Cup of nostalgia at timeless Chinese teahouse in Chengdu

At 4:00 am the kettles crackle on a charcoal stove as regulars crowd inside an ancient Chinese temple turned teahouse, a relic in a country being overrun by Starbucks cafes.

Wearing a cap and a blue vest, Li Qiang gets up in the middle of the night, as he does every day, to light the fire and prepare portions of tea in tiny cups that can be purchased for a modest two yuan (29 cents) each.

Outside the Guanyin Pavilion teahouse, named for the goddess the temple was once dedicated to, elderly men chat as they wait for the 300-year-old building’s large wooden doors to open.

Inside, decorations from past eras are visible in the shadows: Religious frescoes and motifs on high beams, dating from before it was converted just over a century ago.

Lower down, decaying paintings on wooden panels depict People’s Republic of China founder Mao Zedong surrounded by solar rays, or slogans glorifying socialism and hoping for the Great Helmsman’s longevity.

“Nothing has changed since the Cultural Revolution (1966-76),” says Li.

The 50-seat teahouse in Chengdu, capital of Southwest China’s Sichuan Province, and the way of life it represents are a throwback to the past in a society that is becoming increasingly frenetic and internationalized by its status as the world’s second-largest economy.

Unlike upmarket teahouses in the city center, the State-owned establishment does not offer rare and expensive teas at premium prices.

Instead customers sit on bamboo chairs in small groups, under the pale glow of naked light bulbs suspended from the high ceiling.

“Nowhere else in Chengdu will you find a similar tea house,” says customer Ning Shucheng, who is in his 80s. “There are none. They have been ruined or completely demolished.”

Teahouses were once emblematic of Chinese urban culture but are now struggling to revitalize their public image in the face of ever-expanding foreign or foreign-inspired coffee chains.

“Here we are all local people, faithful,” laughs another customer, a 73-year-old surnamed Zhang.

Pouring boiling water into thermos bottles decorated with flowers, Li greeted everyone.

“For them this is a second home, it’s like being in a family,” he explains, especially for those whose own children live far from Chengdu.

Li was around 30 when he was appointed manager more than two decades ago, but has been careful not to change anything during his tenure.

He muses, “What’s the point? This is a place that breathes humanity, the lives of the regulars. This is not profitable, admittedly, but how could I give it up? Some regulars walk 10 kilometers every morning to come here.”