The train ride from Kunming to Jianshui takes less than three hours, and I feel as excited as a child on Christmas morning because we are finally going to acquire some Zi Tao pottery for our shop.
From the local train station, we catch a direct ride in a mini van—known locally as a mian bao che—to the Zi Tao village. Upon arrival, we discover that the village is divided into two main areas, separated by a main road running along the edge of town.

The new and old one.

Strolling down the street, we spontaneously visit various pottery shops to get a sense of prices and quality. Most of these shops are simply retailers with no direct production background, which results in relatively high prices.
During the day, the village feels quiet and sleepy, with hardly a soul in sight. To help potential customers stay comfortable while browsing on hot days, a refreshing cold mist is gently sprinkled from the rooftops, creating a cool and inviting atmosphere along the street.

Really posh place though and the prices of teapots are reflecting that.

We return to this place later in the evening, when it becomes much livelier. The streets fill with local residents and small street food vendors, mostly from the Hui ethnic group, offering tantalizing BBQ aromas.
Crossing the main road, we find ourselves at the edge of the old village, which has undergone partial renewal. A newly constructed area, designed in the traditional Chinese architectural style, has been established just in front of the village to accommodate pottery shops and enhance the visitor experience.

The place is truly stunning, embodying the traditional “si he yuan” courtyard design. The large kiln—where pottery was historically fired—stands as a proud centerpiece. Even a visit to the public restroom feels like stepping into a classic Chinese garden, reminiscent of the Forbidden City’s elegance.
Since my wife’s family originates from Jianshui, we are fortunate to have relatives here. One of her cousins is actually a teapot maker, and it turns out his shop is located right in the busiest area of this commercial hub—which already gives me a sense of apprehension.
This relatively young cousin, with support from his father, has created a lavish shop entirely crafted from wood, adorned with traditional calligraphy. A “feng shui” stone water pool filled with golden fish adds a serene touch, while a whimsical rotating stone teapot in the center continuously pours water into surrounding cups, making the whole scene feel like a magical corner straight out of Disneyland.

A large custom-made table from Guangdong province features an internal water stream that gently circulates teacups around its surface—clearly a high-end piece that doesn’t come cheap.
As I get to know this family member better, I learn that he only began making teapots a few years ago after attending classes with a local master, and now refers to himself as a master. While his teapots are decent, prices start at $150. When I mention the much lower prices we offer to our foreign customers, he quickly loses interest. It’s no surprise—his shop clearly targets affluent Chinese tourists willing to pay a premium not for exceptional craftsmanship, but for the long origin stories attached to each piece.
This realization frustrates me, and my hope of finding quality teapots at reasonable prices quickly fades. Walking around the area, I visit other shops where the cheapest items—simple lidded cups—start at $120, offered as alternatives after I mention I can’t afford their expensive teapots. I can’t help but overhear a local grandmother muttering, “You foreigners are rich.”
We didn’t come here to waste time, money, or listen to endless stories about teapots; we came to buy them. So, we decide to venture further into the village in search of better options.

Everything takes place along a single street, where some shops have transformed from simple setups with basic shelves and cheap furniture into elegant stores adorned with antique-style wood and bamboo decorations. Naturally, this upgrade comes with higher prices.
Certain shops proudly showcase pottery crafted in the old-fashioned way—traditionally fired over wood—and display these pieces in glass cases with spotlights, treating them like precious jewelry. Unsurprisingly, the prices reflect this level of prestige.

Many local people were originally farmers who transitioned into the teapot business because it is relatively easier and more profitable. During a conversation with our hotel hostess, we learned that teapot prices today are nearly the same as they were 10 years ago. This is because, a decade ago, few artisans in the area could craft quality teapots, so experienced masters from other provinces commanded high prices. Now, although many locals produce teapots, prices remain high due to economic growth and the surge in tea tourism fueled by affluent visitors from cities like Shanghai, Shenzhen, and Beijing.

Zitao produciton myth

Locals will eagerly share the long and rich history of Zi Tao pottery, but looking at the current products, that heritage isn’t always apparent. It’s true that Zi Tao has a deep-rooted tradition, primarily associated with “Qi Guo Ji”—special large pots used for cooking and steaming chicken and other dishes. However, crafting small teapots demands far greater skill, and this is precisely where many of the so-called “masters” here often fall short.

It’s not just the body shaping—details like the spout (nozzle) often stand out for their unusual, almost amusing designs. While the water flows smoothly without issue, many of the teapots sport trumpet-shaped nozzles that give them a quirky, somewhat humorous appearance. Interestingly, we later discovered that some people even purchase high-quality teapots from other makers to complement or replace these less refined styles.

We haven’t yet found a single master who crafts high-quality teapots entirely from start to finish. Later, we learned that many skilled artisans work quietly from home, with shop owners coming to them to purchase products for resale. Some of these craftsmen have even stopped making teapots themselves, choosing instead to become teachers or supervisors at larger manufacturing facilities.

Of course, you’ll see people crafting teapots right at the back of their shops. Some are genuine artisans, while others merely have a pottery wheel on display as a prop. Judging by the quality of their products, you can usually gauge their true skill level.
We eventually ended up in a shop run by an owner from Jingdezhen, who explained that he came to Jianshui because the clay here is exceptionally inexpensive—and he was absolutely right about that! His teapots looked impressive, and his extensive experience in teapot making gave me confidence in doing business with him. However, there was one drawback: the prices were still quite high. Even the “buy more, get cheaper” discounts didn’t make a significant difference. We decided to come back the next day, and that’s when we discovered the truth—after seeing a courier deliver a shipment of new teapots to his shop, it became clear he was just a reseller. :- (

My wife grows increasingly frustrated and suggests we stop overthinking the teapot search and simply buy something to try. Meanwhile, I persistently move from shop to shop, determined to find quality teapots at fair prices. I focus on identifying genuine teapot makers by asking detailed, probing questions. My wife’s ability to speak the local dialect, combined with her marketing experience and skill in reading people, proves invaluable—she often quickly senses whether a seller is being honest or spinning another story.
Why go to all this effort? If you’re reselling someone else’s products, you’re bound by minimum prices and can’t offer much flexibility. But if you’re the maker yourself and see a customer buying multiple pots, you might be willing to lower your price in the hope they’ll return for more in the future.
Since it’s initially very hard to determine reasonable prices for Zi Tao teapots, understanding costs directly from the source is crucial.
Some sellers are honest, openly admitting, “This one is mine; this one I’m helping a friend sell,” and their prices tend to be more affordable. However, many claim all the products as their own regardless.
As we venture further into the village, we witness the entire clay processing workflow from the very beginning. Zi Tao clay comes in five basic colors, which are blended to create a wide range of tones.

The raw stones are first crushed and mixed with water, then ground into finer particles until the mixture transforms into a thick, viscous slurry. This slurry undergoes further processing before being subjected to high-pressure pressing to expel excess water.
The result is large clay cakes, which are either used directly for crafting large pottery pieces or compressed into smaller cylindrical blocks for easier handling, transportation, and sale.

The clay itself is relatively inexpensive, and local labor wages are modest as well. So, what drives the high prices? Several factors contribute. Production inefficiencies and failures certainly play a role, but as mentioned earlier, the final product passes through many different hands, with each party adding their own markup.
Another significant factor is the “cultural value” placed on the teapots. Locals often elevate prices by commissioning respected calligraphy masters to inscribe the pieces. When we inquired about two identical teapots—one with calligraphy and one without—we were told that the calligraphy master is well-known locally, justifying the higher price. Although we hadn’t heard of him, we were assured that locals recognize and appreciate his artistry, adding intangible value to the teapots.

Ehmm… the price of a single teapot is equivalent to a local worker’s entire monthly wage, so I’m definitely not buying into that.
In fact, we saw the so-called master at work—an elderly man, yes—but watching him copy characters directly from a book did little to impress me. Our own calligraphy master, Fan De Hui, could effortlessly reproduce a 30-line Qing dynasty poem in Xin Kai typeface with his eyes closed, even after drinking half a bottle of local bai jiu.
Beyond the tourism-driven price inflation, rising rents are another factor. Many locals have managed to build combined house-and-shop structures to escape escalating rental costs. There’s also the investment in training: our young cousin paid about $600 per month—the equivalent of an average farmer’s income—for two years to his master, so naturally, he wants to recoup that investment.
Consider this: it typically takes 1 to 2 years to learn how to make a simple teapot and around 5 years to craft decent, well-shaped pieces—if you’re not completely unskilled and are driven by the need to earn a living. Few stick with the craft longer than that, even if they claim a decade or more of experience. Selling just one fancy teapot a week can yield more income than a doctor at the local hospital or an engineer.

“Buy more, get cheaper” was an offer we encountered almost everywhere. However, the problem was that out of 20 to 30 teapots a single maker had, only 2 to 5 were truly decent—the rest were either lower-quality pieces or items they were simply reselling for friends with fixed prices. As a result, we couldn’t purchase a large bulk from just one maker and ended up buying from four different artisans to meet our needs.

I realize this article may not paint the most encouraging picture for buying Zi Tao teapots, but there is genuine beauty in the process. Each teapot we selected for our shop represents many hours of skilled labor, and with the help of a local friend, we secured them at prices comparable to those paid by local residents. Moreover, the convenience of a single-day train trip from Kunming to Jianshui keeps our overall costs remarkably low, allowing us to offer these authentic pieces with confidence.

A few years later, we expanded our network to include more genuine producers, and nowadays we primarily sell teapots custom-made to our specifications which we can sell for lower prices than it’s retail in Jianshui or Kunming.

Jianshui Purple Pottery