A few weeks ago, I was shocked to read that Russia far outstrips the UK in Indian tea imports. Perhaps I should not have been that surprised. The Russian tea tradition is as old as the British one.

Tea arrived in Russia in the early 17th century�??a present to the emperor from crafty Chinese ambassadors who must have wanted to use it as a trade tool. They succeeded beyond their expectations. The Russians became enamoured, and leaf-bearing caravans trekked for more than ten thousand miles to quench the country�??s thirst. Of course, the longer the journey, the higher the price and, for a long time, tea was the preserve of the Russian elite, though now it is a cross-class drink.

Tea masters soon started developing their own blend, usually mixing different China leaves. Over time, the Russians also developed their own brewing technique. They make a highly concentrate tea�??much as we would do to make iced tea�??then cut it with boiling water from the samovar. The proportions of tea concentrate to water determine the final taste.

I don�??t have a samovar, so my attempts at recreating Russian tea are by necessity approximate. But I gave it a shot by making a tea concentrate�??steeping 2 tablespoons of a China and Indonesia blend from Kousmichoff in 26oz water for ten minutes�??then diluted it with freshly boiled water (just under half a cup tea concentrate, and the rest hot water). The results were interesting.

I had had the Kousmichoff tea before, brewed the British way, and found the Russian version somewhat stronger in flavor, though, inexplicably, it was slightly less aromatic in the nose. I wonder whether this is because the hot water dilutes the scents more than the taste. Still, it made for an excellent tea, with a florally spicy nose and a distinct spice note in the mouth. Incredibly elegant and well balanced, like a Seurat painting. If this is any close to what the Russian court sampled in the early 17th century, I can see why they got hooked on tea.

On the tea stakes, Ireland wins. Although Britain is the country most closely associated with tea after China and India, the Irish drink a lot more gallons every year than their easterly neighbors. And a heck of a tea it is too. Just like you could almost slice Irish beer, so you can almost slice Irish tea.

I had never realized quitehow strong it was, though, until I did a side-by-side comparison between English and Irish blend yesterday. To celebrate the last leg of my tea tour, I brewed myself a cup of English and Irish Breakfast. The English Breakfast was to British tradition�??a blend of Assam, Ceylon and Kenya�??rather than the American Keemun-based version. The Irish Breakfast had the same three teas with a sprinkling of Indonesian leaves.

I steeped both in boiling water for four minutes. The cups looked similar, though the Irish one was redder�??a clear sign of a higher proportion of Kenya tea. But boy, what a difference in the mouth. The English version had a good body and a rounder flavor, with a distinctively Assamey finish. The Irish one was even fuller bodied and went for strength all out. Taste subtleties were perhaps lost, but it had sheer raw power. It reminded me of Schiele to the English Breakfast�??s Klimt.

Sharp, painful, but mercifully short in the finish. A sip of Ile Maurice was all I needed yesterday to remember why I dislike flavored teas. It is not so much because many of them taste oily and artificial. Cheap teabags do, but this loose-leaf package, from Le Palais des Thes, had honest aromas. It�??s because you can�??t get so much of a whiff of tea.

A blend of Mauritius tea with vanilla and citrus fruit, Ile Maurice had citrus and the nose and vanilla and citrus in the mouth. The tea lent a beautiful dark red color to the cup, but that�??s the extent of its contribution. Despite brewing it to instructions�??steeping 2.5g in 7oz water for five minutes�??I simply couldn�??t find any trace of leaf in the mouth. Which, of course, defies the whole point of drinking tea for me.

I might as well have a citrus tisane and be done with it. Which, incidentally, I did, later in the evening. It was by Celestial Seasonings and used hibiscus for color. In all honesty, it wasn�??t that different from the Ile Maurice, except this one had no vanilla and came across as more lemony.

What a difference with the Kenya Marynin FBOP I had today. Now that is a tea with muscle. Marynin is one of the few estates in Kenya that still produces tea by the orthodox method when most have switched to CTC, a process where leaves are cut, torn and curled by machine. Steeping 2.5g in 7oz boiling water for 4 minutes gave a rich red cup with a strong flavor with a hint of nutmeg.

It was not as sophisticated as an Assam, but it was good breakfast material. Like a Jackson Pollock canvas, it was bold and energetic. And mercifully long.

New Year�??s Gift. Sometimes I wonder what�??s behind the name of an estate. Perhaps this one�??the first plantation in Zimbabwe, according to Twinings�??opened on New Year�??s Day?

What�??s sure is that it was a lone enterprise for a long time. Tea was first grown in Zimbabwe from the 1920s, but it only boomed in the Sixties, after modern irrigation systems countered the effects of scarce rain.

Like most of Africa, though, Zimbabwean tea is mostly used in blends and tea bags. I could tell why when I tried Le Palais des Thes�?? Mukumbani Fannings yesterday. Le Palais calls it très corsé.

And it is indeed powerful. Some 2.5 g steeped in 8oz boiling water for five minutes gave a lovely red brown cup with a nice, warm scent. It had sheer strength, like a Boccioni sculpture. But it went little beyond a good caffeine kick in the mouth. Definitely a good tea to support a blend�??s architecture, but it does need more aromatic leaves to give it some grace.

Though I am usually not a fan, I had a lot more joy from South Africa�??s Rooibos with lemon verbena, which I had today. Rooibos is not tea, of course. Of all things, it�??s a legume, though thankfully it doesn�??t taste like beans stock. Like tea, however, its leaves can be oxidized after harvest to make red rooibos, or it can be drunk green. Also like tea, it has plenty of poliphenols, minus the caffeine.

I often find it a bit too sweet, with a slightly metallic quality. But this version, by Les Palais des Thes, has lemon verbena added, and its fresh, grassy flavor took the sweet edge off the rooibos. It was remarkably soothing, and I could see myself drinking it regularly in the evening. Not quite Easter�??s Gift, but passably close.

Once again, it was the British who did it. After starting plantations in India and Ceylon, they took tea to Africa in the early 20th century. The Germans and French soon followed suit, and production boomed.

Today, the geography of African tea cuts across the continent from East to West above and along the Equator, then turns down south toward South Africa. It is a vast production, but rarely a quality one. The vast majority of African tea ends into blends and teabags. Several countries, however, have notable exceptions, interesting teas that are worth drinking in their own right. These gems are what I set out to discover as I begin my exploration of African tea.

My journey starts on a nearly clean slate. Beyond some Kenya, which I have tried in the past�??mostly in teabags�??I haven’t really tried other African teas. Or rather, I must have drunk plenty of it in dunk-it-fast teabags, but never on their own. So it is with some curiosity that this morning I approached some Cameroon BOP leaves, which I got from Le Palais des Thes. It is billed as a strong morning tea, and the vendor recommends steeping it for up to five minutes. However, I found slightly shorter times were more to my taste, and settled for steeping 2.5g in 7oz boiling water for three minutes. It gave a beautiful deep amber cup, which made it clear why African teas are so good for blends�??their color is just unbeatable. The scent was good too, and reminded me of a good Ceylon.

The Ceylon impression evaporated at first sip, though. This tea was undoubtedly less refined than a Ceylon, but oozed caffeine power. It was full bodied and flavorsome, like an Assam without the malty note. For its price, it made an excellent early morning tea, full of energy like as Kandinsky painting.

My first foray into Africa was very promising and I was even tempted to add this Cameroon BOP to my line-up of regular breakfast teas, but I have since discovered that plantation workers in the country often labour in very hard conditions with substandard benefits and medical care. I don’t know whether the tea I had today comes from a troubled plantation. But I find it difficult to enjoy a drink if the people who made it for me are struggling for their rights.

Life is calling my attention away from tea and this blog these days, as my son has come down with a particularly nasty bout of flu. I will write more on South America when I can, but, so far, here are my tasting notes on Argentina�??s Flor de Oro FBOP, which I tried yesterday, and Brazil BOP, which I tried today.

Both came from Le Palais des Thes, and I brewed them to instruction steeping 2.5g in 7oz boiling water for 5 minutes (Argentina) and 4 minutes (Brazil). The results were unremarkable. Both cups looked good. The Argentinean tea was a rich brown, with a sweet scent that vaguely recalled Cha Thai. The Brazilian tea was more restrained in both scent and color, which was a deep amber. The mouth was hardly exciting. Flor de Oro was a bit flat and vaguely oily. The Brazilian tea was ever so slightly better, perhaps because it was more restrained, but it still had a slightly oily quality. In all honesty, the only art they brought to mind was some of those rather flat figurative portraits sold by art students at street markets.

Let�??s hope tomorrow will be better�??both in the cup and for my son.

Savage lightning ripped through the tropical storm, casting a disquieting light over the thick reeds and rugged rocks of Mompracem, an island in the Borneo archipelago. It was my first and most vivid encounter with South East Asia.

It was also a literary one�??the opening of Emilio Salgari�??s La Tigre della Malesia, where a heroic Malay Prince, Sandokan, fights against �??those poisoners of people, those land thieves, those dogs�?� that are the British to avenge the massacre of his family. He paints a wild land of sleek tigers, fat pig-deer, entwining vines as big as snakes and a restless sea where slim prahos defy winds, waves and English warships.

Later, much later, I read the English side of the story in Kalimantaan and in White Rajah, where the rebels become sanguinary, head-chopping pirates, British Rajah James Brooke is torn between his native Britain and his beloved Sarawak, and the massacre of the Brunei princes is a family affair ordered by the Sultan himself. Which is probably closer to the truth, though it lacks the gripping, page-turning adventures of Salgari�??s novels. But even in White Rajah�??s dry, historic account of life in Borneo, nature triumphs. The oppressive heat, the towering palm trees, the crocodile-infested rivers dwarf the mere humans.

The British had tea, of course, an oasis of refinement in the encroaching wilderness. Though whether it was local tea or imported from China or India I don�??t know. It probably wasn�??t Malay. According to Boh Tea, the first highland plantation in Malaysia�??which now rules over part of the Borneo, while Indonesia rules the rest�??was established on the Cameron Highlands in 1929.

Tea could have come from Indonesia, though, where Dutch settlers started growing it as early as the 18th century. Cultivation began on Java, and, although Sumatra and Sulawesi followed suit, the island remains Indonesia�??s largest tea producer. So it is hardly surprising that the only Indonesian tea I managed to find came from there. It�??s a black Orange Pekoe, which is no longer a typical example of Indonesia�??s production. Green tea, which was introduced relatively recently, has now taken over. But I liked the idea of having the same tea that James Brooke could possibly have drunk.

Special Teas suggested steeping one heaped teaspoon in boiling water for three minutes. The cup was a deep dark amber with a deliciously fragrant nose. In the mouth, it had enough body and a sweet, serviceable taste, though slightly flat. It was a perfectly decent tea, and good value�??much like those minor Italian painters that drew postcard views of Rome and Naples for the English in the age of the Grand Tour. But it had none of the wilderness, the explosive nature that my books had led me to expect from Indonesia.

Thailand brings to mind images of a bright orange iced drink, served sweet and accompanied by condensed milk, that I find hard to call tea. It may well be the most popular way to drink tea in Thailand, but my sensitive taste buds occasionally hinder my quest for authenticity. Using the rather flimsy excuse that the right tea to brew this concoction is hard to get outside Thailand, I caved in to my mouth�??s pressures and went for a Thai black tea from Mariage Frères.

I should feel awfully guilty, of course, but even I can�??t lie so brazenly to myself. And it would be particularly hard after having had a cup of Cha Thai BFOP, because I loved it. I had picked it for no better reason than it was the cheapest Thai tea at Mariage Frères. But the moment I smelled the leaves�??sweet, intense, chocolatey�??I was sold.

Steeping 2.5g of nearly powdery leaves into 7oz water for 2 minutes gave a marvellously brown cup with a slightly subtler scent than the leaves, but still strongly chocolatey. It had a good, jolt-your-buds mouthfeel, with more chocolate at first approach followed by an exquisite, lightly malty note. Enough body and personality let it shine through milk and�??I suspect, though I didn�??t try�??even sugar.

Cha Thai flaunts his flavor like the wanton beauty of Titian�??s Venus. Sophisticated, it ain�??t. But it is my kind of tea.

I scooped a tablespoonful of butter and gingerly placed it into my blender. �??I can�??t believe I am really going to waste some perfectly good tea and butter to make this,�?� I muttered to myself.

But my right index finger had a will of its own and pressed pulse. The blender started up and butter, milk, salt and tea spun in the glass bowl to emerge as a thick beige liquid. I had made po cha. Now, I�??d have to drink it.

I can�??t remember where I first read about po cha, Tibetan butter tea. I know it was several years ago, and the idea of a tea made with butter somehow stuck into my head. Not that I had really considered trying it. Somehow, I didn�??t think butter and tea would make a happy marriage. But then I embarked on this tea tour, and decided that I wanted to experiment tea customs from around the world, as well as teas themselves. And few places have a stronger tea drinking habit than Tibet. Tea is the country�??s main drink�??to the point that recent research links it to the incidence of dental and skeletal fluorosis among the local population.

In Tibet, brick tea is boiled in water for a long time. Some of this liquid, called chaku, is then diluted with boiling water and churned with milk and sugar, or with butter, milk and salt. Both teas are fortifying and warming�??perfect for cold Himalayan weather and particularly useful to digest yak meat. Tea is to Tibetans what coffee is to Italians and wine is to the French. More than a drink, it�??s a way of life.

That�??s why I found myself fiddling with brick tea, butter and blender this morning. Finding the right recipe was a challenge in itself. The Internet gave all sorts of contradictory instructions. Use two teaspoons of tea for five cups. No, use one oz. In the end, I settled for a recipe I found on Lobsang�??s Tibet recipes website, which sounded slightly more credible than the others. Except I really wanted to use brick tea to make it, as it is done in Tibet, so I replaced the tea bags with 5g (about two teaspoons) of brick tea that I had bought from Soana, in Milan. I made it the Tibetan way�??putting it in cold water and letting it boil. I don�??t have a churner, so tea, milk, salt and butter went into the blender for a couple of minutes. And of course, I had to use cow�??s milk and butter�??yaks being distinctly unavailable on this side of the world.

The liquid�??I still find it hard to call it tea�??was creamy, the color of a pale, milky latte. It had an intense buttery nose�??that sweetish, dairy scent�??with just a vague hint of tea in it. The flavor�??yuk! It reminded me of airline tea when they put that thick plastic-packaged cream thingy in what is already a weak brew. It had a creamy texture with definitely a lot more butter in it than tea. Sod the understatement: it had so little tea, it was like sipping melted butter. I can easily see how this drink can warm Tibetans through a day�??s work in Himalayan temperatures. I definitely appreciated making the experience�??but I am lucky to live in a better climate and I doubt I will drink po cha again anytime soon.

I was about to give up on Bangladesh. Although tea production plays a crucial role in the local economy, yielding some 55,000 tonnes from more than 140 gardens, I simply couldn’t find a leaf or two to sample.

All my usual sources failed me. I even went to Harrods, which had hosted a presentation of Kazi and Kazi tea, an organic estate from Bangladesh, about a year ago. Alas, they didn’t have it in stock just now. Instead, they were now hosting a white tea tasting which touted it as the next big thing�??a year or seven behind times, if you ask me. But I digress.

I was about to throw in the towel when a providential message on the rec.food.drink.tea group came to the rescue. One of the group’s members, who is originally from Bangladesh, although he no longer lives there, pointed me in the direction of Le Palais des Thes, a French online tea merchant.

I had come across Le Palais but never purchased from them before, so this was as good an excuse as any. I had a seamless buying experience, and a week or so later my tea from Bangladesh (and another five or six) arrived at my door. Just in time for my tour.

I had heard plenty about Bangladeshi tea, and not just from rec.food.drink.tea. I knew the industry dated from the mid-19th century and, although it had been severely hit by the war of independence from Pakistan, it had somewhat bounced back, making Bangladesh the ninth largest tea producing country in the world. I had also heard that Bangladeshi productivity remains low and about half of total tonnage is consumed at home. But I didn’t really know what flavor to expect.

Le Palais des Thes described its Bangladesh TGFOP as mild and amber. Amber it was indeed. My cup, from a level teaspoon of leaves steeped for 5 minutes as recommended, was a rich, dark amber color with a lovely floral scent and just a whiff of smokiness. But the flavor, I’d have hardly called mild. It was a strong caffeine punch, with a fleeting sweet note at first that evolved in a hugely powerful sip with a slightly bitter note in the end. It screamed oversteeping to my taste buds. For the very first time ever, I found a merchant that recommended longer steeping times than I would use.

I made the Bangladesh tea again with the same amount of leaves, but steeping for only four minutes. Miles better. It still had the lovely aroma, the caffeine punch and the powerful mouthfeel, but the bitter note had gone. Still, this is a tea I’d rather have with milk than on its own. And although it is described as suitable for drinking throughout the day, I definitely found it a kick-your-eyes-open morning tea with all the strength of a Futurist painting.