How I Accidentally Became a Tea Maker
How to Make Awa Bancha, A Rare Lacto-Fermented Tea (Part 2!)
I’m back “home” in Canada for a few weeks to celebrate my sister’s wedding—one of the most beautiful reasons to travel! Over the past two years, I’ve been lucky enough to attend the weddings of close friends, but celebrating my sister feels especially meaningful.
Vancouver, on the Pacific Northwest coast, is crisp with autumn’s first signs. Chipmunks dart through the trees, I dodge falling acorns on my walks, and out at sea, whales migrate south from Alaska. I even spotted a whale’s tail on the ferry from Vancouver to Vancouver Island. The leaves haven’t yet turned, but mornings are cool and dark, and it feels good to reach for a sweater again.
Still, part of me remains in rural Japan, where rice fields are being harvested and tea leaves from my village are carefully sorted after drying. Half of me will always belong to Kamikatsu, the place I now call home. It’s a tender ache to miss one place so deeply while feeling so at home in another. When I’m here, I’m there. And when I’m there, I’m here.
To continue my tea stories!
Thank you for the warm feedback about Awa Bancha tea. I hope these newsletters feel like travelling to the village and making tea with me. If you haven’t read Part 1, please start here.
Becoming a Tea Maker (by accident)
As I mentioned last time, I never set out to become a tea maker. Tea wasn’t something I was particularly drawn to; I enjoyed it the way I enjoy cheese (aged Parm, soft-rind Brie, salty feta… yes please). But would I ever imagine becoming a cheesemaker? Probably not. Then again, if I’d ended up in rural Italy instead of Japan, maybe I’d be writing about cheese instead of tea.
Still, tea has always been part of my life. My Japanese and Hong Kong roots made it omnipresent—the earthy bitterness of pu-erh served with dim sum, the creamy sweetness of milk tea paired with steaming pineapple buns in Hong Kong, and, back home in Canada, chilled mugicha (Japanese barley tea) all summer. Tea was simply always there, even if I never imagined it would one day become part of my life and work.
A tea shop owner and friend once told me the best teas in the world are the ones made and drunk by the people who produce them. When tea is grown, processed, and consumed apart from the culture that nurtured it, it often loses depth, character, and flavour. In many regions like Assam, Kenya, Nepal, and Sri Lanka, most tea is grown for export. India drinks a lot of tea, but mostly as chai from lower grades, while high-quality leaves go overseas. In Kenya, almost all tea is exported.
When tea stays within the community that grows it, it often retains its cultural context and traditional methods, which shape flavour. But there are exported teas of stunning quality (like Darjeeling or high mountain Nepal teas), and the reverse is also true: some local teas can be ordinary.
Awa Bancha is the opposite of an industrialised product—a household tea made for families and communities, only recently making its way beyond the village.
Step-by-Step: How to Make Awa Bancha Tea
This post is about the process of making Awa Bancha and the people who keep it alive. The work takes place in the hottest months of the year, between July and August, with sun-drying stretching into September. The whole making process takes about 1-2 months:
Picking (1–3 days)
Boiling (~2–5 minutes)
Rolling (~10 minutes)
Fermentation (~3–4 weeks+)
Sun drying (1–3 days)
1) Chahagi “Tea Stripping”
Once a year, during the hottest summer days, mature green tea leaves are stripped from their branches. Despite the heavy air and heat, many of Kamikatsu’s residents put on wide-brimmed straw hats, gloves, and boots (or jika-tabi, the split-toed shoes traditionally worn for farm work). Baskets fastened to our hips, we head into the mountains to pick tea.
Picking is entirely by hand. You pinch the branch at its base with your thumb and forefinger, pull firmly, and end up with a palmful of leaves and a bare twig. This method is called chahagi (茶剥ぎ), literally “tea stripping.” The pulling makes a sound like a smooth rip of velcro.
The bushes grow on steep slopes, not in neat plantations. Over the years, they’ve spread widely, so pickers weave in and out of the forest. Because Awa Bancha uses thick, mature leaves that are less vulnerable to pests, pesticides or fertilisers are unnecessary. Its wildness makes it an “organic” tea (though not certified).
The work is grueling under the summer sun, but it’s also one of the most social parts of the process. At 10 a.m. and again at 3 p.m., the village bell rings, signaling it’s time for a break. On cue, everyone stops what they’re doing and calls out “kyūkei!” (break time), as we gather in the shade to share snacks and sip cold Awa Bancha tea. Because so many hands are needed, Awa Bancha makers call on neighbours and friends to help. The heat may be relentless, but there’s a joy in the gathering.
2) Mysterious Boil
Many farmers pick leaves for two or three days, or until there’s enough to process. The work must happen soon after picking, as the leaves begin to dry out. First, we sort the leaves, removing seeds, weeds, and any lingering bugs or snails. Then the fresh leaves are boiled.
The leaves are boiled in baskets submerged in large pots of water, heated over either a wood or gas flame. The water itself usually comes from the mountain stream, adding to the unique terroir of Awa Bancha. As the leaves boil away, the water changes into a brown broth, and this liquid is carefully saved for use later in the process.
Boiling time varies by household, lasting anywhere from two to five minutes, until the bright green leaves turn a mellow green or pale yellow. Why boil the tea? It’s something of a mystery. Many farmers simply say, “it’s always been done this way.” Others explain that boiling helps halt oxidation and cleans the leaves. Either way, boiling is rare in tea making and most teas are steamed or roasted instead.
3) Preparing for Fermentation
Once boiled, the leaves soften to a paler green and must be rubbed while still hot. Rubbing the leaves will bruise the leaves and make them more receptive to fermentation, so this step is incredibly important.
Today, many Awa Bancha makers use a machine called a junenki (揉捻機), an electric-powered tea roller. Some (few) households still use a tool known as a fune (舟, boat). The boiled leaves are placed in the trough-shaped base, then pressed with a heavy top fitted with handles. The leaves are rolled around just enough to break some of their cell walls to enable fermentation.
4) Barrel Fermentation
The rolled leaves are then transferred into a barrel and pounded with a heavy pestle to punch out any trapped air. To help with the pounding, we also wear sanitized boots and step on the leaves, like squeezing grapes for wine. Because this fermentation is anaerobic, removing air pockets is essential; even a little oxygen could affect the tea.
Once the barrel is packed to the brim, the sealing process begins. Tea farmers first gather a large basho leaf (a cousin of the banana plant but without fruit). These leaves are naturally antibacterial, so they make an ideal lid. The leaf is trimmed to fit the curve of the barrel and laid across the surface. Next, a cloth soaked in tea juice from the boiling stage is wrung out and pressed snugly inside the rim, sealing the edges and shielding the tea from unwanted microbes. A second wooden lid is placed on top, and then heavy stones or weights (about twice the weight of the tea) are stacked above to press the leaves down.
Finally, the cooled liquid saved from boiling is poured in until the top is fully submerged, ensuring once more that no oxygen can slip in during fermentation. Then the waiting begins for about twenty days to a month. Inside, lactic acid bacteria go to work (in a similar way to yoghurt) and transform the leaves into Awa Bancha.
5) Sun Drying
Once fermentation is complete, the leaves are spread out to dry in the sun. This natural drying step is crucial, as it locks in the flavours developed during fermentation. Unlike many teas, this process does not involve roasting over fire or with a machine. Locals often say it’s the sun itself that gives the tea its energy and taste.
Drying takes place from late summer into early autumn, when the days are still warm. But this is also typhoon season, with heavy, unpredictable rains, so farmers keep a close eye on the skies—refreshing weather apps like breaking news feeds and waiting for a string of sunny days.
The process can take several days, so we rise early, often before sunrise, to open the barrels and carefully spread the leaves in a single layer over woven straw mats. To ensure even drying, the leaves are hand-turned multiple times throughout the day.
After being tightly pressed in the barrels for weeks, the leaves emerge in dense clumps. We gently peel them apart, opening them up by hand, judging progress through touch and smell. When properly dried, the tea leaf feels crisp (brittle like holding a caramel crisp) and its sharp, tangy scent mellows into a richer, earthy aroma.
When I drink Awa Bancha now, it no longer feels like just tea. It’s the result of an intense, labour-intensive process that I’m part of from start to finish. I feel a swell of pride knowing it’s tea I’ve made with my own hands, and a deep gratitude for being allowed to step into someone else’s culture. As the farmers continue to age (some tea makers are over 85 years old), fewer and fewer people remain to carry the tradition forward. With each farmer that stops, a piece of this tea risks vanishing.
I think of my neighbour, Mima-san, who has been making tea for at least nine generations (that he knows of), inheriting the craft from his wife’s lineage. Awa Bancha won’t disappear overnight, but if people like Mima-san stop making it, we lose his tea and their version of Awa Bancha. Because this is a fermented tea, each family’s process is unique—their own “recipe,” their own microorganisms, their own “microculture”.
But I also feel hope. Awa Bancha has been recognized by Japan’s Ministry of Culture as an intangible cultural heritage and by Slow Food’s Ark of Taste, which catalogues endangered heritage foods. These recognitions matter to the people who make them because they bring visibility, support, and validation to the people who make this tea. They remind us that Awa Bancha is worth making (despite the grueling work). As long as we continue to make it and share the tea’s story, this culture will live on.
Thank you, as always, to Sil for the beautiful photos.
Mm beautiful .. I love the stories that tell of the work that is slow, that takes rolled up sleeves and time, a togetherness, not separate from the ecological systems they’re contained within.
This was such a fabulous read. Thank you for sharing.