The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane Page 36
“I know some Dai, Bulang, and Akha farmers,” he says. “Everyone writes about the Dai, because there are so many of them and they have their own written language.” The hand that droops off the seat in front of me shoos away the idea as unworthy. He seems to run through the list in his mind, checking off each tribe one by one. Then, “You might be interested in the Akha, because their culture is very similar to that of the Cree. The culture is animistic. Every living thing has a spirit.”
“I’ve read about them and the whole Cree thing. Downside: the Akha get to have a bad rep similar to that of Native Americans. They don’t save their money, they drink, they take drugs—”
His eyes flash. “It’s easy to fall for stereotypes.” (Ouch. I wasn’t saying I believed those things.) “In the West, you think the individual is supreme, but the Akha see themselves as one link in the long chain of life, adjacent to all the other links of people and cultures, all carrying a collective wave toward the beach to throw a newborn up to safety.”
I feel myself bridling. “Interesting that you’d bring up newborns. If everything has a soul, then what’s up with that stuff about twins?”
“That ended a while ago,” he says, looking a little annoyed now. “They had a cultural belief for, to them, commonsense reasons, which they followed for millennia. Who are you to condemn their culture?”
Before I have a chance to clarify or defend myself, he taps the seat a couple of times—done here—and glides back down the aisle, disappearing behind the curtain that divides the plane.
“Well, that sucked,” the girl next to me comments.
He’s waiting for me when I get off the plane in Guangzhou. I’ve had plenty of hours to formulate a proper answer to his question: just because a group has a cultural belief, whether it’s foot binding in China or female genital cutting in Africa, doesn’t mean that we, as human beings, should sanction the practice. But he seems to have forgotten our misunderstanding or whatever that was. We go through the border formalities, pick up our bags, pass back through security for domestic flights, and board the plane for Kunming. Again we aren’t seated together, nor are we together on the last flight, to Jinghong.
After three back-to-back flights over many hours and time changes, I’m so punchy with exhaustion that I notice little about the airport other than it’s small, drab, and dimly lit. Outside, a driver meets us to take us to Yiwu, the ancient collection center for the Six Great Tea Mountains, starting point of the Tea Horse Road, home of the queen of Pu’er, and our base for the next four nights. It’s about a six-hour drive, I’ve read, with bumpy hairpin turns. This, after all the flights and layovers. I take a Dramamine, roll my hoodie into a pillow, and rest my head. On his side of the backseat, Sean immediately nods off, but as tired as I am I can’t fall asleep. China! And I’m heading to “the middle of nowhere.”
* * *
This is a far different trip than the one I took with my parents. I quickly need to become accustomed to squat toilets, using toilet paper for napkins, and seeing people spit their chicken and fish bones right on the floor. For breakfast—and jet-lagged as hell—we go to an outdoor stand and order chili-flavored soup noodles being cooked over a brazier. We sit on plastic kiddie chairs around a low kiddie-size table—which is plain weird—that looks like it’s never once been wiped down. A dog chews on a bone at my feet. I don’t see a single white face, but there are others who are clearly marked as foreign to Yiwu: Chinese men dressed in spiffy trousers, starched shirts, and polished loafers.
“Tea traders,” Sean whispers. “Watch how they act with each other. It’s like the Gold Rush out here. I’ve found my lode, and I’m not going to tell you where it is. They’re checking us out too—to see how prosperous we are and determine if we’ll drive up the price of tea this year.”
When our noodles arrive, I follow Sean’s example and pour steaming tea over my chopsticks and other tableware, then toss the dirty liquid on the ground. The alternative would be the trots or worse. Every pandemic in the history of the world has come from China.
The tea traders leave as quickly as they came. Sean calls farmers and dealers on WeChat, an instant messaging system that allows him to speak into his phone instead of typing complicated Chinese characters, giving me an update after each: “I told them to expect us at four o’clock.” Or “They said drop by tomorrow. I’ve never brought a woman with me. They’re eager to meet you.” We’re just about to leave when a man who introduces himself as a new dealer sits down next to us, unzips an overnight bag to show us bundled wads of hundred-yuan notes, and asks where he should go to find good tea. Sean sends him to a family-owned tea-processing factory up the road. As we walk away, I ask, “Should I see it too?”
“I’m going to take you somewhere better and more authentic tomorrow. Today, let me show you around the town.”
From what’s left of it, I imagine Yiwu must have once been very beautiful, but the main street is just a strip of clunky concrete enterprises all coated in dust and dirt from the old houses being torn down and from the cheap and ugly buildings going up. We walk part of the Tea Horse Road, which, disappointingly, doesn’t look like much: just a four-foot-wide cobblestone path that snakes through the old part of town and then heads down a hill. On our way back to the main drag, we pass along quiet lanes, where a few traditional buildings made of unfired clay bricks and upturned eaves still stand, chickens peck at the ground, and flowers drip over walls. Before every house, women—the younger ones in jeans and T-shirts, the old ladies in traditional clothes, and all of them wearing scarves or headdresses—sort tea a leaf at a time. This is what Yiwu must have looked like before prosperity hit, and it’s much more quaint and charming, giving the feel of ageless China.
* * *
The next day, our plan is to go to Laobanzhang, the home of the king of Pu’er. We’re driven over an impossible one-lane dirt road. We pass villages made up of between ten and fifty houses. I glimpse a few handmade wooden gates that look a lot like the entrance to our ranch in Colorado: two posts and a beam. Our gate has our brand carved on a wooden disk and mounted on the beam. Here, the embellishments on each gate are, let’s just say, out there, with carvings of a man and a woman with outsize genitals verging on the pornographic. It’s odd to reconcile the primitiveness of these figures with a country that’s now an economic superpower. The cultural disconnect is magnified when the driver is forced to stop the car, because a tangle of minivans has blocked the route. Japanese tourists take each other’s photos posing against tea trees that cling to the hillside—here, in the middle of nowhere. We get out of the car and chat with them for a bit in English. We’re surrounded by mountains blanketed in gray haze, and I mentally try to match them to the markings on my tea cake, to no avail.
The tourists—so strange to see them out here—get back in their vans. Sean waves the various drivers through the contortions required to clear the road. Finally, we’re able to get back in the car. Our driver takes us to a prosperous grower’s house, modern and clean, with several outbuildings for processing tea. In the courtyard, about two dozen women sit around big flat baskets sorting tea. The owner, a Mr. Piu, introduces me to the group as an American scientist, and they show me every step of the tea-making process. I even get to try killing the green and kneading. Around noon, several cars arrive, bringing buyers from around the world. We sit in a pavilion on, of course, little plastic kiddie chairs around a low table and taste tea worth one thousand dollars (!) for a two-ounce cup. I don’t speak Chinese, but they all speak English.
When a dealer from Taiwan asks about my project, I tell them a little about it, ending with “Almost everywhere I look I see another opportunity for scientific study. For example, what effect will pollution have on the tea industry?”
“We have no smog here,” Mr. Piu scoffs.
“Really? Then what’s that stuff in the air?” I ask, pointing to the haze that lies between the hills. “I grew up in Los Angeles. I know what smog looks like. What you’re see
ing could have drifted here from a thousand miles away. But I’m wondering too if the slash-and-burn agricultural practices of the ethnic minorities are now catching up to them in this era of climate change.”
The others nod politely, but I’m not sure they agree with me.
“How can the exact age of an antique cake of Pu’er be known?” I continue. “Is there something in it that could actually promote longevity? Is Pu’er a medicinal tonic, a drinkable antique, or merely a beverage?”
“What about social issues?” Sean asks me. “Could tea be seen as a symbol of worth: a commodity that represents change in value for women, and for China, on the world stage?”
At the word women, the others exchange glances like we’re all a bunch of teenagers instead of an international group of travelers outside a farmer’s house miles from anything resembling what I think of as civilization. But they pull themselves together quickly, because everyone seems to have an opinion about where I should go, what I should see, and whom I should meet. Soon most of them have pulled out their cellphones and are making even more connections for Sean and me on WeChat. I’m going to have plenty of subjects for my project by the time I meet up with the Tufts team.
After we’ve sampled about a dozen teas, lunch is served at an adjacent (child-size, again!) table: stir-fried cabbage, tomato and scrambled egg, beef with slivered ginger, and some type of crunchy root. Once the meal is finished, we move back to the tea table. Just as everyone’s getting settled, Sean says, “Haley, why don’t you show them your tea cake? Maybe someone here will recognize the wrapper.” I pull it out of my bag and lay it on the table. People are polite enough not to touch it, but they stand to get better views, craning their necks, pointing, and discussing.
“It must be from a lost tea company,” Mr. Piu guesses.
“Or a lost family,” the dealer from Taiwan offers.
“Or from a long-abandoned garden high in the mountains,” someone’s girlfriend suggests.
“How old is it?” Mr. Piu asks.
“I don’t know,” I answer.
“Tea cakes made before the fifties had no wrappers,” someone says. “So that’s a clue—”
“But it’s clearly much older than that,” the dealer from Taiwan interrupts. “It looks to be hundreds of years old.”
Somehow it’s gratifying that the tea cake is as mysterious to them as it’s always been to me.
“Have you tasted it?” Mr. Piu asks.
The idea seems shocking to me. “I’ve never opened it,” I admit.
“Let’s do it now,” Mr. Piu says, reaching for the cake. “Let’s taste it.”
Quick as a snake, Sean clamps his hand over our host’s wrist. “It’s for Haley to decide when and if she wishes to open it.”
An awkward silence falls over the little group.
“He never brings a girl to visit,” Mr. Piu jokes, trying to defuse the tension. “Now look how proprietary he is!”
The others laugh. Sean releases his grip. More tea is poured.
A few hours later, Sean and I pile into the car. My bag is filled with tea samples and tea gifts given by our host, who says, “So you’ll always remember our day together.”
When we get back to Yiwu, we walk down the dusty street to a restaurant with smears of I-don’t-know-what on the plate-glass windows. Sean orders soup and a simple assortment of vegetable dishes. Everything has been so go-go-go that we haven’t had much of a chance to talk about anything beyond travel logistics and tea, but now he asks if this is my first time to China.
“Do I look that out of place?” I ask.
He raises his eyebrows. Yes.
“It’s my second trip,” I say. “I was seventeen the first time I came. I’m adopted, and my parents brought me on a heritage tour to find my roots.”
“And did you find them?” he asks coolly, showing no surprise about my background.
“My roots? Nope. But that’s all right.” I feel compelled to explain. “I have a loving family. I grew up in a beautiful home. I’m getting a great education and following my dreams—”
“Which is why you’re here with me.”
Yikes. An awkward silence. I force myself to forge ahead.
“A few years ago, someone told me about a concept called the grateful-but-angry Chinese adoptee. Yes, I’ve been grateful. And yes, I’ve been angry. It was hard for me to separate what I should be grateful for and what I was actually grateful for. I guess that’s why I decided it should be grateful and angry, not but angry. That was a long time ago. Now what I feel is something more like survivor’s guilt. Do you know what I mean?”
“Perhaps I do,” he answers with a hint of sadness, but I don’t feel comfortable probing into his background.
“I could have ended up in a sucky life,” I yammer on. “Instead I got a fabulous life. A lot of girls like me feel we need to account for ourselves in a bigger way than people who just come home from the hospital, no questions asked.” I will myself to stop talking. But then, “Maybe this is more than you want to know.”
“I want to know everything about you.”
I guess I set him up for that, but it’s such a dopey line, I can’t even drum up a comeback. Even he looks embarrassed. Is he going to talk about himself for a while? I’m not that lucky.
“Do you see yourself as Chinese or American?”
“One hundred percent American and one hundred percent Chinese,” I answer. “I’m not half and half. I’m fully both. I’ll forever wear my Chinese-ness on my face, but these days when I look in the mirror I don’t see how mismatched I am in my birth family or that I don’t feel Chinese enough. I just see me.”
My comment startles me. I struggled so long with who I was. Have I actually come to a place of acceptance?
“You’re a new kind of global citizen,” he says. “You can be a bridge between two cultures and two countries.”
“That’s going a little far, don’t you think?”
“Not really. And it’s not just about you, is it? You and your cohort are products of the One Child policy, which is now over, right? I’ve heard that over four hundred million births were prevented, but all of you are in a special category. Your perspective—and those of other women like you—is unique. It’s larger than any of you as individuals. In a way, you do have immense responsibility—”
“I used to resent that. But it has given me a sense of purpose—”
“The power of international Chinese adoptees all around the world could be a force to be reckoned with!”
Now for sure he’s teasing me. I give him a half smile, and we return to our meal.
Later, he walks me all the way to my hotel room. My dad would undoubtedly be relieved to know that another night goes by without any “funny business.”
* * *
On the third morning, we visit a villa so remote that there isn’t another house in view, with a vista that reminds me a lot of Topanga Canyon back home. The living room is floored in white marble, a gigantic flat-screen TV blares from a cabinet the size of Nebraska, and a fortune in tea packed in oversize bags is stacked against the walls. Our hostess asks us to stay for lunch. “We’ll kill a chicken,” she says, and the next thing I hear is a chicken’s neck being snapped just inches from my ear. I taste whatever’s put in my bowl—including anteater and bear paw—out of politeness. I show her my tea cake, but she doesn’t have any ideas about it.
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.