Streets of tea

In Zhāngzhōu, as in most Fujǐan cities, you are never far from a tea shop. Walk 100 meters down any residential or downtown street and you will pass one if not several shops selling a selection of teas and usually a range of beautiful tea wares and accessories.

Within a few months of arriving in Zhāngzhōu we found ourselves both fascinated and perplexed by the number and of tea shops. In discussing this with our Chinese friend Dr Tony, who is a mine of local information, a figure of more than 1000 tea shops within the city of Zhāngzhōu is revealed. This is a quite startling figure given that the city has only 600,000 residents. And, of course, large quantities of tea is also sold in supermarkets and small convenience stores.

Tea shops of Zhāngzhōu range from small, simple, owner-operated spaces to very large magnificently decorated shops staffed by teams of immaculately attired young women. As well as shelves and fridges stocked with teas and tea wares, all will have one or more table settings where tea can be prepared and customers can sit, sample and enjoy before they buy. Indeed, tasting is expected and invariably we receive enthusiastic invitations from staff to sit and try their teas. Larger elaborate shops will even have private tasting rooms for their well-to-do clients, but we prefer the open spaces where we can appreciate the full atmosphere and activity of the shop. Indeed we spent many enjoyable Sunday afternoons in this way.

We enjoyed frequenting tea shops and tasting endless ‘infusions’, however we rarely showed real solidarity with the local tea shopaholics – we didn’t need to. Numerous local friends gave us excellent quality local teas, not just once, but repeatedly. Soon, we had a cupboard full of tea and our inventory grew faster than we could drink it or give it away to friends and family back home in Australia.

Being Fujǐan the tea most commonly found in the shops and drunk by locals is tiěguānyīn (a variety of oolong tea). They almost always prepare this as gōngfu chá – ‘gōngfu’ means ‘to do things well’ (like the martial art kungfu from which it gets its name) and of course ‘chá’ is Chinese for tea. Preparing gōngfu chá involves using a number of implements: a pot or kettle for boiling the water; a small tea pot either from unglazed clay or a glazed handless, spoutless ‘pot’, a small jug, small tea cups (small so that the tea can be finished with a couple of sips), and a drip tray for spilled water, as boiling water is used in abundance to prepare gōngfu chá.












But given all these tea shops, what do the locals do with all this tea they must be buying? Well, gōngfu chá sets, with the characteristic drip tray and small pot and cups, can be seen everywhere. The locals drink tea at home, in the office, in shops and businesses, and in the parks and gardens. Often, when browsing in small shops, whether for computer accessories, garden items or some mysterious Chinese wares, we are invited to sit and enjoy gōngfu chá by the staff. In business, meetings were often conducted around a gōngfu chá sets on a low table rather than around a more formal meeting table. Just as big business is done on the golf course in some western countries, in Fujǐan it is done at the tea table.

A popular local pastime, especially on warmer evenings, is to sit and enjoy gōngfu chá with friends in one of the local open-air tea houses. Quickly, our favourite tea drinking venue became one under graceful old trees that fringed a small circular ‘fishing pond’ in a peaceful and historic part of town. We spent many a pleasant evening weekend afternoon there watching a few locals sitting and fishing, but rarely catching. Of course, it was not just about drinking tea – it was a very social place and often we would meet friends there, sometimes to imbibe on beverages somewhat more intoxicating than oolong tea. On a particularly memorable evening the gōngfu chá was just an aperitif – a friend turned up wielding a ‘Jeroboam’ sized bottle of fine red wine (4.5 litre). To compliment the drinking of tea, or other beverages, snacks were readily available and delivered kerbside. At regular intervals a variety of vendors would pedal slowly past on tricycles bearing an inviting range of packaged and fresh snacks. Or, later in the evening, we could stroll over to a BBQ stand with a range of skewed grilled ‘dead things’. Also proffered at the table-side were a range of services such shoe shine, fishing rod rental and more.

But even despite all these opportunities to drink tea, after more than 2 years living in Zhāngzhōu we were still perplexed at how the 1000 or so tea shops can all make enough money to stay in business. So I recently put this question to another of my Chinese friends, Hesheng, who seems to be particularly fond of tea and knowledgeable about all things Fujǐanese – with a smile he replied “Ah, I think there is very good profit in tea …”

Roger Arnold

Mountains of tea

It is truly remarkable that Marco Polo wrote of travels through Fujǐan, but never mentioned tea in any form. Tea is a prominent feature of the life and landscapes in Fujǐan Province and has long been so with a local history of over 1,600 years. Indeed, in the 18th and 19th centuries, Fujǐan and particularly its port of Xiàmén (known then as Amoy) was one of China’s leading tea exporters; in the mid-1880’s the Province was exporting over 50,000 tonnes of tea annually (mostly to the UK and Australia). Nowadays, any traveller sauntering through Fujǐan would actually have to try very hard to avoid being struck by the prominence of tea in everyday life; the Province is both one of leading producers and consumers of tea in China. In villages, towns and cities Fujǐanese love drinking tea, and its production, trade and consumption figures highly in their economy, culture and daily life. Fujǐan is home of the finest oolong teas in mainland China and the leading variety of this is known as Tiěguānyīn. Other Fujǐan specialities include Lapsang Souchong tea (though we’ve had incredible trouble tracking down local sources of this black tea) and white tea. These and other premium teas are increasingly revered in both Fujǐan and elsewhere in China. Rapid growth in the country’s economy and personal prosperity has driven rapid increases in demand and hence rising prices for such premium quality teas.

Just a few hours drive from downtown Zhāngzhōu is mountainous Ānxī County – widely acknowledged as the leading region, or area with the best ‘terrior’, for production of high quality Tiěguānyīn. We have been fortunate to travel regularly through this beautiful County – both with colleagues for field work as part of my job and on occasional weekends to enjoy the UNESCO World Heritage listed Tǔlóu (Hakka Roundhouses or Earth Buildings) located in Ānxī. With each visit, I am repeatedly amazed at the visible impact of the surging ‘tea prosperity’ – prosperity which is shared widely in the rural community thanks to the ‘small producer’ nature of Fujǐan’s tea industry. Whilst black tea production in countries such as Sri Lanka and India is generally undertaken in large industrial scale, corporate ‘tea factories’ that produce several hundred or even thousands of tonnes per year, oolong tea production in Ānxī is overwhelmingly dominated by small growers and small processors. The average Ānxī ‘tea factory’ would fit in a standard Australian suburban garage, typically including just three small machines – a roller or tumbler; withering and fermenting racks and a drying oven.

Over the past 10 years Ānxī has seen steadily increasing prices for the best fresh and processed tea leaves, improving the incomes of both growers and the small processors. Of course, many new tea fields have also been developed, with most rice fields in Ānxī having given way to tea – farmers there are now able to make far more profit from tea production than rice cultivation. Consequently, production has increased in recent years, but not enough to stem the steady increase in prices. Interestingly, it is widely rumoured that there is far more Ānxī Tiěguānyīn in the market than could possibly be produced in the County; the price premium creates a marked incentive for dilution, substitutions and even deliberate mislabelling.

Throughout Ānxī County signs of newly found ‘tea prosperity’ are manyfold; roads have been upgraded, almost every third house seems to be either new or undergoing significant extension, new motorbikes are parked at most houses, new shops are springing up in villages and small towns and most of the local shops are brimming with new stock and many with ‘luxuries’ such as big TVs, upmarket mobile phones and brand name clothes. In the local markets the prosperity is also obvious – there are fantastic ranges of so much more than just the basic necessities, including fancy liquors, packaged snack foods, imported rice and fruits from distant lands. But perhaps one of the most significant markers of prosperity is that many local Ānxī tea growers no longer work their own fields. Nowadays, they often pay ‘outsiders’ to work their tea fields and pick the leaves. These ‘outsiders’ are typical migrant workers who come from faraway provinces, where employment opportunities are limited, to take advantage of the high demand and relatively good pay for unskilled or semi-skilled labour in Fujǐan.

Fortunately, increasing prosperity has not detracted from the friendliness and hospitality of the local people. Often when walking along paths to access field sites high in the mountains of Ānxī we find ourselves invited into farmers homes to share their local tea and sometimes even a meal – an experience we always cherish dearly.

Roger Arnold

Letter from Hóng Kēng Village, Fujǐan Province

On returning to China after Christmas in Australia, we set off travelling with my brother and Roger’s sister’s family of five. It’ll be an interesting trip as this number of lǎowài are bound to cause a few locals to stare, but the red and blond hair of Roger’s family, and the presence of an 11 year old nephew, guarantee we’ll catch peoples’ attention.

We spend a few days introducing our home, Zhāngzhōu, to everyone and then squeeze into a mini bus (our luggage takes three seats) and head inland to show our family the impressive earth buildings. We pass the outskirts of town with its ramshackle markets and road-side restaurants. We pass workers on bicycles, scooters and motorbikes. We pass farmland and banana plantations, and the fertile land that is being bulldozed for factories and massive new roads. As we climb higher into the mountains, we see pomelo plantations, now out of season, orange trees thick with fruit, tea terraces and vegetable plots, and a cement plant so critical for China’s construction boom

We pull into a dusty car park, part complete, and see the beginnings of sophisticated and extensive tourism infrastructure with; new roads, visitors’ centres, tickets with barcodes and electronic turnstiles, plus numerous ticket collectors, accredited tour guides and ‘shopping opportunities’ at every stop. When we first visited the tǔlóu 18 months ago, it was a relatively simple affair; a man at the door with a cap and a book of tickets, and the odd resident selling tea or touting to act as a guide.













Lunch at the tǔlóu cluster in Snail Valley is prepared to order. A yellow skinned chicken is yanked from its pen to be killed, plucked and cooked in soup just for us. With it is served dishes of fresh bamboo and bracken shoots, plus snow peas we had seen growing in the surrounding fields. The television, as usual, plays in the background.







We move on to Tǎxià village with buildings packed densely beside a river. Up on a hill, just behind the thin strip of houses is an ancestral hall with a half circle pond and 22 tall stone posts marking the significant achievements of members of the community. Some posts are decorated with spiralling dragons, some plain, and together they make a powerful landmark indicating the strength of the community. Yet now these villages are largely inhabited by the old and the young, as many of those of working age have moved to urban areas to make money in factories.






We clamber back into the mini bus, wedging ourselves in around the bags, and head to Hóng Kēng village. We wind our way up past round and square tǔlóu strung out along a small river and are met by a young man. He leads us down a rough stone-paved footpath, a stone and earth wall on one side and a three metre drop to the river on the other. We pass through a gateway and the thick earth external walls, the timber internal structure, blackened with age, and the grey curved tiles of Fúyù Lóu our guesthouse, greet us. One family has been living in the ‘5 Phoenix’ style tǔlóu for many generations, and our guide is the current owner’s son. He, with high school English that has been supplemented with his own study, warmly welcomes us to his home and thrusts photo albums into our hands to confirm the delightfulness of the guesthouse and the local environment.

Later, walking along the river looking at the ancient buildings and being charmed by a man taking his ducks for a swim, we’re stopped dead by the sight of a small film crew, all dressed in black, shooting a fight scene between a ‘villain’ and Mickey Mouse. Returning to the guesthouse we check our email on the internet wired into each bedroom. Rugged up against the cold, and ‘test driving’ our new thermal underwear, we eat dinner, cooked by ‘Mum’, in the open courtyard. As we go to bed we find small red buckets in the external corridors to our rooms. These are our chamber pots for the night as the toilets are several flights of stairs down and outside the building.

Our trip highlights the speed of China’s development but also its unevenness, leading to some of the incongruities we have seen. While aging farmers work the land much as they have for centuries, they have cars and motorbikes, mobile phones and the internet, and commercial fertiliser and pesticides to assist them. As the commercialisation of China brings money to rural communities through tourism and factory worker salaries, it makes their homes ghost towns and museums. Is this part of the price of the current leap forward?

The drinking water saga

The frustrations of living in another culture are frequently caused by the barriers of a different language and customs. Even the simplest tasks can become a battle, and my attempts to ensure a regular supply of water is one such campaign. After being in China for a year and a half, I still don’t have a 100% reliable system to ensure a steady supply of drinkable water so fundamental in the sweat inducing heat of the sub-tropics.

Tap water in China, as I’m sure you know, is not considered safe to drink. Even after washing-up, with copious amounts of dishwashing liquid under running cold water as I am yet to see a kitchen with plumbed in hot water, our Chinese friends fastidiously sterilise all eating implements. This is usually done in stand-alone units, however it took me a while to realise that what I thought were under-bench ovens in display kitchens were state-of-the-art, dishwasher-like, sterilisers.

Boiling water is an option, but not in the quantities we need, so bottled water is the answer. Our apartment came with a water cooler, which heats water too, and an empty water bottle. The key is to ring the company listed on the bottle and get them to deliver a new one to replace the empty one. Difficult! My Chinese is just not up to it.

I enlisted the help of a young Chinese women, who worked with me, to ring and arrange a delivery time. The problem was my instructions seemed to get confused by the two layers of communication. Often the delivery just never happened, or occurred after the time agreed. On one occasion, after the third attempt to get water delivered and finally having to leave the flat, I received a phone call. I dutifully explained, in Chinese, that I did not speak Chinese. I received a second call; again I explained, in Chinese, I only spoke English. A little while later there was another call from a young man speaking accented English asking if I wanted to buy something. No, I don’t want to buy anything over the phone!! He persisted until I finally realised he was asking did I want to buy water, and was trying to communicate that the delivery person was at our apartment and I should let him in. It was 4 hours after the delivery time and I was on the other side of town! I found myself resorting, again, to lugging home a couple of days’ supply of 3 or 4 1.5 litre bottles, at ¥3 each.

While I was impressed with the tenacity of the caller and the fact the water supplier had bothered to find an English speaker confident enough to use the phone, the fact remained; we rarely received water when we needed it. After much discussion with other foreigners a theory emerged; the failure of this arrangement had to do with a lack of a relationship with the water supplier. I have a relationship with my work colleague so she’s happy to help me, but she doesn’t have a relationship with the water people, and they certainly don’t have one with me so they have no incentive to deliver on time the first time.

(Click for a larger image)

With this theory in mind I decide to take another approach; find a new supplier locally and build a relationship with them face-to-face. I walk the streets around the vegetable market in our emerging neighbourhood. Many of the new shops are vacant, but I find a place with both gas and water bottles piled up, a motor bike and very little else. I pull out pre-prepared notes of what I might have to say, or be asked, laboriously written in characters as well as pinyin. The lithe women looks at me blankly when I ask for water, her plumper husband looks at me blankly. I pull out my written notes and the man walks away. Maybe they only understand Mǐnnánhuà, the local dialect, maybe they can’t read? I feel utterly defeated, but I can’t give up and am about to start an elaborate charade when the man returns with the young women from the tea shop next door - she can speak workable English. It looks like we will have water after all. I buy 2 new bottles of water; ¥30 for each bottle, refundable on return, and ¥8 for 18.9 litres of water. The wiry woman follows me to the apartment on the motor bike and carries both bottles up 4 flights of stairs. I can barely lift one on to the cooler.

As we got used to each other I find we can communicate through my poor Chinese. I have to remember that in this part of China there are still people who have never met a foreigner let alone spoken to one. The people I meet here maybe as nervous as I am and could hear my fragmented and accented Chinese as some weird foreign language they can’t possibly understand. Indeed I’m sometimes approached by locals and find, with a shock, the reason I can’t understand them is that while I’m trying to interpret Chinese they are actually speaking English.

We still have some delivery problems but at least now I can deal with it directly and they do look a little abashed if they have forgotten and immediately race round with new bottles. So, despite obstacles of language, culture and expectations, we now have a reasonably reliable water supply.

Mid Autumn Festival

There’s extra anticipation as we approach Mid Autumn Festival for this is the first time that it’s marked with a public holiday. Our friends tell us it is a day to spend with family, to give and eat moon cakes (a solid paste, of varying flavours, covered with moulded pastry), often with pomelos (a large citrus fruit), and to view the full moon. Of course on this side of the hemisphere, where the seasons are back-to-front and the moon is upside-down, we have the woman-in-the-moon and a rabbit too. I’ll be looking out for them both!

Moon cakes, often in elaborate packaging, have been on sale for several weeks and the commercial opportunities have not gone unexploited. Wal-Mart’s marketing material is full of promotions and their front entrance clogged with displays, complete with spruikers. The bakeries and chain tea shops are producing some very modern and upmarket versions, and there are stalls set up in the streets selling boxes and loose cakes too.

My limited Chinese reading skills diminishes my enjoyment of moon cakes; I can end up eating savoury seaweed ones, or stick sweet fruit ones or ones with egg yoke without any idea of what I’ll get. But I will be eating moon cakes, lots of them, as we’ve been given quite a number by colleagues and friends, and I also acquired a big box at the street party organised by our apartment complex.

The party, one of two we went to on the Friday of the long weekend, was a large affair. The apartment complex managers cordoned of one of the internal streets, set up a stage, and organised stalls and games on the side. Earlier in the day I had seen about 10 security guards lining up blue plastic stools and another 20 or so practicing a marching routine. The performance involved celebrity presenters, singing and dancing, included traditional forms and the very popular contemporary break dancing, and games and giveaways. As the only foreigners at the event I was soon invited to play and, to my embarrassment, singled out by the hosts and asked a lot of questions, in Chinese! Even more embarrassingly I then won, but was later told that, as I was a guest, many of the audience were hoping I would win the expensive wine and moon cakes.

The other party, an invitation-only event for government officials and potential investors, was at the partially finished apartment complex next to ours. It was a glamorous occasion with an imposing main stage for speeches and a band lip-syncing jazz favourites. Other groups of classical and traditional musicians were scattered through the planting and water features with dry ice adding to the atmosphere. Huge platers of fruit and sweets were offered as well as traditionally made green tea, but most importantly there were opportunities to win prizes. Finally, just when we thought it was all over, an impressive firework display was launched.

Both these parties had games based on the local tradition of moon cake gambling. This involves a bowl and six dice; the aim is to get lots of 4’s and prizes are given through the game on different winning combination. At the end the person who has thrown the highest combination wins. Prizes range in value and might be sweets and different sized moon cakes or household goods such as small packs of tissues (vital in an environment where toilet paper is frequently not provided), shampoo, cooking oil (expensive and often used as an offering to the gods), and bed linen or even much valued electrical appliances. Gambling events may be organised by family groups, or companies, and of course the marketing potential is exploited with shops developing versions you can participate in, if you spend enough money!

We are, of course, keen to see the moon on Mid Autumn Festival so head for the river. Along the bank, just for summer, are a string of open-air restaurants that are packed with festive groups of families and friends of all generations. We congregate at one of the many round tables, protected by a thin red plastic ‘table cloth’, and pop open the plastic wrapper on our vacuum packed tableware. Cold beer is organised, with a little difficulty, and a seafood meal is ordered and fished live from the tanks lining the cooking area. There is little breeze to mitigate the sticky weather, or ripple the river allowing it to reflect the gaudy building lights and the occasional bursts of fireworks. Heavy clouds blank out the sky and it looks like we will be disappointed, but they part, intermittently and momentarily, to reveal the full moon. Small orange lights drift through the heavens and after some debate we identify them as hot air balloons. Silently the sky fills with the paper constructions fuelled by small flames, and we notice several being launched behind us. Our local friends say this is a new trend and we, with them, are soon excitedly purchasing and launching our own balloon. As we watch it fill with hot air and float up to the higher cross currents I reflect that, however enjoyable they were, the elaborate parties are eclipsed in by this simple activity undertaken with friends.

A Chinese road trip

For a foreigner with little Chinese, the restrictions to life in a Chinese provincial town are very real. Zhāngzhōu, Fújiàn Province, has been our home for the last two years and, with a lǎowài population of less than 15, contact with native English speakers is limited. Yet through this limitation emerges one of the joys of our situation; close interaction with locals who are often keen to exercise their English language skill and offer assistance, friendship and insight.

Our friend Tony is typical. He has helped me register with the police, invites us for home cooked meals, and even acts as a tour guide. During a recent phone conversation, hindered by communicating across language and cultural differences, we gather we’re invited on a road trip. The destination is unknown and the means of transport uncertain; though Tony is a proud owner of a scooter he doesn’t have a car and is reliant on borrowing one from family or friends.

On the designated day Tony turns up at our apartment in his sister’s car with another friend, Lynda. We will head inland to Nánjìng to see the tǔlóu that litter the valleys a couple of hours from home.

Lynda and Tony’s English skills are well above usual levels, improved largely through their own private study that shames my undisciplined attempts to learn Chinese. We joke in English, make Chinese/English puns and often share catchy proverbs. As we drive we swap ‘reinventing the wheel’ for ‘huì shé tiān zú’ or ‘adding feet to a painted snake’. I reflect my Chinese might not be improving very fast but my English gets stretched as I have to ensure my meaning is clear, find alternative words or provide definitions to assist a Chinese audience.

I also contemplate our different cultural prejudices. As we drive I see a long row of large green-glazed terracotta pots and exclaim with pleasure, but note Lynda’s somewhat puzzled look. I see artefacts of a craft culture producing attractive and useful products. Lynda sees heavy rough pots worn and dirty with age. Laughing she reminds me of the colourful metal thermoses, reminiscent of a passing era, which we hunt down and display at home. She and her friends have discarded their old fashioned metal thermoses for nice new hygienic plastic ones.

Arriving at the ticket booth above ‘Snail Pit’ village (Tiánluókēng) we stop to view the four circular tǔlóu surrounding a square one, referred to as ‘four dishes and one soup’. On a previous trip this classic view was obscured by low freezing clouds, so we are pleased to return and are keen to see the buildings up close again. Tony has other ideas. No amount of suggestion can shift him and he determinedly drives on. I am certain he has not understood us and this is another example of miscommunication. However Tony’s dogged resolve had just cause. We pull up beside a single round tǔlóu, not as pristine as ‘Snail Pit’ village but just as, if not more, interesting. Yùchānglóu, said to be around 700 years old, has an interior crooked with age and its inhabitants, still resident, are serviced by a central temple and individual wells in each kitchen. A small river runs beside it reflecting its muted colours generated from the local soil, stone and timber. Now I see Tony’s silence stemming not from misunderstanding but from his intent to surprise, and I am surprised as again I am overwhelmed by the practical majesty of these buildings.

Our last stop is a stunning waterfall, even more dramatic in un-seasonal and monsoonal-like rain that drenches us in moments. Back at the associated tourist facilities we drink the local oolong tea, tiěguānyīn, from traditional tiny cups, to warm up, and try to dry off. Tony takes the opportunity to smoke and muse about building a villa in the forest, a sentiment I can share, while Lynda engages with the staff and is soon wearing borrowed clothes allowing her to dry her dress with the manager’s hairdryer.

At times I might yean for the art galleries, ‘real’ bread, and other sophistications of a large city like Běijīng or our neighbouring Xiàmén, but I fully appreciate how lucky I am to live in Zhāngzhōu where I too can engage closely with locals and gain much more than the loan of a dry set of clothes and a hairdryer.

Written for 'Beijing Review'.