This isn’t a place known for rain.
Here, the sun is harsh, the wind is strong, and the red clay soil feels like a dry running track.

The farm sits on a hillside, with a distant view of the Mekong on clear days.
Mornings come with sharp eastern winds — strong enough to warrant a tarp over the fermenting boxes. Temperatures shift quickly. The earth dries fast.

During harvest season, every step must move with the wind — before the dry-season rains change the scent.

The village stays quiet. Cicadas sing in the heat. Wind hums through the fields as the sun dips low.

Cocoa beans from here carry warm, round tones — distinctly nutty.
Their first scent rises like freshly ground peanuts gently toasted, mingled with dry soil.

Deeper sips bring the soft sweetness of sunflower seeds, layered with the faint aroma of sun-dried wood.

On the finish, you might catch a nostalgic note — like old-school cocoa bars: bold, simple, satisfying.

Here in Sang Khom, people are in no rush.

Elders sit outside their homes in the afternoon, beneath trees they planted decades ago. Children run along red-dirt roads with no traffic lines, only laughter.

Morning market chatter has its own rhythm — not loud, not quiet, just right.
Some homes still cook over charcoal. Some wake earlier than the sun.
Nothing here is flashy.

And perhaps that’s exactly why the scent of this place lingers the way it does.