In times of turmoil, the most precious commodity is not tea, but an unbroken word of honour.
Following the passing of Li Kaiji, the second generation took the helm of Anle Hao: the eldest son, Li Mianrong, took charge of the apothecary, whilst the second son, Li Bingrong, inherited the tea firm. With one household stewarding two enterprises—medicine and tea side by side—this arrangement seamlessly maintained the family tradition of balancing commerce with public care. In 1925, however, Li Bingrong passed away, leaving behind his only son, Li Dingwei, who was not yet three years old.
For a pre-eminent tea firm in Yiwu to lose its master overnight, leaving behind only a widow and a toddler, was catastrophic. Set against the broader canvas of the era—beset by warfare, political instability, and fractured caravan routes—a tea firm without a master was akin to a rudderless vessel in a tempest. Every year in the Yiwu mountains, venerable houses dissolved quietly into the annals of history; their signboards were taken down, and their chronicles abruptly ceased. Why, then, did Anle Hao not suffer the same fate?
The answer lay in the generational bond of trust between Anle Hao and Tongqing Hao. Established earlier than Anle Hao, Tongqing Hao was an illustrious titan of the Yiwu tea mountains. It had long maintained intimate business dealings with the firm founded by Tea Official Li Kaiji. The two historic establishments—one possessing pristine tea gardens, the other commanding formidable trade routes—shared decades of mutual respect and understanding. Following Li Bingrong’s demise, distribution of Anle Hao’s tea was entrusted entirely to Tongqing Hao.
This was no simple commercial buyout: the Liu family of Tongqing Hao delivered their internal wrapping paper (neipiao), bearing the “Tongqing Hao” imprint, directly to Anle Hao. There, Anle Hao’s craftsmen wrapped the compressed cakes, which were then laden onto oxen and horses, brought to Yiwu Street, and handed over to Tongqing Hao for commercial distribution. The tea remained authentic Anle Hao production; the market distribution was channelled under the Tongqing Hao banner. In this way, two historic houses supported one another through time-honoured mutual trust: one honouring the craftsmanship, the other honouring the trade name.
This chapter of history bore a deeply touching postscript. Years later, Master Liu Guiguang of Tongqing Hao gently patted the head of young Li Dingwei, remarking with profound emotion: “Here lies the hope of the Li clan!” Decades on, Li Dingwei would recall that moment, remarking that he could still feel the lingering warmth of Master Liu’s palm upon his head. A single utterance, a gentle gesture of blessing, remembered across an entire lifetime—this was how honour and fraternity between heritage houses were transmitted across generations.
Young Li Dingwei did not betray that expectation. At the age of fifteen, he joined his brother-in-law, Huang Guoliang, on the caravan trails, trading in tea and salt. Life on the caravan routes was fraught with hardship, sleeping rough beneath the elements and traversing countless miles of treacherous mountain terrain year after year simply to secure a livelihood. At eighteen, he married Zhong Jinlan; at twenty-one, his eldest son, Li Shicheng, was born. It was in this manner, forged upon horseback, that the young man gradually took back the mantle of his family’s enterprise.
Having personally lived through the final golden era of Anle Hao’s handcrafted tea production, he could still recall the firm’s roster of craftsmen with vivid clarity decades later: most were fellow kinsmen from Shiping—Zhang Xiaowu was responsible for weighing the leaves, Luo Mazi handled the steaming and cylinder packing, and Yang Qiaofu undertook the stone pressing. Those who formed the tea cakes were honoured with the title of “Master Craftsman”, including Gao Lai’an, Pu Xiaochun, and Hu Guanyou. Within the firm, there was even an individual dedicated solely to hunting game for the staff’s sustenance, named Gao Qinglai. From weighing and steaming to pressing, every post had its designated specialist; the cake-makers were revered as master artisans, and provisions were reliably secured. Such meticulous division of labour reflected the true operational scale of a heritage tea house.
Yet the sweeping tides of history proved unavoidable. Amidst the ravages of war and seismic market shifts, artisanal tea firms declined, and the pack-horse trade became untenable. Like many of Yiwu’s historic establishments, Anle Hao receded into dormancy. The young boy had become a master, and the master was once again a craftsman awaiting his hour. The operation fell quiet, but the name never perished. It was waiting for a child to come of age—a wait that would ultimately span more than half a century. Honour between venerable houses required no legal parchment: Anle Hao remembered, and Tongqing Hao kept faith. When Tongqing Hao extended its hand, it did so not as a commercial transaction, but as a covenant of brotherhood.
Coming in Part III: In 2004, an octogenarian patriarch guided his eldest daughter in establishing a workshop—when Anle Hao stepped back into the world, its very first deed was an act of gratitude.
