The days of rippling rice fields have passed. The new stalks are feeble in their early days, which allows the wind to shift them easily. With a good breeze blowing, the result is a mesmerizing flow akin to the ebb and flow of an ocean. However, as the grains grow and the stalks begin to bear their weight, the sway lessens and the rustling grows louder. Eventually, the golden hue appears. It tends to be a quick change; a glimmer of gold along the edges one day, a full golden sheen the next.
Also during this time, some fields behave strangely. I think it is a similar moment comparable to the crop circles *discovered* in corn crops around the world. One day, all stalks are reaching towards to the sun, the next, a great swath of the field is laying down. Flattened as if a troll had a jolly good tussle, the hand of God smooshed it flat, a phantom zamboni took a wrong turn, or a sleeping plant spell was sprinkled about the patch.
Upon our return from traveling, I noticed the gold edges beginning to peek. So, over the past month, we have appreciated the golden hour of sunset even more at our viewpoint. However, the golden time is minimal as, little by little, the vibrant fields are reduced to mucked messes with chopped stalks set in helter-skelter angles. It is a harsh change.
These harvestings have been very clandestine. The only combines spotted have been perched on the long beds of large trucks rolling down the highway, obviously between jobs.
However, a few days before Loy Krathong, we were talking in our office about the full moon. One co-worker commented, "oh, there are going to be some loud nights." My interest piqued, I inquired about an explanation.
"They harvest rice at night under a full moon. It seems to be lucky," he replied.
Thus, the night after Loy Krathong frivolity, I was sitting in the front room of the bungalow when I heard a dose of rumbling and some whirring. I grabbed my camera and quickly exited the bungalow, bounding down the road to our viewpoint. To my delight, harvesting was in progress - not on our picturesque field but across the street. Two mechanical beasts at work.
The only orbs of brightness were a very vibrant moon overhead and very glaring headlights sweeping over the field. At the helm of the combine was a man covered from head to ankle; flip-flop clad feet pushed the pedals. The head coverings of labor workers in Thailand tend to look akin to niqabs, but shorter, tighter, and quirkier in fabric choice.
Back and forth, to and fro, around and around went the combine. A dance of machinery that can be seen around the world.
Clickity-clack went the cutters and the whir of the thresher provided the melody of the night.
I snapped pictures for a few minutes, then I spent the next forty-five minutes enjoying the process and remembering past moments when I would sit perched beside Granddaddy, Uncle Mac, or Dad on the farm. There was a Thai guy standing on the road with me. Ever so often, I would see him sneak a side-eye look towards my way. It was a moment I wished for the immediate gift of language because I really wanted to stand beside him and tell him I grew up on a farm, I have very fond memories of riding along, I appreciate all farmers and their hard work, and I am a very inquisitive person who really wants to know how one can harvest in the dead of night without busting a pipe or a rice paddy berm. Alas, I stood alone and silent. Though he did make a call at one point, which resulted in a few lads joining him and a good, quick session of gawking at the foreigner. I had a good internal chuckle.
The gawking ceased when one of the lads flagged the attention of the combine driver and promptly handed over a Chang beer. I felt it was a missed marketing opportunity of the iconic beer company. I think I need a job of finding iconic products in the wild. Forget the posh photo shoots in studios with scripted poses and squeaky-clean models. Let me show you the ragged, anonymous, dusty driver pausing his work to stand on the front of his clunky, idling machine - one bare foot propped up, a forearm propped on his thigh, the other hand clutching the national brand of beer, laughing with his mates as a glorious full moon hangs overhead.
After the beer break, the harvesting resumed. Eventually, all was done. The driver sidled the combine parallel to the road as a large dump truck eeked its way backwards along our tiny road. As the grain plummeted into the bed, the driver broke down his machine transformer-style. A few grain tank panels collapsed. A pipe or two shifted. A few shakes of the reel to loosen any stray stalks or grains.
With everything offloaded, the dump truck drove away and the combine climbed its way out of the paddy. With very, very muddy tracks, it ambled its way towards my bungalow. I walked in front of it, for I quickly realized that while the grain truck had been a tight fit on our road, the width of the combine allowed no error in maneuvering. A bystander had no room to bystand. A few glances over my shoulder as I walked made me wonder if we would have power by the end of the drive, because the space between the reel/cutter bar and power poles was barely visible.
Completely at ease with the situation, the driver looked as though he was out for a leisurely afternoon drive. When he approached the awaiting transport truck, he did a pirouette that completely shamed any of my driving skills, then reversed up the ramps and onto the truck bed. With a flick of a switch, the combine went dark and silent. The driver climbed off, a few words were said, then all piled into the cab and drove into the night.
All of our surrounding fields have been harvested since this night. Scraggly and forlorn they sit. However, over the past few days, the hums of Kubota tractors have been heard and the bright orange machines have been seen pushing and pulling around in the muck. Berms are being rebuilt. Paddies are being levied. Today, as I rode a bike around, I even saw a field being flooded. It seems our rice cycle is about to begin once again.
