How coffee growing in the center of Taiwan changed my life for good

Ancient knowledge challenged my notion of what plants are.

The City of Taipei, Taiwan.

My name is Josué Morales and I have been in the coffee industry since 2003. In 2011, during one of my visits to the City of Taipei, in Taiwan, I learned a lesson that would permanently change the way in which I grow my coffee. 

I can describe my first visit to Taiwan in two words: cultural shock. 

This visit made such a long lasting impact on me that, if any given night I close my eyes, I can clearly see the colorful lights of the Linjiang Street Night Market, near the Taipei 101 building. This is where I experienced some of the most bizarre foods I’ve ever seen. 

From deep fried battered duck heads that are sold with the long neck inserted into a stick, to the unmistakable smell of the stinky tofu that announces itself from half a block away. This is where I tasted some of the strangest foods I’ve ever tasted. Even foods that at first sight appear to be very similar to Western foods are not only different but completely unfamiliar. 

My sole purpose of this visit was to sell coffee. 

By that time, I was convinced that I was producing Specialty Coffee of outstanding quality in Guatemala. For that reason, it was obvious to me that hoards of roasters would come running to throw their money at me. Turns out, that didn’t happen. 

For starters, I was used to going to trade shows in the Western World. Specialty Coffee Trade Shows, where I would stand out because I was producing High Altitude Organic Coffee in Guatemala and I had strong relationships with producers through my traceability programs. 

Things were different in Taiwan. The trade show that I went to was not exactly a Specialty Coffee Trade Show. It was a Beverage Trade Show that consolidated Tea, Coffee and Wine. My coffee, the very special product that I was so proud of, was to this audience just another beverage.

I had fallen under the spell of what I now call the Chinese Fairy Tale, or the idea that because the economies of the Asian countries are so dynamic, especially China, that they are dying to consume whatever is placed in front of them. Turns out, they are not. 

The vast majority of the Asian population has a very strongly rooted culture of drinking tea, not coffee. The coffee that is so dear to my heart was for them nothing more than a curiosity, perhaps a souvenir. 

And then, I met Van Lin. 

Van Lin is the owner of a coffee shop and consulting company in Taipei called GaBee, which means “coffee” in Taiwanese, and the man who introduced me to a very different definition of Specialty Coffee that blew my mind. 

The very first beverage he ever served me at GaBee was one of his signature drinks which involve espresso, brewed coffee, frozen grapes and Pop Rocks candy. The drink is a revolution to the senses, as you sip you get the acidity of the grapes, the taste of the coffee and immediately the shock of the candy popping in your mouth. 

This was an awesome heresy to me! 

Van Lin and Josue Morales at GaBee. November 2011.

I came from a world where Specialty Coffee had everything to do with the coffee itself, brewed in a way that would reveal its origin, and explained in the context of its traceability. And here was this guy who had built a very successful business around the concept of messing around with the taste of the coffee! 

Every aspect of the taste that would reveal its origin was lost in the process –on purpose! And he was not alone. The whole industry –incipient at that time– was doing exactly the same. I was perplexed. 

Van later explained to me the importance that rituals have in their culture. How they were much more focused on the experience than in the coffee itself. What they valued the most was a taste that would reveal the process, rather than its origin. From this point of view, coffee is not a finished product; it’s only an ingredient. 

The standards of taste from the Western World meant nothing here. It was all about perfecting the rituals around a completely new interpretation of the craft. 

Van has always been restless in the pursuit of being at the forefront of innovating and perfecting these rituals. He was the first Latte Art Champion in Taiwan, and became famous for inventing the technique of pouring milk into a latte in the form of a swan. He has also published many books about coffee pairing as an ingredient in cocktails and other beverages.

One day, a peculiar crowd of people spontaneously gathered at GaBee. A multicultural gathering from Tokyo, Hong Kong, UK, the USA, and myself, from Guatemala. These were people who were coffee professionals like me, and we were all there because we had heard about this place and wanted to experience it firsthand. 

We went out to have lunch together. I remember having some of the spiciest food that I’ve ever eaten. I also remember how easily and naturally a sense of community and genuine friendship was born among us, around the love for coffee, and congregated around the magic of GaBee.

This friendship with Van Lin also led me to learn about a community of coffee producers in the province of Tainan, in the center of Taiwan. Something I would remember later on, during my most desperate search for answers to the Leaf Rust Crisis we were living back home. 

The Leaf Rust, as I have explained in a previous article [What does Organic Coffee mean to me?] is a fungal disease that makes a host out of coffee leaves, restricting their capacity to perform photosynthesis, thus affecting coffee production and even the survival of the plant.

I spent months trying to find a way to go visit the producers in Tainan. I was convinced that going to one of the most isolated coffee production areas on the planet would allow me to learn something new. 

First, I needed a translator for the trip. This was finally arranged for me by the Guatemalan Embassy in Taiwan. Then, I needed the producers to actually accept to host me. I traveled to Taiwan without the certainty that this would happen, finally coming all together a day before I had to fly back home. 

The visit was to be hosted by the Growers Association of Taiwan. It was a surprise for them that a foreigner wanted to visit their fields. It was a surprise for me that there had never been a coffee producer from another country who had ever requested to visit them. For this reason, they didn’t have a protocol in place to receive a foreign visitor. I insisted so much that they created one for me. 

As I sat in the fast train that goes from Taipei to Tainan in only two hours, I anxiously went over and over the questions I wanted to ask these producers. Taiwan is an island. Coffee had been brought there by a Japanese Emperor back when the Island was controlled by Japan, over a hundred years ago. 

Two hours later and an hour’s drive and we were sitting at the office of one of the associations. They had an elaborate reception according to their custom, with many greetings and many protocols that I am very grateful for. But that was not what I was looking for. 

Right before leaving, by mere accident, I found the first clue that would later lead me to what I was really looking for. I wandered into a room where the fertilizer they use was being portioned to be distributed to the members of the group and I was able to snap a picture of the bag with its formula on it. Then we left. 

It was pouring rain and it was starting to be used as an excuse not to take me to the mountains. But I needed to go to the mountains. I wanted to see and touch the coffee trees. This was one of the main reasons why I had made it all the way to that point. The uncomfortable combination of my stubbornness and their hospitality ended up leading my hosts to agree to take me to the mountains.

Coffee plantations in Tainan, Taiwan. November 18, 2014.

As we drove up the hills, all I could make out were these tall shrubs shaded by palm trees. I grew impatient and disappointed. I feared that I wasn’t being taken to see what I wanted to see. 

I hopped off the car. I was blowing steam. Frustration was creating even more clouds inside my head. Were we here to drink coffee? Were we here for more meetings? Were we here for more protocols? That was absolutely not what I was looking for. 

As we walked towards the canopy, I was hit by yet another surprise. Those tree-like shrubs were actually the coffee trees that I was so desperately looking for. I didn’t recognize them before because of the idea of what a coffee shrub is in my head. These were actual trees that produced coffee. They were very tall and very wide. It made sense, I thought. They had been growing here for a hundred years. Coffee has changed a lot during that span of time, even in the way the plants look.

As I came near one of these trees I was surprised, relieved and anxious to see that even with its staggering size it seemed to be very healthy, and productive, and bearing a lot of coffee cherries. When I finally reached for one of the branches and was able to turn around one of the leaves, I could feel the pulsations in my veins. There was rust on the leaf. 

How in the world did it get here? In this place, in an island, in a coffee growing region that was completely isolated from all others, in a coffee region whose only foreign visitor up to that day had been me?

The protocols of the reception and the visit needed to happen. We ate lunch on a terrace on the side of a river, surrounded by coffee trees, and under the pouring rain. Food was memorable and plentiful. The experience was magnificent. But I had questions. 

With the help of my translator, I established fluid communication. But when I finally got to the part when I asked the questions, she stalled. I was trying to ask questions that were too technical and too specific. It was evident that she was doing her best, but she wasn’t getting the message across. I wasn’t being understood, and I was running out of time.

Out of impatience, I started drawing on a piece of paper, as an aid to communication. But that still wasn’t enough. Hours had gone by and I was still not being understood.

Mr. Chen and I, at one of the warehouses for the Taiwanese Coffee Growers Association. 2014.

In essence, all I wanted to know was how were their coffee trees so vigorous despite the rust? How come they hadn’t lost their leaves despite having the leaf rust? Why were they so productive despite having the leaf rust? 

As a last resort, out of pure despair, I took out my camera and showed them the picture of the bag of fertilizer that I had snapped before. 

That sparked deliberation among them. A lot of deliberation. To the point that I was sure that I had offended them. 

I waited in expectation. 

Finally, Mr. Chen, the leader of the group, took me out into the fields. As he was doing this, he explained to me that it wasn’t about the formula of the products they use, but the way they use them to interact with the plant. He then proceeded to demonstrate to me how they interact with each plant.

He went on to explain that, just as each person has needs and each person has reactions to your behaviors, also each plant has needs and each plant has reactions to your behaviors.

Each plant is alive, as an individual and as part of a community. 

Nurturing that life is about guiding it the right way, not about forcing it to produce. By feeding it the right things to properly develop its strength, not force feeding it with all the fertilizers available. It’s about working with the plant to widen its root system, to allow for it to thrive amongst adversity. 

My mind was blown. My Western constructs and ideas had been challenged beyond repair.

These producers have the concept that they are dealing with a live organism when dealing with the coffee plants. Simple as it is, this concept changed my life for good. This concept alone made it worthwhile to overcome so many obstacles to come this far. 

I spent the rest of the afternoon asking very different types of questions. They were not technical anymore. They had to do with interaction, with communication, with caring.

I took the train back to Taipei that same evening, and went from the train station directly to the airport. I had a lot of work to do.

What does Human Centered coffee production mean to me?

The weakest link in the supply chain is also the strongest one.

The Valley of Nebaj in Quiché, Guatemala. October 2006.

When I was growing up, my father thought that I had to get to know every single municipality in my country, Guatemala. At first glance, this seems like a feasible idea, even an exciting idea. But in the 90’s Guatemala was still a very remote country, severely underdeveloped, most of it with precarious or even non-existent infrastructure, and living through the last wave of the Civil War.

This was not just about the geography and the numerous paradisiacal landscapes. This was also about the people. About 76% of the population is divided into 22 ethnic groups of Mayan descent, each with its own language, its own customs and traditions, and, as I would learn years later, with their own particular ways of going about business.

My favorite place was –and is still to this day– Panajachel, a small town located on the shore of Lake Atitlán. Or “The Lake”, as tourists call it. About 18km long and 8km wide (11.2 x 5 miles), a maximum depth of 340 meters (1,120 ft) makes it the deepest lake in Central America. It’s framed by three stunning volcanoes, all higher than 3,000 meters (10,000 ft), and surrounded by lush forests in every direction. It’s not only my opinion that this lake is beautiful. Alexander von Humboldt literally called it “the most beautiful lake in the world.”

Panajachel is an absolutely magical place. It’s decorated with some of the most amazing sunsets I’ve ever seen, and also with the most diverse of populations, as uniquely colorful as the sunsets themselves. This is the place that congregated most of my extended family.

Visiting my grandparents was a whole different story. They lived in the eastern part of Guatemala, which is as hot and arid as a land can be without being properly a desert. Just as the environment is different, life is also different. In this cracked and dusty soil, the vegetation is very peculiar, often more brown than green and full of huge thorns. There are always vultures flying high against the sun in circles.

These two were the most recurrent places. From here we would make camp and move on to other more remote areas that could only be described as part of a fairy tale book. I spent all my childhood and adolescence going on these expeditions.

My father and I at the market of Chichicastenango in Quiché. Guatemala, 1989.

When I reached adulthood, I was very familiar with even the most remote places in my country. I knew how to find and drive through the most incredible secret roads. I knew how to maneuver through the many extreme microclimates that change drastically from one kilometer to the next one.

But living all these experiences meant much more than just appreciating the astonishing scenery Guatemala has to offer. It meant experiencing how people live in each part of the country. It meant hanging out with locals in each town and sitting in the square just watching time go by. It meant having dinner and chatting long hours at the tables of friends and going to mass with them on Sundays. It meant experiencing and learning how differently the very same activities were carried out between one place and another.

It involved talking to people. A lot. Asking for directions. From how to get to a place, to where to catch the sunrise or the sunset. Listening to stories and legends. Paying the most careful attention to the advice given by the elders.

I discovered that this small country was a very big world.

One of the last places I visited was the northern part of Quiché. Perhaps the most severely hit by the terrors of the Civil War, where the worst of the massacres had occurred. The type of unspeakable contradictions that make these lands cry tears of blood.

I had read about these places in history books and in reports from the United Nations. The names always seemed to me like places that had been ravaged by war and were deserted to the point of being wastelands.

To my surprise, places like Cunen, Salquil, Acul and the whole region known as The Ixil Triangle, formed by the towns of Nebaj, Chajul and Cotzal, are among some of the most exuberant and breathtaking places I’d ever been to.

The drive to Quiché is a rollercoaster. Up and down the most complicated road in the country, with its sharp turns barely hanging from cliffs, with potholes in every section of the way, and, now and then, tons of pouring rain. At some point you reach Sacapulas, which is so low in altitude that it feels as if you’re in a beach town in the middle of the mountains. From here it’s all uphill into the clouds.

I would drive this road on a Friday afternoon. Feeling how the weight of the “things of the City” gradually stayed behind until they disappeared completely. Ten to twelve hours later, depending on the weather, I’d be sleeping in Nebaj.

On Saturday, the noise of a very busy street outside my window would wake me up. After sunrise, under the faint but constant rain, I would walk two blocks down towards the square to have breakfast, down the steps in a corner into a diner called Comedor Elsim.

One of the strongest impressions I have of Nebaj was coming out of this comedor, thinking already about the drive back to the city, when I saw a large group of people gathered in the middle of the street. There was a man holding a stick in one hand and a rattle toy on the other. In front of him, on the ground, was a brown piece of cloth. The crowd was absolutely silent as he danced around it in circles holding the stick and rattling the toy. Underneath the cloth was a snake. As the serpent enchanter whistled there was thunder in the distance. Downhill, a tent was being set up. The circus had arrived in town. The year was 2005.

I felt a strong affinity towards the Ixil people I had made friends with. The leader of this one group, called Joel, had told me how he survived two massacres while he was still only a kid. He was always looking for ways to do business and bring projects to his community. A sense of community that can only be understood in light of the terrors of their past.

Once a month I would drive up to Quiché with my father, who is still to this day my guide and companion when going to these difficult places in Guatemala. We would have meetings with a group of people who were trying to get organized to form a Cooperative so that they could be beneficiaries of some government program.

This was my first attempt at working with a community, and my intention was to document how many members they had, where their parcels were located, how many coffee trees they had in these parcels, and how much coffee was produced.

This was also the first time that I was trying to adapt my Coffee Traceability System to follow collective decisions instead of the individual decisions of single producers.

As I interviewed them, with a translator interpreting my questions, my father would snap their portraits, one by one, and we would make them name tags as a symbol that they were part of the project, although the pictures were mainly visual aids for me so that I could remember their names.

Portraits of Members from the Ixil Community in Nebaj. November 2005.

The idea was simple: if my system was working on larger farms to trace the samples back to their handling, back to their harvesting, and even back to the growing of the coffee trees, then it would also work for a group of producers if I treated the Cooperative as a single large farm and I just added one additional line to register who the individual producer was.

With my system in place, I would have all the information necessary to advise each producer individually on how to improve their practices so that their samples would result in a better taste of the cup. With time, they would end up delivering beans of such a quality that I could roast them to an extraordinarily above average cup quality, just like I was doing with the larger farms.

(Read: What does Specialty Coffee mean to me?)

I’ve always preferred working with people with whom I have a strong friendship. The relationship was there. I’ve always preferred working with people that are eager to learn and to excel. This hunger was there. We had spent months planning and getting ready to solve any issues that might arise along the way. The preparation was there. My Coffee Traceability system had been adapted to their Cooperativa. Everything was there!

Harvest came and not a single coffee sample was sent to me.

By the time I went back to the mountains, all of the harvest had been sold to someone else.

Sitting with them at Comedor Elsim, I was trying to have them explain to me what had happened. We had spent nearly a year working together so that in the end I would receive their samples and I could taste their coffee. And in the most critical moment of the whole process, nothing happened.

What went wrong?

All along the way, I had been paying attention to how to make things work. But I had overlooked how people work.

These people had learned for generations to act from fear before anything else. So when a swiss guy came to the community waving the Fair Trade flag and offering to pay sub-par prices up front, they sold. They sold everything. They sold everything to less than half the price that I was offering to pay because they were not comparing prices. They could only put certainty on the scale. And with only certainty on their minds, a very low price up front was undoubtedly better than the promise of a higher price that I had offered to pay at the end of harvest.

Up to this day, I still consider my project in Quiché to be my biggest failure. But it’s also the failure from which I learned the most important lesson of my professional career: things will only work if you truly put yourself in the shoes of the people that you’re working with. Not just a bit. All the way! Until the point where you deeply understand their feelings and emotions and take care of that first.

After you have taken care of their feelings and emotions, then you can take care of their interests. Then you can talk business. Then you can start doing business, and actually succeed.

It’s only after you have taken care of their feelings and emotions that each and every one of those individuals become the strongest link in your supply chain.