A Coffee Journey Through Ethiopia: The Untold Stories of Ethiopian Coffee

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Ethiopia Travel Journal 2018 (1): Amber Totem

Coffee is truly a magical agricultural product.

Whether it's the rice farmers in Thailand or the sugarcane workers in Brazil, they work hard 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 establish spiritual connections or worship their crops. From my impressions, 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 quite tell if this is a commercial tactic or if they're genuinely sharing their joy. But compared to Ethiopians, these seem superficial. Because coffee is not just an agricultural product—it's part of their existence.

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

Ethiopians of all ages and genders drink coffee every day. They begin接触ing this amber-colored liquid from childhood. But compared to the image of coffee that I was exposed to in developed countries, theirs is more three-dimensional and more a part of daily life. Coffee is a mother's gestures and expressions when 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 roam and play. In ancient times, coffee was not just a beverage but also a ritual and an important accessory for weddings and funerals.

I initially wanted to use metaphors of things that are taken for granted in life, like "eating soup dumplings needs vinegar" or "watching movies needs popcorn," but these seem to lack a profound connection. Upon deeper reflection, the situation is perhaps 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 more like the eternally existing moon than the post-processed mooncakes. Rather than saying Ethiopians chose coffee, it's more accurate to say that coffee chose the land of Ethiopia.

Although this country was never colonized by European powers, ethnic hatred and conflicts occur from time to time. Last year, I canceled my trip 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 rapidly changing torrent of industry development, and to understand what coffee means to the local people, especially indigenous tribal residents. I also wanted to capture the magnificent scenery of the Great Rift Valley. Coincidentally, a local friend invited me to write a preface for his upcoming book, which initiated this journey.

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

A travel program about Africa was playing in the waiting room of Cingcyuan Airport.

Actually, I wasn't deliberately watching that television screen. What my retina captured was just the flashing box between the flight status display screen and the planes parked outside the glass window. The light released from it contained lines and colors that resonated with a certain image in my memory archives, evoking thoughts of various landscapes.

I continued to immerse myself in the yellow score sheet copy in my hand, recalling the taste of coffee. Within three days, we had tasted over 80 different varieties in Alishan. The flavors that had lingered on my tongue were like oil paints on a canvas, covered layer by layer. The tiny characters densely packed on the bottom page of the carbon copy paper were no longer clear now (what was written in the heat of the moment couldn't really be described as clear). But looking at it as a whole (not reading, because it's unclear), it seems able to evoke sensory memories from certain moments. Printed in black ink, lines as neat as ruler markings were filled with marks on either the left or right. I searched hard for the coffee that had equally impressed me in both the preliminary and final rounds. What state of mind was I in when I recorded those flavors on paper? The handwriting on the carbon copy is like shadows under the scorching sun. From the outline, I can indeed recognize it as myself, but just as shadows change with the sun's position, what's written down can also be affected by the mental influence brought by coffee and become different. I believe only I would notice this observation.

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

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

The male host introduced the local customs with a surprised expression on his face. Meanwhile, I recalled the coffee pot that hadn't been captured by the camera. Even if I told them, "You might find coffee with jasmine, bergamot, tropical fruits, honey, and grapes near the village—that would be Geisha," 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.

During that journey, I visited villages of different tribes. Besides the girls covered in scars, there were also naked boys jumping onto the backs of running cattle, and customs like needing to lift and drop dozens of kilograms of stones to qualify for marriage. The most shocking sight, however, was the widespread cultivation of khat. A few years ago, I heard from a local producer that because the coffee quality in the Great Rift Valley region is very high, people didn't yet have incentive to abandon coffee in favor of 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 the soil acidic.

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

In front of the jeep, a young shepherd was waving his whip, leisurely 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 group occupying the entire road surface 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 groups before me seemed well-matched.

The leader was a brown ox. Its short horns were treated as spools, tied with several rounds of nylon rope, making it look like the white headband a cartoon character wears to cheer themselves up. Rather than leading, it was probably just walking faster, and its companions didn't mind following it. All local cattle are very thin, with clearly visible rib contours. Is this due to high exercise levels or lack of food? But deeper thought suggests this isn't right. Grass should be readily available on the vast grasslands, or do they only eat certain types of grass? It wagged its tail, moving leisurely forward. Until I returned, I didn't have a chance to discuss this with others—everyone was more interested in coffee anyway. But when friends looked at photos, they would notice the hump on the cattle's backs. It turns out this cattle is called Borana, a unique breed in the Oromia region that can survive in harsh environments. The hump, similar to a camel's, is used for storing water.

Two groups 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 rocks, without splashing a single drop. If they saw me during my evening commute on the subway platform, colliding with alighting passengers like playing dodgeball, trying to squeeze into the carriage ahead of others for a favorable position, they would probably feel truly superior.

The shepherd nodded lightly to the one opposite him, and the other's response was equally calm. Each focused on moving forward, their gazes returning to the animals. Perhaps when you're used to it, you see this moment as part of the scenery. Like bus drivers on circular routes when they see colleagues on the opposite road—casual expressions on their faces. Under the sky of the vast grasslands, the same route, the same animals, for generations, stirring up the same dust.

As I was pondering the silly question "If a sheep secretly turned around and followed the opposite group, would the shepherd notice," my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of knocking on the car door. Several children ran out from nearby jungle as the car slowed down—they seemed accustomed to identifying vehicles carrying tourists.

"Highland? Highland?" The leading boy kept shouting through the half-open car window. His ill-fitting jersey was covered in mud. On the wrist trying to reach into the car was tied a bracelet embroidered with the Ethiopian flag, composed of green, yellow, and red. His bare toes were rough. Hiding behind him was a slightly younger boy, guarding a yellow square plastic canister—I think it should be his younger brother. More and more children ran toward our car, creating a scene even more chaotic than the previous group of cattle and sheep, similar to an evening subway platform.

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

That day, I visited two villages and saw many unique customs. As usual, the villagers welcomed guests with a coffee ceremony. Everyone sat outdoors near houses made of dry grass. The mud on the ground, baked by the scorching sun, emitted warmth that didn't match the dusk sky. When the water boiled, light smoke emerged from the black Jabena pot's mouth. In the distance, came the cheerful noise of the group that had left in the morning to fetch water returning safely. My companions were discussing whether local children would have trouble sleeping after drinking coffee, or technical issues like coffee extraction ratios and water temperature being too high. My gaze, however, was fixed on a child not far from the crowd. He was casually scooping water from a puddle on the ground with half a gourd shell and drinking it. That puddle had been trampled by cattle and sheep not long ago.

A burning sensation spread from my fingertips. As I converted "200 million hours is how many years" and imagined "how many civilizations could be built with that time," I reached a conclusion: it's healthy for local children to start drinking coffee from a young age. The reason is simple: because the water used to make coffee once boiled.

About the Author: Patrick Tam

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

Not immune to caffeine, yet doesn't resist cha chaan teng coffee; simple when making coffee for himself, seeking only bitterness-free and clean results.

Once passionate about photography. A collection of antique lenses also found new life because of coffee: capturing moments on farms, using photos as bridges to shorten the distance between consumers and farmers.

Coffee is not just a hobby, but a way.

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