Last weekend was spent in the province of Ninh Binh, visiting the home of an Akubra wearing Vietnamese man. It was rice harvesting time (which conincides with kite flying), which happens twice a year. Having consumed rice almost every day for my entire life to sustain my “fine” physique, it was probably about time i found out where it came from (not a rice cooker on your kitchen bench it turns out).

Families are designated plots of land around their commune based on the number of family members registered, i.e more family more land i believe. For Mr Akubra wearer’s family, one harvest should cover enough for 8 months of rice, so two harvests should result in a surplus, given decent weather and no attack from crop circle loving aliens or creatively inclined people attached to ride on mowers looking to kill time.

When the rice crop turns yellowish and when people who know what they are talking about say it’s time to harvest, it’s time to harvest. This involves using a little scythe, it probably has a real name but to me it was a little scythe, in vietnamese it could possibly be called a liểm (i am no authority on this subject it seems). I had never understood the point of such a curved blade until harvesting. Having the curved blade allows one to simply pull through the crop in a single stroke inflicting pressure upon the stem without having to use a sawing motion, amazing.

So a cutting we went, barefoot in the mud, wearing shorts and t-shirt was probably not the best attire for such a venture. Lucky the straw hat made up for it somewhat. To my disappointment there were no harvesting songs sung, i’m sure it happens in the movies, but spending most of your time bent over and twisting probably isn’t conducive to singing i guess. So after the rice is cut about three quarters of the way down and left in piles, the men then get to work.

Traditionally it’s the women that cut the rice while the men bale it, poke the bales with a stick of bamboo sharpened at both ends (is there anything bamboo can not do?) and carry it off. We managed to partake in both activities, breaking down the traditional gender boundaries allowing men and women to bale and wield hand held scythes as they please, a momentous day indeed.

After a couple of hours of work from us, and several more hours work from the others one field was cut and baled and a well earned drink from the kettle was had. Some other beverages may also have been consumed resulting in a very relaxed state.

All the bales are then taken to the local village machine which separates the grains of rice from the grass, which is then left to dry in the family courtyard. When it rains, which it did, you have to rake it all up and move it indoors, or just cover it in plastic as we did.


After posing proudly with the harvest (which is not a mandatory step), the now sufficiently dried grains get husked at the local husking machine, and then you simply add water, heat and you have the backbone of an entire diet, hooray for rice.

(why does rice get thrown at weddings? it seems a waste, and this practice should be stopped given food shortage crises, i say.)