At some time in the Warring States Period, the domestication of the tea plant occurred without much historic to-do. There are a few remarks here and there about its presence in the markets, use in rights and rituals, sporadic comments about farming, etc…but very little of content from the period. It was first mentioned specifically by name but casually in a contract between a servant and master, listing the servant’s duties, which including buying and preparing tea, written by Wang Bao and called A Contract with a Servant.
By the Han Dynasty (206 bce-220 ce) farming and tea cultivation had reached a larger number of Chinese, and tea boxes have even been found in the tombs of royalty and nobles dating to the period, like the tombs opened at Ma Wang Dui in Chang Shia City, suggesting that it was important enough to take into the afterlife. Throughout all this time, however, tea sages were still searching the wilderness for the taller, natural plants which were considered to be better than the leaves man had cultivated, though ordinary people would eventually shift their focus from quality to higher yield, pruning tea to bushes and harvesting them like any other crop. There was, however, a very real sense, both culturally and spiritually, that such changes trod upon Nature’s garden, ruffling otherwise pristine verdure. Tea was always thought of by early Chinese as a very sacred and pure plant, poetic in its liquor and golden or pink blossoms alike, and many felt that it should never be transplanted. In fact, the tea plant itself was sometimes called “Bu Qian (不遷)” in ancient times, which means “unmovable.” Before we go too far and unjustly criticize the humble tea farmer, we might think a bit more on early farming. There is not much historical information about early tea farming, but we can imagine that the transition from gathering wild tea leaves to domesticating the plant didn’t happen in a fortnight, but rather progressed in stages. At first, no doubt, the farming was much like many Puerh tea farms in Yunnan even twenty or thirty years before now, some of which still practice similar farming techniques today: in which seeds were planted with enough space for one another and allowed to grow into trees, harvested only after ten to fifteen years when the trees reached maturity. Such “arbor” farms are ecologically sound, and the space between the trees eliminates the need for chemical weed killers, pesticide, or fertilizer, as the trees remain a natural part of the biological ecosystem around them. To the untrained eye, such small gardens are indistinguishable from the natural surroundings of the forest. Also, tea is a rather tenacious plant, with deep roots, an innate ability to produce chemicals in the leaves that dissuade some kinds of insects from eating them, and the ability to grow in adverse environments that many weaker plants couldn’t survive in. The myriad strains that developed over time on various mountains, in various climates are a direct result of the different environs the tea plant adapted to, sometimes naturally while at others transplanted there by man. The point being that as long as quantity isn’t an issue, and the farmer isn’t motivated by higher and higher yields for commercial enterprise, the tea plant really doesn’t need too much attention from the hand of the farmer, just a bit of guidance. Undoubtedly, even after tea was cultivated in more of what we would think of as farms, with rows of plants that are pruned into bushes rather than semi-wild trees, the first farmers were often monks or tea sages, caring for the plants as part of the way they communed with Nature. On such high-altitude, monastery farms tea would first be nurtured into neat rows of hoed soil, and studied to find ways of improving the cultivation as well as processing of the finished leaf, but all with a care and reverence rarely found on commercial farms today. I’m sure that the early farmers had a deep devotion and respect for the land they tilled, a love of husbandry as a simple act of Nature, and a great adoration and pride in their tea. In fact, I don’t think it would be an exaggeration to say that all agriculture in those ancient days was viewed as something sacred—prayed over and ritualized in the planting and then celebrated with deep gratitude and respect at the time of harvest. Many accounts of tea farming, even up into the twentieth century, suggest that the method of harvesting was handled with great care, especially if the tea was to be given in tribute to the palace. A tremendous amount of religious ceremony would precede the harvest, with offerings to local deities, as well as rights based on Buddhist, Taoist, or even folk beliefs, depending on the region. Often only young girls picked the tea, and did so at a very precise time of year (based on the lunar calendar, but usually just preceding the spring rains—late March or early April). They were strictly watched by government officials who organized them into groups and often had them wear special clothing so that impostors could not steal some of the highest quality teas. They would wake up in the middle of the night and climb up the mountain paths, braving the chilly air, because the tea had to be picked before dawn, when the fragrance was best; and then processed completely before sunset of the same day. They grew their fingernails long, as touching the leaves with the hand would transfer oils from the skin. Their diet, cleanliness, and the precision with which they picked were all factors in such early farming, and some ancient testimony even suggests that they were forbidden meat and required to bathe every day (a task not as easily performed in those days). Even today, though much of this reverence has been lost, it is mostly females that continue to pick teas in China and Taiwan, perhaps because their hands are thought to be more delicate and dexterous. There have always been exceptions to many of these formalities, but the reverence that surrounded early tea production cannot be doubted. Tea would most likely spread from Yunnan into Sichuan, and then down along the Yangtze river, eventually passing through the famous “Three Gorges” to Hunnan and Hubei provinces. From there it would slowly diffuse to the other tea growing regions of China. Some of this propagation perhaps occurred naturally, though most plants were probably transplanted by man. So often, all the important parts in the story of tea are passed over in a single sentence to the effect of “tea originated in Southern China.” The story of tea does not begin with those who first farmed it, nor those that sold its powers for gold; it doesn’t begin with Tang emperors and their courts; and neither is tea merely a story of processing, farming, domestication, and trade. All the stuff of textbooks—taxes, tributes, and Western boats full of brutes bent on re-creating the world in their own visions—are all but the end of a long journey tea had started before historical “starting” was even possible, a million years long! The benefices of tea may be plainly evident, but there really is no clear explanation or timeline to describe how tea went from a humble tree in the forests of Yunnan to the second most consumed beverage on Earth. And yet, through tea’s jumbled and varied story, passed on and drank by so many different peoples at different times for different reasons, it is clear that for most of the time that tea has been consumed by human beings it was either meditation, medicine, or both—especially, leaving the Ultimate aside, in the sense that tea so often is a calm, soothing “medicine” for the soul. In fact, its diffusion from Yunnan to the rest of China can be attributed to these two factors: It was, throughout its entire journey, a spiritual method used first by shamans, then Taoist renunciates and later their Buddhist counterparts, or it was a sacred plant used by Chinese herbal doctors. I don’t think there can be enough synonyms
or ways of uttering this same truth over and again, as it represents to me the greatest aspect of the Leaf ’s story. And even today, I’m always meeting other “teaheads” who have also recognized the sacredness of this exceptional plant. We regret to hear of plantations using fertilizers, weed-killers, and other chemicals to increase production, and cringe at the sight of a low-quality teabag. Perhaps a part of what Cha Tao represents, as a result, is also a return to the simpler and more ecologically sound days before tea became a commodity, attracting the attention of businessmen and merchants interested only in profits.
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