The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane(28)
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.