This year, besides our usual business stops, we decided to explore more of Bulang Mountain. Originally, the plan was simple: visit one or two villages, find a good tea farmer or producer for a long-term partnership. But, as often happens, things took a bit of a detour. After a couple of hours zigzagging up the mountain roads, we arrived at a village called

Mang Ban Zhai and took a break at a local temple. The resident monk welcomed us with some sheng puerh he had just made a few days earlier. Our friend’s immediate reaction was : “We simply have to try this Shao Lin Gong Fu-made puerh!”

I can’t say I was exactly blown away by the tea, but the murals in the background definitely caught my attention more. I’d seen those exact paintings before in the temple at Mang Xin Long village—they’re pretty standard fare in Bulang temples. The story behind them? Well, “I’ll leave that to your imagination,” but I’m sure you can piece it together… or at least come up with a wild and entertaining version!

After the “Shao Lin” tea, we had lunch and then headed to another nearby village. There, we visited a local farmer and sampled their 2023 sheng. True to the article’s title, it was properly bitter—but in a good way: clean, punchy astringency without the harsh dry sensation we’d encountered with lower-altitude harvests and Tai Di Cha. The girls quickly refused a second cup, but I, ever the dedicated scholar, sacrificed myself and kept drinking along with my buddy for “educational purposes.”
We switched from Ku Cha (bitter tea) to Tian Cha (sweet tea), which, of course, is still bitter—just with a faint sweet note lingering at the back of the tongue. It made for a great digestive after the hefty farmer’s lunch, though honestly, this kind of tea is a tough sell for our Western customers. It’s just too bitter. The only sensible investment would be in aging it, but we’re not totally convinced the asking price matches the value it’ll gain after a few years in our Kunming storage. More on that later in this article.

Pa Dian Zhai, basically a “drive-through” village where tea shops line the roadside. Not exactly the most relaxing spot to sip and savor tea, especially when the occasional heavy truck barrels past .

I’m always fascinated by those long tea tables carved from a single tree trunk—massive and impressively wide, which makes serving a cup a serious workout in leaning and balancing. This one wasn’t even the biggest we’ve seen, so there’s still room for more arm gymnastics in the future. The tea? Well, it tasted quite… peculiar, and I immediately suspected the water. My suspicions were confirmed later at home when I brewed samples from this farmer’s leaves.
This, of course, is a classic downside of exploring new tea places: farmers mostly use local water, which might not be ideal for tea—and in the worst cases, not even clean. You’d think mountain water would be pristine, right? But nope. Nearby construction sites or small manufacturers can easily contaminate the soil and water. The tea had this bizarre soapy, plastic, and metallic tang—as if the tap water had been brewed with a plastic bag tossed in for flavor. Despite that, the tea was bitter and astringent as expected, and the samples brewed at home showed the same weird aftertaste.

Checking out a nearby tea garden, I couldn’t help but wonder if we actually had tea from the same trees. My skepticism came from the fact that this year has been unusually dry, and most villages hadn’t even started their Gushu harvest yet—at least not when we visited Menghai.

The soil is bone dry, and the trees are almost completely bare of new tips. The overall situation in Yunnan this year looks pretty dire, which only fuels more of those creative—let’s call them “false”—claims. Some farmers are offering what they call Gushu, but from taste alone, it’s clear the trees are painfully young. It seems the dividing line between Gushu and Xiao Shu has sneakily slipped down a couple of notches. 😉
Despite the farmers’ (and even some tea vendors’) claims that although there’s less tea this year, the quality is supposedly better, we remained unconvinced to take any bold investment risks. Just like at the last spot, here they also have both Ku Cha and Tian Cha on offer.

Apparently, the tea on the left is Ku Cha (bitter)—a bright, vibrant green—while the one on the right is Tian Cha (sweet tea), a much darker green. Whether these labels are true or not, we can’t say for sure since we haven’t had the chance to participate in processing this kind of tea yet, but it’s definitely on my to-do list.
From this village, we’re moving up a level in our journey—more educational than sourcing, thanks to the eye-watering price range. Since we’re already skeptical about price equaling value in the villages we’ve visited, the upcoming places are definitely way beyond what we’re willing to consider.

Lao Man E – It’s a densely packed village, with houses squeezed tightly side by side. Just as you’d expect from a place hyped up as a money-making hotspot, there are no traditional wooden cottages in sight—only sleek glass-and-concrete structures, complete with luxury cars parked right out front. Because nothing says “authentic village” like a shiny SUV gleaming under the mountain sun.

We visited our friend’s tea farmer and sampled their Tian brewed with Ku Cha, which made me wonder what exactly justifies paying a price ten times higher than teas from nearby villages. A local LME farmer confirmed my suspicions, saying, “The trees are the same, the processing is the same, everything is the same—only the name is different.” Although he was specifically comparing their village to Laobanzhang, his point was clear.
When tasting teas from Pa Sha or Mang Ban Zhai, I could detect subtle floral notes lingering softly at the back of my nose. But with LME, all I experienced was a bitter, empty taste. We even brought some samples home to steep again with our own water to be sure.

Orthodox, self-proclaimed experienced Pu’er drinkers will probably flood me with negative comments—and that’s fair enough. I did have a 2014 LME Sheng that was truly amazing. Yet, what stops me from believing that tea from another, much cheaper village couldn’t turn out just as well? No one at the table could answer my question; the farmer simply smiled and said, “You have to buy it and see in a few years.” 😉

And like any savvy tea farmers, they’re definitely not slacking when it comes to marketing with the latest tech. These days, if you’re not flying a drone over your tea garden, are you even trying to promote it? 😉

Lao Ban Zhang—mention that you’re not a fan of Laobanzhang tea in front of some self-proclaimed Pu’er masters, you’re guaranteed one of the classic four reactions. Or hey, maybe all of them :
• “You don’t understand Pu’er—beginner!”
• “You’ve never had real Laobanzhang—pity you!”
• “You don’t have enough money to buy real Laobanzhang—loser!”

So here we are, off to the One and Only, the undisputed king of Pu’er tea. The moment we arrive at the entrance gate, local security stops us to make sure we’re not sneaking in any unauthorized tea. I step out, turn my pockets inside out to prove I’m completely clean. The young security guys are cracking up, but his supervisor is not amused. He just shoots me the ultimate eyebrow raise of doom.

There’s just a few more minutes’ drive to the village’s main gate. The road isn’t a muddy path but a clean, well-maintained route, lined with meticulously cared-for small tea trees and a beautifully tended environment all around.

At the main village entrance, the real fun begins. Luxury cars are parked everywhere, creating a little traffic jam inside the village—because, of course, nothing says “authentic tea experience” like a gridlock. A fully geared security squad stops every single visitor, demanding invitation confirmation. Yes, you heard that right: no one gets in without a personal invitation from a local tea farmer, verified by a simple WeChat video call. That applies to time of the harvest season, other times is no problem.
Once you finally pass through the gate and snap some obligatory “look at us, we’re in Laobanzhang” show-off photos, you’re thrown right into the village’s own version of rush-hour chaos as you try to reach your tea farmer host. It’s much like LME, only dialed up by a couple more notches.
Later, the farmer lets us in on the real competitive spirit behind it all: if one farmer drops 10 million RMB rebuilding his house, the neighbor cranks up the ante and pours in 20 million—to prove who’s got the bigger mian zi (“face,” for those not fluent in the fine art of Chinese cultural flexing).

Stepping into the ground floor processing area of the tea farmer’s house—a modest little place worth about 18 million CNY—we luck out and find the owner’s mother just finishing up a batch. Naturally, I jump at the chance to give it a try and help her “kill green.” Of course, this immediately turns into a full-blown filming session from every possible angle, which somehow makes me even sweatier on an already scorching day.
Then the old lady pipes up, shouting, “If you burn it, you buy it!” No pressure, right? When I nervously ask, “How much?” I start sweating even more… and not just from the heat.

After wrestling with the hot tea leaves, we finally sit down at the tea table for the grand tasting session. We kick things off with the 2023 spring Gu Shu. The first three infusions are surprisingly pleasant—far less bitter than I’d expect from a tea reputed to own bitterness. By the fourth infusion, the leaves start to flex their potential, bringing out that trademark bitterness, astringency, and some vaguely mineral vibes.
I’m brewing the tea and serving it to my wife, friends, and the farmer sitting right beside me. Everyone takes a careful sip, flashes their “I know tea” look, and dishes out a chorus of highbrow praise. Meanwhile, I sit there feeling like a complete idiot. Are we drinking the same tea? I ask myself, staring suspiciously into my cup.
No matter how hard I slurp, sniff, and scrutinize—nose breathing included—I just can’t figure out what all the fuss is about. Isn’t this basically the same thing we’ve had in all the other villages? Sure, I admit LBZ’s processing is way more precise than others, but when it comes to taste, where’s the world-shattering difference they’re raving about?

At that moment, I can’t help but ask myself, “Who exactly is the customer for this tea?” Everyone at the table is busy discussing sheng jing, hui gan, ti gan, and all those fancy terms. Sure, some of those notes are there—if you squint hard enough—but is it really worth 16,000 CNY per kilogram?

In my opinion, what we tasted was just a Xiao Shu, not the Gushu the farmer claimed it to be. That heavy bitterness probably doesn’t appeal to most people anyway. Bitter flavors tend to suit Yunnan locals—and their love for green tea—but the real buyers with deep pockets, like Cantonese or Shanghainese, usually prefer something sweeter. They’re more likely to go for Bing Dao, Jing Mai, or Yiwu.
As we’re debating this, a visitor across the road is loading his SUV with four 15kg boxes he just bought from a nearby farmer. We can’t help but laugh—he’s basically cramming the price of a new car into the trunk.

Next up was the 2022 autumn harvest—milder and more drinkable than 2023, with some promising transformation already, likely thanks to the village’s hot, humid storage conditions. But the real highlight? A 200g cake from spring 2019. That’s when things clicked. The aging was deeper than what you’d get in Kunming, and camphor notes (not smoky, very important!) balanced nicely against a bitter background. Suddenly, it made more sense. Yet, the same lingering question remained—was it truly worth the staggering price?

The truth is, the last time I really noticed such clean camphor notes was in a 2006 Da Xue Shan Mengku Rongshi cake—right there at their factory in Mengku. Those notes start to shift into something a bit different after a few years in Kunming, so, in my opinion, they only really thrive in a certain level of humidity.
Despite the farmer’s insistence that this 2019 cake is also Gushu, I couldn’t shake the dry, slightly off-putting sensation imprinted in my mouth—something that reminded me more of small trees or even Tai Di Cha. My friends and the farmer tried to convince me that this “astringency” is part of what gives LBZ its value. That just made me think about how unfair it is to all the other locations, where this kind of disturbance is a major downside and usually dismissed by vendors as Xiao Shu—“I don’t drink that!” 😉
But with Laobanzhang? Oh no, that same disturbance isn’t just forgiven, it’s glorified as the “Power of the Tea!”

I get it—demand creates hype, and when supply falls short, prices skyrocket. But honestly, no tea should ever cost that much money, and it will always feel like hype to me. If I were rich and clueless about what to do with my cash, I’d rather put it to better use—like donating to a Yunnan orphanage or supporting homeless people. That way, you help others and give your ego a nice little boost at the same time.
I understand why farmers sell at those prices, but what baffles me is why anyone actually buys it.
After the tasting session, we went to check out the tea garden in the village. The one just across the road from the “Ancient Tea Garden” — the main tourist hotspot — was being harvested by a few old local grannies, surrounded by tourists live-streaming them despite a ban on filming. Yep, not only LBZ but other villages are also fed up with tea tourism that doesn’t bring in the money they expected.
In LBZ, we were told streaming is banned, and in other villages, farmers have stopped cooperating with TikTok vendors altogether—because after all that hassle of sending samples, decent orders rarely came through. The tourist tea tree walks are definitely a refreshing break on a hot day and somewhat educational, but the whole situation is a classic case of enthusiasm outpacing actual benefit.

The first image shows the Cha Wang tree, from which this year’s harvest is being offered starting at a staggering 350,000 CNY. The second image is an older Cha Wang tree, now dying, whose peak harvest reportedly sold for an eye-watering 500,000 CNY per harvest. Keep in mind, buyers pay these amounts upfront—often without any guarantee of a specific quantity of tea. As mentioned earlier, this year has been exceptionally dry, so the harvest yield will be very limited.

After this bitter roller coaster, I started to understand just how easy it is to fake or falsely claim tea as coming from LBZ or LME. In reality, the taste is quite similar to tea from surrounding villages, and unless you have years of extensive drinking experience—which usually means you’re rich and have guaranteed access to the authentic source—you’re unlikely to spot the difference. Their tea trees aren’t fundamentally different from those nearby; it’s only a matter of time before other farmers refine their processing and maybe snag some of that hype for themselves.
Of course, the self-proclaimed Pu’er experts would eagerly bet with me that there is a difference—but I’m not interested in playing this ego game. I prefer to focus purely on the tea itself.

This long trip, which started early in the morning, ended with a visit to our friend’s tea factory not far from Menghai. They have produced around six tons of Mao Cha, mostly from small trees, but are struggling to find buyers. The market feels oversaturated—years of Covid and sluggish economic conditions have taken a heavy toll on many local tea businesses like this one.
Another issue, as we learned from several sources, is the growing influence of outsiders—usually Cantonese businesses—in the Menghai tea market. These outsiders strike contracts with local small-scale tea producers, farmers, or tea businesses on a drop-shipping basis. They then live stream on platforms like TikTok, offering supposedly high-quality, high-value teas (like LBZ) at unbelievably low prices. This practice constantly undermines honest competitors and creates false expectations that such tea can be sold at rock-bottom prices—something all too common in the Western Pu’er market.
And that’s not even mentioning the fact that these companies often promise monthly payments to suppliers but tend to vanish when it’s time to settle the bills. We heard a similar story in Mang Fei during our tea sourcing trip there.

Zhang Lang — just a short distance from Bulang Mountain—is our next stop in the Bada Mountain area. On the following day, we visited Zhang Lang village first. There, not far from the farmer’s shop-house, we found a very charming and well-preserved temple, adding a serene touch to the visit.

After enjoying a few cups of this year’s fresh brew, we followed the farmer into the forest to check out some tea trees. The path was narrow but surprisingly passable—even on my bike, which definitely isn’t built for off-roading. Honestly, I would have preferred to walk, but the farmer was feeling a bit lazy and insisted we hit the trail on wheels. Needless to say, it made the ride more entertaining (for me, at least).

Also visiting the local Cha Wang.

We only managed a small portion of the tea garden trip since we arrived late in the afternoon and hadn’t planned to stay overnight. This year, prices for arbor trees were noticeably higher due to limited availability, so it wasn’t surprising that many tea business folks we met on Bada were mostly interested in Xiao Shu (small trees). I also noticed quite a few farmers still holding onto Gushu from the past three years—boxes marked 2020, 2021, and 2022 Gushu—clearly signaling that their price expectations are out of sync with the current economic climate.
It’s also worth mentioning that, from our observations, there were more tourists than actual vendors (wholesale buyers) on the tea mountains this year. From my tea market contacts, I know many tea shop friends skipped sourcing trips altogether, as they hadn’t made enough money. Those who did go mostly didn’t buy anything due to the high asking prices. Some even believe the market is overheated and not the right time to invest in Pu’er.
Well, I guess I’ll leave that to the horse—after all, he’s got a bigger head.

Bao Tang Lao Zhai was our visit for the next day. Although the village isn’t situated on Bulang Mountain, the teas share some similarities in flavor—though less bitter and more astringent. In addition to sampling the traditional Sheng Pu’er, we also tried a few cups of black tea (Sha Hong) and white tea. The processing was clean, and the teas were decent, but at that moment, we didn’t find them particularly captivating.

Although the leaves were drying right next to the road, not a single car passed by during the entire hour we sat there enjoying tea. Of course, a little dust is to be expected in Mao Cha after all—it wouldn’t be authentic otherwise!

Hua Zhu Liang Zi was our final destination in the area, located on quite a steep incline. A few intersecting roads had us running in circles—yes, even with GPS—bringing us right back to where we started. From the first impression, this village is clearly tea tourism-friendly, with signs on shops, phone numbers displayed, branded products, and farmers dressed up perfectly for their streaming videos. One was even promoting tea that wasn’t from their area, cleverly bundling it with their own production. That’s how hard they’re trying to transition from tea farmers to tea vendors (a point I touched on in my article The Misconception of Pu’er Business).
We randomly stopped by a tea shop run by two young brothers and gave their tea a try.

After tasting their Xiao Shu and last year’s Gushu, it’s clear to me this tea is really meant for long-term storage. We actually have a 2017 small tree cake that’s been aging quite well in our Kunming storage. They then invited us to see their tea trees, suggesting we take motorbikes. Siran, wisely, decided to stay behind at the tea shop, while I mounted my trusty steed—a bulky 200kg beast—and followed the farmer on his tiny scooter up a steep hill with a narrow, muddy path. Instantly, I realized this was a terrible idea.
My massive bike was way too heavy and unwieldy for those tight, sharp turns, especially since it’s not even an adventure bike. About 50 meters from the actual tea garden, in one particularly awkward turn, I voluntarily put the bike down because I simply couldn’t manage turning and balancing at such a slow speed (low rev and no torque do not mix). And yes, let’s be honest—probably not enough skill on my part either!

I managed to lift the bike up and carefully rode the last few meters to our destination. Their tea garden sits on a slope and is shared by three different families. This year, like everyone else, they’re facing the same problem—no rain, no tea. Luckily, the tea trees aren’t directly exposed to the harsh sun, thanks to much larger surrounding trees that provide gentle, partial shade. The tranquil natural environment, filled with the songs of birds and the hum of insects, makes you want to buy tea from here—if only to capture a bit of that peaceful atmosphere.

On the way back, we ran into a few tea tourists, and as we passed through the village, I couldn’t help but notice just how many tea shops line the streets. Some were bustling with tourists, others were busy live streaming, and a few were just casually chilling, waiting for customers to wander in. So it’s no surprise that prices here are quite steep. Hua Zhu Liang Zi boasts the highest elevated tea garden in Yunnan, sitting at an impressive 2,429.5 meters. I’m not entirely sure if that was the garden we visited, but the climate difference compared to Menghai was definitely noticeable.

Ba Gong Li — literally meaning “8th kilometer”—was our stop on the way back to Menghai. It’s not really a village or town but rather a stretch of road located about 8 kilometers from Menghai. Near this main road to Jinghong, there’s a sort of tea market, but instead of browsing the shops, we decided to visit a local producer directly.

During our visit, we encountered a tea factory specializing primarily in Shu Pu’er. We engaged in an in-depth conversation with the owner, who, aside from managing large-scale multi-ton production, also conducts experimental small-batch fermentations. For instance, this bamboo basket contains approximately 100 kilograms of , apparently , Bing Dao small tree leaves.
When asked about the sensory and qualitative differences between these small-batch fermentations and the standard pile-fermentation process, he explained that there is no significant difference in flavor profile attributable to fermentation methodology alone. In fact, small batches present greater technical challenges in maintaining optimal temperature and humidity control due to their limited mass and thermal inertia compared to large piles. The primary source of variation in quality and taste arises from the raw material selection—small batches allow the use of superior or more costly leaf material, such as the highly regarded Bing Dao leaf, which ultimately influences the final product’s character more than the fermentation scale or technique.

We also shared the knowledge we gathered on this trip and received some insightful feedback from the owner. He pointed out that the recent boom in live streaming by farmers and producers is fundamentally undermining the traditional tea business model as we know it. Since these farmers are now selling their products directly to retail customers online, they have effectively excluded themselves from wholesale markets. Wholesale buyers are reluctant to work with suppliers whose wholesale prices are widely accessible online, forcing those who wish to maintain B2B sales to raise their prices significantly.
This shift means farmers are pushed to sell at much higher retail prices, which is exactly what’s happening now. Despite their best efforts, most are struggling to achieve sufficient sales volumes to sustain a living. Many find themselves reluctantly performing for the camera—dancing in minority dress (which they rarely wear otherwise because it’s impractical), brewing tea repeatedly for streaming, and endlessly repeating the same scripted lines as new followers join the broadcast. This predicament was not at all what they envisioned when entering the business.
This scenario opened the door for the TikTok vendors, who typically are not limited to selling only tea. They peddle a variety of goods with minimal upfront investment, relying heavily on catchy marketing phrases and recycled stories from farmers and suppliers rather than their own genuine tea experiences.