“We’re almost there!” My father’s announcement instantly woke me. I wiped my drool from the seatbelt and stretched my neck to see out the window. It revealed a magnificent view of brilliant emerald green fields. I inhaled the cool countryside air. By the time I had settled back into my seat, we had arrived. Multiple Thai-style gazebos, with tractors parked next to them, stood out amidst the endless plantations. I held my father’s hand, and we walked on the muddy path paved by the heavy tractors.

We arrived at a gazebo, and my father and I were welcomed by an entire community of farmers and tea brewers. I was overwhelmed by the attention. Every single person I waiied to (waii is a gesture of Thai greeting where you put your hands together and slightly bow your head) held my hands and kissed the tips of my fingers. Unaccustomed to such courtesy, I stood awestruck. While I was still recovering, a lady in a traditional Thai outfit tied a rubber apron around me and offered me a pair of Wellington boots – the ugly military kind.

After I was geared up, I looked like a miniature farmer, and my father looked like a real one. We were dressed in perhaps the ugliest clothes we had ever worn, but we were satisfied. Tusaporn, the manager of the plantations, took us on the tractor, along with the other workers, to the far end of the plantation and instructed us on what we had to do. I was to gently hold onto the tea plant’s stem, and with a quick, slight twist, yank it to the right. The first tea leaf detached perfectly. With great care, I placed it in the basket.

In a very short time, however, the work began to feel monotonous and tormenting. It felt as if years had passed when we had only been working in the field for an hour. The sun was beating down; my cheeks and forehead were burning and my back was drenched with sweat. The repetitive bending hurt my back, and my fingers were swelling with blisters from yanking the stems. I glanced around, only to see my father working diligently – though I could see the drops of sweat trickling down his face and the weariness and ache the work gave him. How was I going to do this for four more hours?

The hours passed by painfully slowly. I complained and whined to my father, pleading with him to bring me water or take me home. But silence was his only response as he continued to pluck leaves. Truthfully, I wanted to kick and cry like a child and force my father to take me away from this horrid work.

After the third hour, I simply did not feel like a human anymore. My hands and legs were numb to the core, and I became indifferent to the heat. I no longer bothered to stretch – it only made the pain worse. I simply trudged on, plucking leaves impassively.

When the sun had almost vanished below the horizon, it was time to stop. My father seemed to be experiencing catharsis as he smiled and stretched after the work. But I was feeling droopy, as if all the life inside of me had been sucked out. We entered the gazebo for the second time that day, though with heavier hearts and bodies than before – but yet again, we were greeted with love and affection. This time it was accompanied by cold drinks and a wafting smell of spicy Thai cuisine. The workers, my father, and I sat in a large circle on mats and ate in a comfortable family atmosphere, watching the sun set.

“Ni bpen Chaa-Yen kaa.” When dinner had finished, Tusaporn stood up, and in her strong Southern Thai accent proudly introduced the title of her treasured, home-brewed tea. She continued on to explain their tradition of serving home-brewed tea to their volunteer workers. Tusaporn poured Ceylon tea into a mug, placed it in my cupped hands, and nodded. The mug was hot, but my palms embraced the tingling warmth as it traveled beyond my skin and reached my nerves. The scent was enthralling – spicy, bitter, and sweet. I closed my eyes and sipped. The raw taste of Ceylon seeped into my tastebuds and evoked a swirl of sensations. For the first time that day, I was thankful and ecstatic, despite the long hours plucking tea leaves and sweating in the sun.

As I drank the tea, I felt my heart and eyes open to these people and felt God instill sincere humility in my heart, an attribute I only thought I had possessed before that day. The misty fog blocking my vision had finally cleared. It was only then that I saw the true joy these people shared, the pride they held in their work and plantations, the wrinkles on their foreheads and the calluses on their feet and hands, the lives they lived.

To this day, Tusaporn’s words and the scent of her Ceylon tea are engraved on my heart. They hang on the branches of my thoughts, waiting for me to pluck them down whenever I need a reminder of the precious gift I received on my journey to the tea plantations of Kamphaengphet, Southern Thailand. Interacting with the Thai tea farmers and experiencing their life made me feel ashamed for once seeing myself as better than these people.

I gazed down into the mug and saw tender ripples from the cool evening breeze. The tea now offered a different reflection of me.