Here, it rains almost every day.
Some weeks, the sun peeks out for just a few hours.

The farm sits beside the Kraburi stream — a name that sounds simple, but the water is never still.

Mornings carry a fine drizzle mixed with the scent of fresh earth. The soil is thick and damp, often too moist to begin fermentation until the rain pauses.
The fermenting shed isn’t far — a wooden lean-to with a corrugated tin roof that hums with every breeze.

Children play in the mist like it’s a neighbor who never left.

Beans from Kraburi carry a distinctive tone — a tangy start, like fruit just beginning to ferment. The first scent hits like banana peel and wet grass. Sip deeper and you’ll find hints of prunes, soft smoke, and a subtle dryness like tea leaves.

Let it linger, and a trace of sun-dried banana returns — paired with a cool, damp woodiness that recalls evening air in a forest after rain.

In Kraburi, rain isn’t a visitor — it’s a way of life.

People hang laundry knowing it might not dry. Footpaths stay soft underfoot, and boots line up by every doorway. Homes are built with tin roofs that sing when the sky opens up.

No one seems to mind.

Here, rain shapes not just the soil, but the rhythm of every day.