After a grueling 14-hour bus journey from southern Yunnan, we finally drop our bags at the hotel and head out for dinner. It’s too late to visit the tea market, so we decide to save that adventure for the next day.

At our hotel reception, I spotted a few bags of tea and asked about them. The woman running the hotel—who also happens to be involved in the tea business—excitedly told me, “How lucky we are! My brother has a tea garden with old tea trees.”
It’s important to understand that here in China, due to language and cultural nuances, terms like “ge ge” (older brother), “di di” (younger brother), “jie jie” (older sister), and “mei mei” (younger sister) are often used loosely for friends—not necessarily close family. After a few careful questions, we soon realized that she actually just has a friend who works at a tea factory and is trying to make some extra cash by passing samples through her to sell to hotel guests.

The next day, right after breakfast, we head to the market. It’s a bit of a walk from town, but the overly eager tuk-tuk driver leave us no choice but to accept their offer. Our first stop is a tea shop, where we sample the locally famous Fengqing black tea. Of course, we have to endure the usual stories—how they have their own plantation, how their tea is organic while others’ isn’t, and so on.

What amuses me the most is a box labeled Ye Sheng Hong, boldly claiming “tea from a 1,600-year-old tree” with a price tag of 460 CNY per kilogram. (I still regret not taking a picture back then ) I wonder what a tea from a tree that ancient would truly cost—but of course, I can’t resist trying it.

The tea is just a typical black tea made from bush (table) leaves mixed with “ya bao” to give a sweet front note, yet it can’t mask the unmistakable taste of raw potatoes. That unpleasant note—boiling raw potato—was common in many local teas at the market, and we were told, “This is the flavor we prefer; we’ve grown used to this taste.” The off-putting scent lingers on the hot gaiwan lid and persists through multiple infusions.

As we later learned, this awkward aroma results from poor processing. Very low temperature and a short heat treatment, intended to keep the leaves and buds looking “beautiful,” actually ruin the taste. Many sellers claim to have been making black tea for 10 or 20 years, but in reality, their experience is far less—and it shows in the quality.

Trendy marketing gimmicks abound in nearly every other shop. One of the funniest claims is “Dan Zhu Hong or Pu-erh tea… tea from a single tree.” So, I dared to ask the shop owner if he could actually tell whether the tea came from one tree or two. After a few more pointed questions, he finally started to be a bit more honest.

We move from shop to shop, carefully selecting the right place to sit and sample their teas. Just as we begin tasting a Qiao Mu Hong, a small truck from Baoshan pulls up, and the driver starts unloading boxes of tea. Curiosity gets the better of me, so I go over to take a closer look.
Out come Jin Ya, Jin Luo, Da Song Zhen, Jin Si—all the well-known Fengqing tea varieties, but in Baoshan versions straight off the truck. And yes, they come at a shockingly low price. Granny isn’t thrilled with the quality, but when she manages to grab a few boxes for next to nothing and resells a few kilograms to some Shanghai tea tourists at five times the price—claiming it’s authentic local Fengqing Hong Cha—her complaints quickly disappear.
We settle into a corner, quietly soaking in the spectacle, watching firsthand how the locals conduct “real” business.

We’re exhausted by the market experience, and after witnessing all this, I just want to leave town immediately. I’m fed up with the endless game of lies, tricks, and deceit. I knew the tea business was complex and that local people are clever negotiators, but I hadn’t expected it to be quite this intense.

We leave the market and decide to visit a local tea factory. Shortly after arriving, the elder owner and his son invite us to taste some Gu Shu Cha. After a few cups, I’m honestly disappointed—it tastes like just regular bush tea. I mention this quietly to my wife in English, but the young son understands and quickly passes the message to his grandfather. The reaction is immediate.

Grandpa summons his “servant” to bring out another tea. This time, I brew it myself, and finally, I get that perfect sweet buzz on my tongue. After several infusions, we move on to price discussions. The old man offers a steep price, saying, “I see you understand tea, you know your stuff. This one is real old tree tea. Since you’re experienced, I wouldn’t dare rip you off.”

In response, I calmly offer half the price, explaining that while I respect his honesty, I can get this kind of tea much cheaper elsewhere. Without missing a beat, grandpa immediately agrees to a 50% discount.

A short while later, new customers arrive and are escorted to another room. The old man then discreetly brings out the original Pu-erh “Gu Shu” (the first tea) alongside a bit of the real “Gu Shu” (the second, better one), and, like a child trying to hide a secret, attempts to shield it from our view. We catch on to this little act without missing a beat.

“Is he for real?” I whisper to my wife, baffled. How on earth can the boss of a big tea factory act like this? It’s like watching a kid playing hide-and-seek with tea leaves—only the game’s supposed to be about selling, not sneaking around!

We have started the black tea tasting. Their tea is acceptable and notably free of any “potato notes,” but the price is comparable to—or even higher than—what we find in the local market. Another day has passed, and we still haven’t secured our black tea supplier; we’re beginning to feel like giving up.
The next morning, after breakfast, we decide to just wander around the town. It’s a bit chaotic and noisy, with small, old trucks rumbling through the streets. An elderly woman picking fresh tea leaves from a bush beside the road and drying them on a small tray in front of her shop adds an authentic touch, reminding us that we truly are in Tea Town. Yet, despite the charm, we still haven’t figured out how to navigate through all the deception and falsehoods.
As we stroll, I notice a man unloading tea right on the path in front of a tea shop. We strike up a conversation and learn he is a farmer supplying some of the local tea shops. Without hesitation, we ask about his farm and receive an invitation to visit.

When we got there, we are learning about him ( Mr.Wu ) and his wife.

They used to sell fresh green tea leaves from their garden to the large local tea factory. It didn’t take long before they recognized the potential of starting their own tea business and decided to establish a small tea manufacturing operation. Mr. Wu first gained hands-on experience by working at a cooperative factory, learning the art of tea processing—since until then, he had only been involved in picking fresh leaves. A few years later, armed with this knowledge, he purchased second-hand equipment to begin processing tea independently.

While it is difficult for them to compete with the large tea factories in the area, our visit to their garden and production facilities revealed a clear commitment to natural cultivation—there was no trace of chemicals or pesticides. This dedication to quality and authenticity convinced us to select them as our supplier for Feng Qing black tea.