessman. Only the main difference is that this wild, unkempt, self-sustaining tree was much older than this new little monoculture mop.

Trained strictly to follow a set code for evaluating tea, my companion focused on the flaws of the wild tea, pointing out its lower yield and its older bug bitten leaves. Nonetheless, the wild trees were producing very healthy, fresh leaves and there were no insects in sight except for a bee and a grasshopper. With its roots and leaves allowed to grow freely, the self-sustaining tree in its diverse, natural garden looked much healthier and fuller than the one pruned regularly and planted in dense, monoculture rows with no room to grow.

The question, “What is white tea?” is one that I’ve been struggling to answer for months. While many tea producers in northern Zhejiang Province claim that the only difference between white and green tea lies in the trees that produce them, others have consistently insisted that the difference is in their processing. After many weeks of struggling with this question, I went to Yao Guokun, Director of the China International Tea Culture Institute and Professor at almost every tea research center in Zhejiang Province.

White tea, Yao told me, is one of the six primary types of Chinese tea. These teas, he continued, are classified by their processing methods, not by their tree type. This means that the technical difference between white and green tea is in their processing.

There are many different methods by which green tea can be processed, but all green teas have one thing in common—they are fired after a very short withering period in order to halt any further oxidation. White teas, however, are never fired. So, while green teas are the least oxidized of all teas, white teas are the least processed.

Although many people consider the famous and extremely valuable Anji White Tea to be white tea, according to Yao and China’s leading tea classifiers, it is not. Since Anji White Tea passes through an early firing process, it is technically green tea. It comes from a varietal of camellia sinensis that was discovered about 20 years ago in the mountains of Anji County, Zhejiang Province, located 75 km north of Hangzhou and well known as the setting for the box office hit Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon.

The Anji White Tea tree is yellower than the typical tea tree, and when its leaves are steeped, a unique phenomenon occurs: the face of the Anji White Tea leaf turns a light green, almost white color, and its center vein becomes dark, emerald green. Its flavor is much lighter and sweeter than other green teas, and, consequently, this rare tea’s price is typically much higher.

White tea, as aforementioned, never passes through the firing stage that green tea does. After it is picked, the tea withers in the open air, then generally in the sun, and, if the tea processor has the technology, the leaves will be placed in a drying machine until its water content hits zero. If a processor doesn’t have access to such a machine, then the tea will be periodically placed outside in the sun to further wither and dry out the leaves.

The most famous of all white tea comes from Fuding, Fujian Province. The leaves that are used to make this tea come from one of two types of domestic tea trees or from wild tea trees; the two domestic plants are named Dabaihao (大白豪 or Big White Hair) and Xiaobaihao (小白毫 or Little White Hair). The names of these plants are derived from the white hairs covering the bud of their tea leaves, as displayed in the picture above.

Anji White Tea and Fuding White Tea have very different traits, histories, processing methods, and come from very different trees and environments. One thing they have in common is that they are two of China’s most respected teas. In order to further our understanding of Anji and Fuding White Teas, we will travel next to their homelands.

Although the Wangs and many other tea growers feel they must resort to using pesticides, there exists a select group of tea cultivators that refuse to use hazardous chemicals—keeping their tea 100% organic. Tea Master Zheng and her family run one of those organic operations; it’s called Zijing Mountain Organic Tea, Ltd.

Andrew Stein and Tea Master Zheng

From the moment that I first stepped into Zheng’s house, I knew that I had come across an unordinary bunch. Buddhist prayers echoed from a corner room, similar to ones that I had heard two years ago in Shangrila. Taking a seat at a large, round table decorated with a variety of food, I realized that there was no meat. Suddenly, a monk named Ding plopped down right next to me. “Nice to meet you!”

Almost everyone who lives and works at Zijing Mountain is Buddhist, and the prayer room on the top floor of Zheng’s house is a testament to their way of life.

One by one, the four story house’s occupants filled the open spaces around the table. The last man who entered the room was much older, clad in turquoise robes, and had a jovial grin. I rose to shake his hand. “Could you please tell me your honorable surname?” I asked.

“Just call him Master,” interrupted Zheng. To this day, I’ve never heard anyone call him anything else.

Every time I meet with Zheng and gang, I sit down to a healthy, vegetarian meal before trekking off to talk with various characters working on their 180 mu, or 30 acre, plot of land.

The high quality, organic tea cultivated at Zijing is a reflection of the holistic lifestyle of its occupants. “We refuse to use those nasty chemical fertilizers,” Zheng tells me. “They ruin the land, ruin our water, and you can taste them in the tea. We rotate organic fertilizers annually on a three year cycle—using a different type each year. We use: cow, sheep, and chicken manure; rapeseed fertilizer; and organic compost.”

“What about pesticides?”

“We don’t use them,” she replies.

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Walking through the mist-laden Longjing Mountains (龙井山-lóngjǐngshān), also known as the Dragon Well Mountains, I stumble upon the entrance to Lion’s Peak Village (狮峰-shīfēngcūn)—one of the five villages that comprise Longjing County. As I follow a cobble stone path next to a peaceful flowing stream, I’m suddenly assailed by “Lookie! Lookie! Wanna buy tea! Tea! Tea!”

I ask several assailers questions about their tea operation, but, unfortunately, they aren’t interested in talking with me; they only want to sell me things. Continuing up the path, I run into an amiable woman by the surname Wang. She is very eager to speak with me about the intricacies of running a tea operation in Longjing County and invites me back to her house, situated at the top of a green gully surrounded by lush tea mountains and fresh, misty air.
When we reach her house, she pours me a cup of Longjing tea and introduces her grandson and son. “I’ll go get the boss,” she says.

“Who’s that?” I ask.

“My Husband.”

Tea Master Wang comes into the room with a big ear-to-ear grin spread out across his face. We sit together and talk over a cup of tea.

Master Wang’s family has been cultivating tea in the Longjing Mountains for over 500 years, which is probably why they have prime land—growing tea in the highest region of Lion’s Peak, where conditions are ideal.

Currently, the Wangs cultivate 5 mu (亩-mǔ) or 5/6 of an acre of land. The local government allots one mu of Lion’s Peak land for every person living under one roof in Lion’s Peak Village. The land is limited and the people are many, so this system seems pretty fair.

The Wangs grow tea through all four seasons, taking a rest for several months in the heart of winter. Spring tea is considered the best because the weather is ideal—it’s cold enough that the buds won’t spring open too fast and the insects aren’t a problem. The insects become a major hazard in the summer when the heat sets in.
“How do you deal with the pests?” I ask.

“I kill them,” he replies.

“Do you use chemical insecticides?”

He grimaces, “Yeah…I don’t have a choice.”

“I read an article published by the Tea Research Institute that outlined other techniques for preventing pests. Have you ever tried introducing carnivorous insects such as spiders and lady bugs to kill the aphids and caterpillars?”

“They don’t work,” he replied. “They can’t kill the pests fast enough. Once the heat sets in, the pests come in swarms. They chew the leaves and suck the juice from the stems. They cause my crop to wither, and once it begins to wither, there’s no turning back. I either spray them or lose my crop and thus all of my income. I have no choice.”

“I’ve heard that some farmers post fluorescent fly paper on trees…”

“Those don’t work,” he gasps. “Insecticides are most effective and, even still, they aren’t great. It all depends on the weather. If the weather’s right, there won’t be many insects. When the air is cool in spring, they stay away. I don’t need to use insecticides in the spring. But, when it’s hot, the swarms come and ruin my crop. The rain keeps the insects out too. If it rains a lot, then pests won’t be much of an issue. If it rains too little, I have to deal with drought conditions and swarms of insects. The sky determines the weather. The sky determines my life. It decides whether my crop will be good or bad. The sky provides for my family. Wo kao tian chi… I depend on the sky for food. I live by the sky.”

“So many people forget that in the city just over these mountains—how much their lives depend on nature.”

“Yeah, they forget it,” he chuckles, “but us farmers, we don’t.”

This is the second post by guest blogger Andrew Stein.

“Not for all the tea in China,” once uttered an anonymous soul eons ago. What this person meant was, “I wouldn’t do that for all the money in the world.” At that time, likely between the 18th and 19th centuries, tea translated directly into money and the quantity of tea that China—the world’s leading producer—contained within its large borders was as unfathomable as all the word’s money. So, how do we begin to understand an entity as diverse, massive, and unimaginable as China’s tea?

Dark Green Longjing Tea Bushes

All Chinese tea, in the traditional sense of the word, comes from the same plant species: camellia sinensis. This plant grows in tropical and subtropical climates, requires a significant amount of rainfall, and often thrives in high elevations. Although all tea belongs to the camellia sinensis species, this does not mean that all tea plants are identical. Tea plants vary as much as apples; they often produce dissimilar flavors like a “granny smith” and a “golden delicious.” A tea plant’s climate and setting strongly affect its tea leaves. This sensitive plant responds differently to various soils, elevations, weather conditions, and air qualities.

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