The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane(118)
From here, we stop in to meet several farmers. Wherever we go, three things happen. First, as soon as we arrive water is heated, leaves rinsed, and tea steeped. We meet those who treat it as something treasured, but more often than not, we’re across from a farmer or his son who chain-smokes. Ashes and cigarette butts overflow ashtrays, even though we’re tasting something that relies on aroma and flavor. One man even uses his electric razor while we’re sipping his tea. People tell me incredible stories of poverty, hardship, sacrifice, and overnight wealth. Farmers proudly point out their running water, televisions, and motor scooters.
Second, I show people my tea cake. Everyone has a theory about it, but no one can tell me definitively what it is or where it came from. And third, folks are kind to me, but they rib Sean mercilessly. He laughs. He blushes. He ducks his head and runs his hands through his hair, chagrined but pleased. He then translates everything, or I think he does, because why else would he tell me things like “They say your hair looks like silk,” “They wonder if you’re an ethnic minority and how many children you can have in America,” and “They want you to know that you’ll always be safe and happy with me.”
As we drive from place to place, he sits on his side of the backseat and I stay on mine, but the roads are bumpy with lots of curves, and the laws of physics . . . So there’s that, but otherwise we don’t do any of the obvious things like walking so close together that our fingers touch or staring too long into each other’s eyes when he says something like “In drinking the best tea, you and I are having a conversation with the wind and the rain that the ancient Daoists had above the mountain clouds. Through the tea liquor, across streams, and under moon shadows we can understand that the separation between Man and Nature is not real.” I mean, come on. Who wouldn’t want to sleep with a guy who talks like that? But he doesn’t make a move, and I mostly keep my eyes on the scenery. I’ve had casual hookups and even a few short relationships, but this feels different. I can wait, but the anticipation only fuels my desire.
* * *
Our fourth day is spent entirely in the car, as we’re driven down from Yiwu to Menghai and then up Nannuo Mountain, which he tells me has the largest number of ancient tea tree groves. We check in to a rustic inn. The main building has a kitchen, tea shop, and small tea-processing area on the ground floor. The family lives upstairs. Guests stay in bungalows built in the traditional style—bamboo and thatch on stilts—that edge a canyon. Mine is outfitted with a bed, period. There’s no electricity, and the toilet and shower are in a separate building to be shared by everyone here. Sean and I eat outside by candlelight. The proprietor’s mother makes a simple meal from ingredients grown on the property—a soup flavored with fresh mint, string beans sautéed with chili, greens with slivered chilies, and scrambled egg and tomato—which we eat seated at the ubiquitous tiny chairs and table. After dinner, fiery homemade liquor is brought out, and the proprietor performs Dai drinking songs for the handful of guests. Last, he asks us to join in a call-and-response Akha love song that was recently made into a hit on a talent show on Chinese television.
Sean translates as the other male guests sing to the women: “The flowers bloom at their peaks, waiting for the butterflies to come—”
Then the women sing to the men: “The honeycombs wait for the bees to make honey—”
Then back to the men: “A beautiful flower calls to her love—”
We’re both able to join the chorus. “Alloo sae, ah-ee-ah-ee-o, ah-ee-ah-ee-o.”
After the festivities, we’re handed oil lamps. Sean guides me to my bungalow. He leans in, barely brushing his lips against mine. He pulls back to gauge my reaction. The air feels so heavy between us I can barely breathe. He puts a hand on the small of my back and pulls me to him. Our kiss is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. In another minute, we’re in my little room. The oil lamps flicker. He slowly undresses me. “You’re beautiful,” he says. Nothing in my life has prepared me for what I feel when we make love.
Afterward, I lie in his arms. Something extraordinary is happening, but is it too fast? He edges up onto an elbow so he can stare into my eyes. I don’t know how, but I feel as though he knows me completely, and somehow I know him. And then he says the most remarkable thing.
“I’ve loved you from the moment you walked into my booth at the tea expo. I’ve brought you to the place I love most in the world. Wouldn’t it be incredible if we could spend our lives traveling the world, drinking tea, and reading the great poets?”
The realities of our lives escape me for a moment. We make love again, and it’s even more exquisite. When he falls asleep, I let my breathing follow his.
* * *
The next morning begins as it usually does—with Sean on WeChat, contacting the people we’re going to see—but with every second heightened by blissful joy. Then we get in the car and set off. After an hour, we’re driven onto a narrow unpaved stretch you could barely call a road. We reach a gate watched by a couple of men. They recognize Sean immediately and wave us through, but we don’t go far before we reach another gate. It’s decorated like some of the others I’ve glimpsed off the side of the main road—with a man with a gigantic penis and a woman with bulging breasts.
“We need to walk the rest of the way,” Sean says.