The Way of Karen Tea

MiSA tea[m]
2 hours ago
5 min read

Arriving in the Karen village deep in the highlands of northern Chiang Mai province was like stepping into another rhythm of life—slower, softer, deeply human. The bamboo homes, raised on stilts, overlooked steep slopes of forest and field. We had visited many Karen villages before, mostly in the context of Sandra’s work with handwoven textiles and natural dyeing, but this visit was different. We were here to learn about tea!

It was the rainy season and we were remote—we drove eight hours in a 4-wheel drive through dirt, mud, and flooded creeks to reach Galyani village. This was the ideal time to pick the tender young buds of the Camellia sinensis assamica trees to make tea the Karen way. The Karen are an indigenous people with their own language and live across Southeast Asia, mostly in Burma and northern Thailand. Different groups have adapted to local life, taking up different religions such as Buddhism and Christianity, but in our village, the people still practice the ancient animistic spirituality of ancient times. The Karen practice what is recognized by ecologists as one of the most sustainable forms of agriculture, but they also engage in hunting and gathering in the surrounding rainforest. According to village elders of the Galyani Vadhana District, the people here started making their terraced rice paddies about 100 to 200 years ago. Before that, they only planted “dry," unirrigated rice on freshly burned plots and lived a more nomadic lifestyle. Along the edges of the jungle and among their rice fields, they plant an astounding array of crops, herbs, vegetables, medicinal and spiritually significant plants—and, of course, tea.

Our host was Yatee, a young woman who is a local leader in preserving the Karen’s ancient textile, culinary, and agricultural wisdom. Deep joy and warmth radiated from her and her whole family. Her children and their little cousins were well-adjusted, gentle, and helpful, while babies were passed from aunt to uncle to father to mother to grandmother—everything totally integrated into daily life. The human warmth in this place seemed to come from the soil itself: a smile in every eye, a steaming cup of tea, delicious meals prepared from freshly harvested ingredients, and laughter drifting through the hills—especially after a few cups of the local specialty (besides tea, of course): rice whiskey!

A little tipsy from the good local booze and full from the yummy meal, we were excited for picking and making tea the next day. Tea is sacred here—sacred and everyday at the same time. Tea nourishes, welcomes, relaxes, energizes, heals. It is part of rituals, part of daily meals, and present in the quiet pauses between things. It is a presence that connects land, people, and time.

The Garden Beneath the Vines

We walked through the village and followed our hosts down a narrow path winding behind the houses. We were heading to their tea garden—but when we arrived, it felt more like stepping into a hidden forest than into something cultivated.

The garden hadn’t been picked for some time. The jungle had crept in. Tea trees stood quietly beneath a tangle of vines, their shapes half-concealed by the leaves of other plants. It was wild, layered, alive. The day before our arrival, a few women had gone in with machetes—clearing vines, hacking through the overgrowth, pulling back the jungle just enough so that we could see and reach the trees.

Some of these trees were over 100 years old—planted by some great-uncle long ago. There were no neat rows or tidy hedges here. The garden didn’t feel “managed” in the way a plantation does. It felt like something remembered and tended in cycles, as needed. It was a treasure trove, a medicine chest, a living memory woven into the forest—always there to nourish, to heal, and to replenish the village tea supply.

Cooking the Tea: Inheritance, Ritual, and Labor

Immediately after picking the leaves, we began processing them. Everything unfolded with a relaxed, quiet rhythm. The women made a fire, then placed the freshly harvested leaves into a large wok, roasting them over a smoky pinewood flame. They turned the tea leaves slowly, chatting as chickens scratched nearby and pigs snorted in the distance. Smoke rose, mingling with laughter. The leaves gradually wilted, softening as the fire worked its way in, until they glistened—cooked and perfectly juicy.

In tea jargon, this is called the “kill-green” process: the leaves are heated to destroy the enzymes that cause oxidation, effectively “freezing” them in their green state.

The elders looked on, guiding the process like conductors of an old, familiar symphony, passing down oral knowledge with the ease of generations. When the tea looked just right, still steaming, it was poured onto a bamboo tray and carried to the terrace. There, we took turns kneading and rolling the leaves, working them with care for nearly half an hour. This releases more juices and brings out the flavors and aromas of the tea.

One uncle made sure the rice whiskey flowed steadily, while an elder aunty watched over us. She carried the ancestral wisdom of knowing exactly when the tea was ready. At her signal, we spread the leaves out on a large bamboo mat and left them to dry in the golden afternoon sun.

There is no rush in this method. No machines humming in the background. Only hands, fire, time, and knowledge passed down through centuries—perhaps millennia. The tea waits in the wild, growing freely among the biodiversity of the forest and the layered abundance of polyculture farming. Then, in just a few sacred hours, it becomes finished tea.

After lunch, we sat cross-legged on the polished bamboo floor, drinking tea, while birds called overhead and the cicadas were incredibly loud. The tea was brewed in large metal teapots, using a relatively small amount of leaf in proportion to the water, and left to steep. If the tea became too intense, more water was simply added, and it was enjoyed throughout the day. Traditionally, tea is taken with a pinch of salt—it felt quenching, grounding, healing.

A Different Kind of Farming

The Karen are indigenous to this part of the world, they know the land and live with it. Their way of life is recognized as one of the truly sustainable and regenerative models of living. Their rotational farming leaves fields fallow for years at a time. They plant tea in forest gardens, tucked among fruit trees, and wild plants. They cultivate hundreds of edible herbs, fruits, vegetables, and grains in biodiverse polycultures. Sacred groves are left untouched. Bamboo pipes carry fresh mountain water to homes without electricity or plumbing.

Even the pigs are part of the system. They eat food scraps and are considered an honored part of the family. Most households even have a separate kitchen just for preparing the pigs’ meals!

At MiSA, we’re always chasing depth—flavor, history, craftsmanship. We came to learn about tea and its origins, but we glimpsed a way of life. What we found here was a feeling—that the past and present could sit together and drink from the same pot of tea.

Love,

The Way of Karen Tea

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