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."
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