In a high-elevation forest on Jingmai Mountain, dawn broke over a green peak, bathing an ancient tea tree in warm light. A four-foot-wide trunk along with enormous branches, stretching up into a canopy of leaves, gave it an imposing bearing—nothing like the smaller tea shrubs often packed into tight rows on commercial farms throughout China. But this tree, deep within the southwestern Yunnan Province, was different. And it served a different purpose altogether.
A married couple named Ai Rong, 41, and Ke Lanfang, 36, had gathered with their elderly parents in front of the tree, chanting a prayer in the Blang people’s language, spoken by the Indigenous community throughout this region where five tea forests—collectively the oldest and largest on the planet—are cultivated. To the untrained eye, the tree might have been merely part of a forest. But for the family, it was the heart of a living shrine: They prayed to their Tea Spirit Tree, asking an ancestor named Pa Aileng, now considered a deity, to deliver a strong harvest. “It’s a thousand years old,” Ai said proudly, pointing to the tree’s large trunk. In recent years, however, his faith has seemed to be continually tested. At a time when the region’s highly specialized tea has gained widespread attention, commanding impressive prices, there are ever more unpredictable natural forces to contend with.