Autobiography As A Haiku

When the dry season begins in Cambodia, the weather changes overnight. A cool wind sweeps down from the Himalayas and blows away the monsoons. The farmers notice the change, and they prepare to harvest the fields of rice plants that have turned golden. Columns of workers armed with hoes, curved sickles, and straw baskets begin to appear on the side of the roads. A code of dress for this work is required: rubber sandals, long pants dirtied by mud, long sleeve shirts, straw hats, and cloth tied around their heads to protect themselves from the sun.

Reaching their destination, they wade across an irrigation canal in water up to their waist. As soon as they get to the other side, they begin to work. Standing in ankle deep mud, they bend over the tall thin plants and began to cut them down. Using one hand to hold them in place, they cut the plant down to its stump. When they have cut enough, they hand their bundles to another person who ties them together. They are then placed in a straw basket to be collected later.

The process repeats. Bend over. Swish! Give the bundles to the collector. Every few hours, a wooden cart with two great big wheels and driven by two oxen comes along and collects the bundles. By a concatenation of events after this, the end result is found in my morning breakfast bowl.

I ask my students if they want to be rice farmers. They tell me no, for it is very hard. I ask them if they want to be anything else when they leave school. They tell me yes.

“Well,” I say, “Better practice your English then.”