A Memoir of Primitive Tea Making

After we got the tea farm in the late of March, 1971, because I had been a class monitor in school, when I was sent down to the countryside, I was appointed as the Youth League Branch Secretary and Deputy Manager of the tea farm. In reality, I knew nothing. I was a 17-year-old high school graduate who had only ever planted rice seedlings and chopped firewood; I knew almost nothing about farm work. But since there were 23 "sent-down youth" (Zhiqing) and only five local farmers, one of us young people had to take the lead.

A tea farm exists to produce tea. Yet before we arrived, this farm hadn’t produced a single ounce. The farm wasn't established because the land was suitable for tea; it was set up simply to fulfill a quota from the leadership and pass inspections. The leaders said, "Build a tea farm," so one was built. Whether the land was actually good for growing tea was a secondary concern. As a result, the tea bushes were uneven, small, sparse, and barely had any leaves. Naturally, no tea was produced.

The Training Course

In mid-April, just a month after we arrived, the county held a training course for tea farm technicians. The farm sent me to attend. The course was held at a tea farm in another commune.

Only when I arrived there did I realize what a real tea farm looked like. Looking out, I saw gentle slopes with deep soil, covered in lush, two-foot-tall tea bushes winding around the hills into the distance. The mimeographed handout stated that the ideal slope for a tea farm is under 15 degrees; anything over 20 degrees is unsuitable. The soil layer should be at least a meter deep, or the bushes won't thrive.

Looking at their farm, everything met the standards perfectly. Then I thought about ours: at least half the slopes were over 30 degrees. The soil was mostly just a foot deep, and in some places, you hit rock after digging just a few inches. At our place, you saw rocks and thatch everywhere, but hardly any tea bushes.

The training included theory, group discussions, and practical operations. It was scheduled between the solar terms of Qingming and Guyu (Grain Rain)—the time when new tea shoots turn green—specifically so we could get hands-on experience.

Guyu is the season for picking the first crop of new tea, known as "Guyu Tea." This is the highest quality tea of the year, perfect for making top-grade green tea. Picking tea is delicate work requiring nimble hands and patience, so it was mostly done by women. The best time to pick is early morning before the sun rises, while the dew is still on the tender tips. The pickers would pluck the dewy, tender "Maojian" tips and gently place them into baskets on their backs. You can't press the leaves down, so a full basket only held about ten catties (5kg) of fresh leaves. It took seven or eight catties of fresh leaves to make just one catty of dry tea.

Learning the Craft

After picking, the next step is processing. We learned to make both black and green tea.

Green tea (also called Qingcha) relies on "pan-frying" or "killing the green" (Shaqing). This involves using high heat to rapidly remove moisture, preventing fermentation and preserving the fresh aroma. There are machines for this, but they are expensive. Since most tea farms were new and small, none of us had them. We learned manual frying. The instructor told us that the very best tea is still fried by hand.

After frying comes rolling (Rou-cha). This twists the leaves into tight strips and squeezes out the juices. There are rolling machines for this, which aren't too expensive. The host farm had one: a metal barrel about two feet wide with a curved groove at the bottom and a rotating lid. You put the leaves in, cover it, and the machine spins and shakes until the leaves are stripped and juicy. The instructor demonstrated the machine but also taught us manual rolling. Again, he said the best tea is rolled by hand. The final step is drying. Green tea brews into a pale green color with a fresh, crisp taste—a favorite among Chinese people.

Black tea is fermented. Unlike green tea, which is fried to stop fermentation, black tea leaves are left at room temperature to wither and ferment slightly. Then they are rolled to bring out the juices, and finally left in a humid, ventilated place to ferment deeply until they turn dark red. The final step is baking or drying. Black tea brews into a dark, rich liquor. Chinese people didn't care for it much back then, but Europeans loved it, so it was mainly for export.

After processing, tea is graded. This requires years of experience. It involves smelling the aroma; looking at the shape and color of the dry leaves and how they float in water; and tasting the "mouthfeel." Much of it is indescribable and relies entirely on instinct. There are few top-tier tea tasters in the country, so we just listened to the teacher to get a general idea.

Hands-On tea making process

Then came the actual practice.

First, we learned frying—the key to green tea. Since we didn't have special machines, we used ordinary large cooking woks (1 to 1.5 meters in diameter). You heat the wok until it's red hot and smoking, then dump in a small basket of fresh leaves (7-10 catties). Immediately, you spread your palms, press the leaves against the bottom of the wok, and squeeze them toward the center. When the leaves form a ball about the size of a volleyball between your hands, you toss them upward. A cloud of white steam bursts out from between your hands as the leaves fly up and scatter back down.

You repeat this over and over. Slowly, the ball of tea in your hands shrinks as it loses water. The leaves turn soft. When you can squeeze them into a ball that slowly falls apart when released, and they feel sticky, you quickly scoop them out into a bamboo winnowing basket to cool. Once cooled to room temperature, you start rolling. You must roll in one direction only—always clockwise or always counter-clockwise—or the strips won't form. When the juice oozes out and coats the strips, making your hands sticky, they are ready for drying.

Drying was done on a bamboo frame about a meter high, covered with a damp white cloth. The rolled tea was spread 2-3 cm thick over charcoal fire. You had to flip it occasionally for 5-6 hours until dry.

Black tea skipped the frying step. Fresh leaves were spread on bamboo mats in the shade for 2-3 days until they lost their shine, turned dark, and smelled like apples. Then they were rolled (machines were better for this since you could do large batches) and fermented. Finally, they were dried.

Drying is tricky because tea absorbs odors easily. The charcoal must be smoke-free, or the tea will taste smoky. Low-grade tea could be sun-dried to save money on charcoal, but it would have a "sun taste" rather than the clean flavor of charcoal drying.

We studied with gusto for a week and received a "Tea Technician Certificate." We were still 108,000 miles from truly understanding tea, but we felt we had learned a lot.

Bringing the Knowledge Home

Back at the farm, I reported to the manager and we discussed how to make tea ourselves. He asked me to organize the group. I explained the theory and process to everyone. Even though our farm was far inferior to the one I visited, the prospect of making our own tea excited everyone.

The manager prepared the winnowing baskets and mats. A rolling machine was too expensive, so I took someone to a neighboring commune's tea farm to borrow one. I remember we stopped in Yanqiao town for lunch and ordered braised pork. Back then, going two weeks without meat was normal, so we ate a bit too much. Our stomachs, unused to grease, felt terrible afterward. When we arrived at the farm, the host brewed us some of their fresh "Maojian" tea. It felt like the most beautiful enjoyment in the world. Since then, whenever I eat a heavy meal, I love to brew a strong cup of green tea—it makes me feel light as air.

Since there was other farm work to do, the manager led a group to plant vegetables, weed, and chop wood, while I led a team to pick and process tea. I assigned the girls to picking, as our sparse bushes required patience. Processing was more technical, so I led that myself.

(Photo Caption: Group photo with Zhiqing friends in front of the Monument at Zhijiang Martyrs Park, approx. 1978. I am in the middle of the second row; Chen Xiaohong is second from the left in the back row.)

It was just after Guyu—the golden time for tea. The bushes had stored nutrients all winter and were sprouting tender green shoots. Although our bushes were ragged, the first crop was tender enough for green tea. The leaves were brought to the kitchen, where two large woks normally used for cooking rice and pig feed were now repurposed for frying tea. We worked after dinner into the night. One person tended the fire, one fried, and one helped. Others handled the rolling.

I demonstrated how to fry tea in a smoking hot wok. At first, everyone was scared to see me grabbing leaves with bare hands in the hot pan. I explained: "Spread your palm, press the leaves, and squeeze. The leaves lift off the bottom and end up in your hands. You're touching tea, not the hot metal. The inside of the tea ball is hot, but the outside isn't, and you toss it immediately, so you won't get burned." After I fried a few batches, others tried, and soon several people could do it.

"Primitive" Innovation

Drying was our biggest problem. We had no drying beds and no money to build them or buy charcoal. So we used "primitive methods": we stir-fried the tea in the wok until dry. Later, when making black tea, we mostly used the sun.

When the best leaves were gone, I switched to making black tea. It was easier. We spread the leaves on mats in the attic for a day or two, then rolled them. We put the rolled tea in wooden bathtubs, covered it with a wet cloth to ferment until it turned rust-red, and then dried it in the sun or wind. If it rained, we had to stir-fry it dry.

Life on the tea farm was harsh. With a monthly ration of one catty of meat and four ounces of oil, it wasn't enough for growing teenagers doing hard labor. The farm felt like an isolated island. Boredom was common. But making tea brought excitement. By day, everyone worked happily. By night, the kitchen was alive with the glow of the stove reflecting on young faces. We chatted and laughed while frying tea. In that relaxed atmosphere, jokes flew, and some people started calling each other "brother" and "sister." This alerted the team leader, who called parents and organized "political study" sessions to nip any potential "puppy love" in the bud—to guard against "bourgeois ideology." Whether it was actually romance, nobody knew. That was just the political climate of the time.

Unknowingly, two months passed. We produced three or four hundred catties of tea. It was mostly Grade 3 or 4, sold to the state for 70 or 80 cents a catty. We kept a few catties of the best "Maojian" for guests. Compared to other farms, we had the lowest yield and worst quality. But relying on our own hands and extremely primitive tools, in a place full of rocks and weeds, we managed to produce hundreds of catties of tea. That was a miracle in itself.

Years later, after graduating from university, I chatted with a young lecturer at Hunan Agricultural College who specialized in tea. He was surprised I knew so much about the process. I told him, "I only know the primitive method: frying in a big iron wok, fermenting in a bathtub, and drying in the sun. I’m sure that’s not in your textbooks."

My Peasant Brother, Wawa（娃娃）

The man I call "Wawa" is Tang Shunyìng（唐顺银）, a young farmer from the Qingshuichong Production Team. This was part of the Shidan Brigade in Shuikuan Commune, where I was sent to live and work in the countryside during the 1970s.

The Rugged Landscape of Qingshuichong (清水冲)

Qingshuichong was the first gateway into the mountains from the hilly plains of Shuikuan. As you followed the plain road toward Shidan, a massive mountain wall rose up to block the path at the Qingshuichong border. To enter Shidan, one had to climb a pass with a vertical height of about 80 meters and an average slope of 45 degrees. Even with "Z-shaped" switchbacks, the steepest sections exceeded 35 degrees. At the midpoint of the slope, there was a sharp 90-degree turn; every year or two, a car or tractor would lose control and plummet down the slope, resulting in destroyed vehicles and tragic casualties.

Once you crested the pass, you were in Qingshuichong territory. On one side of the road were quiet, shady trees; on the other, a steep precipice. After winding along the road for a kilometer, the path began to descend, and the slope leveled out. In a small valley, tiny terraced fields appeared—some no larger than three ping-pong tables, the largest barely half a volleyball court. Further down, the valley widened, and at the confluence of two valleys sat the production team headquarters: a two-story wooden building on the left.

Wawa’s house sat on a small hillside just a few dozens of meters from the headquarters. Other farmhouses were scattered sparsely across the surrounding slopes. Because the mountains were high and the water cold, Qingshuichong relied entirely on weather-dependent fields. A good harvest depended on favorable wind and rain; a drought meant a poor harvest or none at all. There were no local specialties; while there was timber, the slopes were too steep to easily transport logs to the road. Back then, it was an impoverished production team. However, the high mountains and dangerous waters made it an ideal site for a reservoir. Professionals had surveyed it long ago, identifying two hills near the headquarters that were less than a hundred meters apart—perfect for a dam that could benefit the entire region.

The Reservoir and the Attic

In the winter of 1975, the commune launched the Qingshuichong Reservoir project. The entire commune’s strength was mobilized, and we "sent-down youth" joined the construction. We stayed at the home of Mr. Tang, an accountant. The female youth squeezed into two rooms, while the males climbed a ladder to the attic to sleep on the floor. There were no walls up there—only the roof tiles above. The freezing wind blew through without obstruction, but thanks to our blankets and youthful energy, we stayed for two months without anyone falling ill.

Our main job was digging and carrying soil to the dam. A large scale was set up at the site, and a dedicated worker weighed the loads. Carrying 8,000 catties (approx. 4,000kg) of soil earned you 10 "work points." This quota was a massive challenge for us; by 6:00 PM every day, our bones felt like they were falling apart.

The "Thousand-Head Ranch" Fiasco

After the reservoir was finished, we returned to our respective tea and forest farms. But the following winter, the tea farm youth were ordered back to Qingshuichong to establish a "Commune Livestock Farm." This was a project born from the fevered brains of commune leaders, launched without scientific proof or research. It was dubbed the "Thousand-Head Ranch," intended to raise over a thousand pigs.

It was a "zero-investment" project with no budget. There were only twenty-four of us youth and our farm manager. We lived in an unfinished wooden house borrowed from a farmer. The walls were made of rough, unshaped planks with gaps a centimeter wide, letting the cold wind pour in from all sides. The ranch’s location hadn't even been decided, and there were no blueprints. The only thing the leaders knew was that it should be made of brick and wood, so our first step was to bake bricks.

None of us had ever baked a brick. A master was hired to guide us. We dug a kiln near the headquarters and set up a brick-making yard. Next, we dug a pit in a nearby field to mix the mud. Brick mud needs to be trampled by oxen until it is uniform, then cut into lumps, pressed into wooden molds, trimmed with wire, and dried.

We had no oxen. The leaders told us to use our feet. Despite the sight of oxen grazing nearby, we were a "pioneer" group using human labor to trample mud. An ox could finish a pit in four hours; we were so light that even after days of trampling, the mud wasn't as good as what an ox could produce.

Kindness from Wawa’s Family

Wawa’s house was only thirty meters from the kiln. His mother was about forty, tall, elegant, and virtuous. His father, in his late forties, was an honest carpenter. They were better off than most, owning two spacious tiled houses. Working so close to them, we saw them every day and soon became friends.

It was November. Though it didn't snow, the temperature was freezing. We spent hours barefoot in the mud pit, our noses running from the cold. Wawa’s mother watched us daily with great sympathy. She would have her husband invite us in for boiled water. Since I spent the longest time in the pit, she took a special interest in me. She often praised me for being hardworking and sensible, sighing about how difficult it was for such young people to leave their parents and do such grueling labor.

When they slaughtered a pig or a duck for the Mid-Autumn Festival, she would send Wawa to invite me to dinner. "Your parents aren't here," she’d say, "and you eat poorly. You need to nourish yourself." Sitting by their fire, chatting, I felt like part of the family. It was a stark contrast to my previous placement in Shuiniutian, where we were charged 80 cents a day for food—a massive sum back then—yet rarely saw a piece of meat. I was deeply grateful for the Wawa family's selfless care.

The 1977 College Entrance Exam

The "Thousand-Head Ranch" soon fizzled out—typical for that era of impulsive planning. We were disbanded after one kiln of bricks. I was sent to teach at the brigade primary school. Wawa was working in the agricultural science team, and we became teammates. We learned about hybrid rice—terms like "male sterility" and "self-pollination." After two years in the countryside, I finally looked like a local: thin, tanned, and comfortable with farm work.

In the autumn of 1977, it was announced that the National College Entrance Examination (Gaokao) would be reinstated. We studied by candlelight. One day, Wawa saw our scratch paper covered in "X, Y, and Z" and was amazed, thinking we knew foreign languages. We were just doing math.

I passed the exam and moved to Beijing for university in early 1978. In April, my mother wrote to me at Peking University. She said that Shuiniutian had sent word that I was owed 100 yuan and 300 catties of rice from the final distribution. I was thousands of miles away and didn't know how to collect it. I thought of Wawa. He agreed immediately. He took my power of attorney to the accountant, collected the money, turned the grain into rice, and personally delivered it to my family in the county seat—a 25-kilometer trip. He refused any payment for his time and effort.

The Reunions: 2014 and 2016

I didn't see Wawa again until decades later. In 2014, while visiting my ailing father in China, I drove back to Qingshuichong. I found Wawa’s house, where his wife welcomed me warmly. "Wawa talks about you all the time," she said.

Wawa’s mother was now 80. She was still elegant, with a straight back and clear speech. She was moved to tears: "What wind blew you here? To think you still remember us after 30 years." Wawa arrived shortly —no longer a youth, but a tanned middle-aged man. We sat in front of the house. From there, I could see everything: the dam, the old ranch, the headquarters, and the mud pit where I once stood. Before leaving, I gave them two $20 bills as souvenirs. We took a photo together with the dam in the background. As we posed, Wawa’s mother gripped my back tightly. I felt her love, her joy at seeing me, and the lingering sadness of an 80-year-old who knew this might be our last meeting.

In 2016, I returned again. This time, my former student, Zeng Xiangrong—who had risen to become a high-ranking official but remained humble—drove me. Wawa prepared a feast: a whole sheep, chicken, duck, and cured meat. It was a scene unimaginable in the 1970s.

His mother remarked again, "It’s been forty years, yet you still remember us. You treat Wawa like a brother; it is his blessing." I replied, "It was my blessing to know you. Thank you for treating me like family when I had no one."

After dinner, we walked onto the dam. Looking at the pine-covered mountains reflected in the still water, I felt a deep sense of nostalgia. But what I miss most isn't the scenery—it’s the people. Wawa, his mother, and my student Xiangrong. They gave this land meaning. No matter where I go, I will always remember that in this place, I received selfless love and found my truest kin.

Note：Wawa‘s Mom died in 2018 0r 2019, Wawa passed away in 2023 due to stomach cancer at age 65.