The Story of Ethiopian Coffee Beans Are Ethiopian Hambella Flower Champion Coffee Beans Expensive

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Ethiopia Travel Journal 2018 (1): The Amber Totem

Coffee is truly a magical agricultural product.

Whether it's Thai farmers growing rice or Brazilian workers producing sugarcane, they work diligently from sunrise to sunset, through the changing seasons, letting their sweat seep into the soil in exchange for rewards. For them, this way of life is a generational tradition and a necessity for survival. They probably don't form spiritual connections or worship their crops. In my memory, stores in Aomori like to turn local specialties (apples) into cartoon characters and hold festivals during the harvest season to promote a series of by-products. I can never tell if this is a commercial tactic or their sincere way of sharing joy. But compared to Ethiopians, these all seem superficial. Because coffee is not just a crop—it's part of their existence.

I calculated in my mind: how many glasses of wine does a French winery owner drink each day? Even if they do drink, it's probably to entertain buyers or test product quality. People often ask me if I have to drink a lot of coffee in this industry. I usually give vague answers, perhaps because saying "not much" seems impolite or doesn't meet their expectations. Honestly, nowadays when I drink coffee, it's often from a critical perspective of quality evaluation. Even when I happen to have coffee while traveling, I can't escape my professional habit kicking in, using an invisible ruler in my mind to measure and compare. It's somewhat embarrassing when I think about it.

Ethiopians, regardless of age or gender, drink coffee every day. From childhood, they are exposed to this amber-colored liquid. But compared to the image of coffee I was exposed to in developed countries, theirs is more three-dimensional and more integrated into daily life. Coffee is the gestures and expressions of a mother hosting guests at home, or the residual warmth from the charcoal used to boil water as the sun sets. It might be part of the building materials for house walls, or the hills surrounding the village where children run and play. In ancient times, coffee was not just a beverage but also a sacred ritual and an important element in weddings and funerals.

I wanted to use analogies like "dipping dumplings in vinegar" or "eating popcorn while watching movies"—things that seem理所当然 in daily life—but it always felt lacking in profound connection. When I thought more carefully, the situation is probably like the bright moon and mooncakes during the Mid-Autumn Festival: mooncakes are commodities, but the moon is part of the environment. I feel that for Ethiopians, coffee is like the moon that has always existed, more than the post-processed mooncake. Rather than saying Ethiopians chose coffee, it's more like coffee chose the land of Ethiopia.

Although this country was never colonized by European powers, ethnic hatred and conflicts still occur frequently. I canceled my trip last year because many coffee-producing areas were damaged. From the industry's perspective, I wanted to see how this country, considered the birthplace of coffee, adapts to the rapid changes in the industry, understand what coffee means to locals, especially indigenous tribal people, and capture the magnificent scenery of the Great Rift Valley. Coincidentally, a local friend invited me to write a preface for his upcoming book, which led to this journey.

Ethiopia Travel Journal 2018 (2): Khat in the Rift Valley

In the waiting lounge at Qingyuan Gang Airport, a travel program about Africa was playing.

Actually, I wasn't deliberately watching that television screen. What my retina registered was just a flashing box between the flight status display and the planes parked outside the window. The light released from it contained lines and colors that resonated with a certain scene in my memory archives, making me think of some scenery.

I continued to bury myself in the copy of the yellow scoring paper, recalling the taste of coffee. Within three days, we had evaluated over 80 entries in Alishan. The flavors that once lingered on my tongue were like oil paints on a canvas, covered layer by layer. The tiny characters densely packed on the carbon copy bottom page were no longer clear (what was written in a flash of lightning couldn't really be described as clear). But looking at it as a whole (not reading, because it's not clear), it seemed able to evoke sensory impressions from certain moments in memory. Printed in black ink, with lines as neat as ruler marks filled with left-or-right checkmarks. I struggled to find the coffee that gave me the same震撼 in both the preliminary and final rounds. What kind of mood was I in when I recorded those flavors on paper? The handwriting on the carbon paper was like shadows in the scorching sun. From the outline, I could indeed recognize it as mine, but just as shadows change with the sun's position, what was written also changes due to the mental effects of coffee. I believe only I would notice this observation.

"Jasmine, bergamot, tropical fruits, honey, grapes, smooth texture"—I looked at my description of this coffee while listening to the host's fearful voice as he crossed a dried riverbed.

Is it Gesha? Pieces of memory triggered a chain reaction like bowling pins being knocked down. My subconscious probably recognized that the TV screen was showing the Great Rift Valley I had recently visited. This scene brought back impressions of African coffee, especially Gesha. So unconsciously, I labeled the coffee I recently tasted based on that flavor profile. One answer, like dominoes, solved another problem. As for whether this was actually the case, it might take drinking more coffee to find out. Memories jumped around randomly, and the TV program's镜头 also hovered over the mountains and fields. Finally, my gaze focused on a group of girls whose hair was coated with orange mud. They were singing and dancing on the grassland, with almost pleading expressions as they handed the rattan whips in their hands to boys from the same Turmi tribe, asking them to whip themselves and leave scars symbolizing happiness.

The male host introduced local customs with a surprised expression. I recalled the coffee pot that wasn't captured in the shot. Even if I told them "you might find coffee with jasmine, bergamot, tropical fruits, honey, and grapes near the village—that would be Gesha," they would probably be as confused as most consumers who aren't interested in coffee. If I wanted to communicate with them, it would be better to find a more popular topic.

On that journey, I visited different tribal villages. Besides the girls covered in scars, there were also boys running naked on the backs of bulls, and different customs like having to lift and drop a dozens-of-jin stone to qualify for marriage. The most shocking thing was actually the widespread cultivation of khat. A few years ago, I heard from a local producer that because the coffee quality in the Rift Valley region is very high, people didn't have incentive to switch to growing khat. But due to huge demand from neighboring countries (like Somalia), continued decline in coffee futures prices, and geopolitics, more and more locals are choosing to grow this plant that consumes large amounts of water and makes soil acidic.

Ethiopia Travel Journal 2018 (3): Coffee, At Least It Has Boiled

In front of the jeep, a young shepherd was waving a whip, unhurriedly gathering the cattle and sheep scattered across the road. He wasn't doing this to clear the way for us, but because in the distance, another herd that also occupied the entire road was approaching us. In the Great Rift Valley tribes, wealth is calculated by the number of livestock owned. It's said that marrying one wife requires 30 sheep, so the two herds before me seemed well-matched.

The leader was a brown bull. Its short horns were used as spools, wrapped with several turns of nylon rope, looking like the white headband cartoon characters wear to cheer themselves up. Rather than being a leader, it was probably just walking faster, and its companions didn't mind following it. All local cattle were very thin, with clearly visible rib outlines. Was it due to high activity or lack of food? But deeper thought suggested this was wrong. Grass on the great plains should be readily available—perhaps they only eat certain types of grass? It wagged its tail, walking leisurely forward. Until I returned, I didn't have a chance to discuss this with others, as everyone was more interested in coffee. But when friends looked at photos, they would notice the hump on the cattle's backs. It turned out this cattle is called Borana, a unique breed in the Oromia region that can survive in harsh environments. That hump, like a camel's, is used to store water.

Two herds of over a hundred cattle and sheep walked towards each other on the narrow dirt road. The moment they passed each other was as smooth as water flowing over stones, without splashing a single drop. If they saw me on the subway platform after work, colliding with alighting passengers like in a game of dodgeball, trying to squeeze into the carriage ahead of others for a advantageous position, they would probably feel truly superior.

The shepherd nodded lightly to the one opposite, and the other's response was equally calm. Both focused forward, their gazes returning to the animals. Perhaps when you see something often enough, you see it as part of the scenery. Like bus drivers on circular routes, their expressions showing indifference when seeing colleagues on the opposite road. Under the great plain's sky, the same route, the same animals, for generations, have been stirring the same dust.

As I was pondering the boring question "if a sheep secretly turned around and followed the opposite herd, would the shepherd notice," my train of thought was interrupted by the sound of knocking on the car door. Several children ran out from nearby jungle as the car slowed down—they were probably used to identifying vehicles carrying tourists.

"Highland? Highland?" The leading boy kept shouting through the half-open window. His ill-fitting jersey was covered in mud. On the wrist he tried to extend into the car was tied a bracelet with green, yellow, and red colors—the Ethiopian flag. His bare toes were rough. Hiding behind him was a younger boy, protecting a yellow square plastic container—probably his brother. More and more children ran toward our car, creating a scene more chaotic than the herd of cattle and sheep ahead, similar to a subway platform during rush hour.

The driver opened the window and casually tossed an empty water bottle to one of the little girls outside. "Highland is actually a local bottled water brand," he explained. "They're not begging for money, just wanting more containers for water. The villagers left before sunrise to fetch water from nearby rivers. In one or two years, these children will also participate. If you finish your water, give them the empty bottles too." The yellow water bottle beside the little boy is the most commonly used type locally. When full, it should weigh over five kilograms—probably too heavy for a child of this age to carry. When I watched documentaries as a child, I always thought Africa = hot = dry, picturing Ethiopia as a desert. Actually, many places there have water sources, but due to poor infrastructure, many village residents need to spend several hours daily to fetch clean water. Forty-five percent of school-age children there don't attend primary school but choose to linger on the streets, because they need to reserve their time for their family's water needs. A UNICEF article from March mentioned that residents in underdeveloped regions worldwide (especially women and children) spend a total of 200 million hours daily on transportation to fetch water (mostly walking).

That day, I visited two villages and saw many unique customs. As always, the villagers welcomed us with a coffee ceremony. Everyone sat outdoors next to houses built of hay. The mud on the ground, baked by the scorching sun, emitted warmth that didn't match the evening sky color. When the water boiled, light smoke emerged from the black Jabena pot's mouth. Not far away, came the cheerful noise of the water-fetching team that had left that morning returning safely. My companions discussed whether local children would have trouble sleeping after drinking coffee, or technical issues like extraction ratios and water temperature being too high. My gaze, however, fell on a child not far from the crowd. He was casually scooping water from a puddle on the ground with half a gourd shell to drink. That puddle had been trampled by cattle and sheep not long before.

A burning sensation spread from my fingertips. While calculating "200 million hours equals how many years," I imagined "how many civilizations could be built with that time." My conclusion was: it's healthy for local children to start drinking coffee from a young age, for a simple reason—because the water used to make coffee has, at least, been boiled.

About the Author: Patrick Tam

One of Hong Kong's first certified Specialty Coffee Association of Europe and America baristas and cuppers, Cup of Excellence international competition judge, columnist, university guest lecturer, and founder of specialty coffee shop Knockbox.

Immune to caffeine but can't resist tea restaurant coffee; makes simple coffee for himself, just seeking not bitter and not messy.

Once passionate about photography. A collection of antique lenses was reborn because of coffee: capturing farm moments, using photos as bridges to shorten the distance between consumers and farmers.

Coffee is not just a hobby, but a path.

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