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| Paddie-whack. |
The acrid air smothered my nose as we trudged through rice paddies, tiled yellow at the foot of the mountains. Conical hats bobbed among the plants, harvesting the staple of cuisine here.
It was my last time with the Hanoi Hash House Harriers, and my final day in Vietnam. I had joined the group for three of the four weekends I was in the country, and today was cooler than previous outings – a slight breeze tickled my face.
It was a nice alternative to the 45-and-humid that had usually slapped me across it.
Farmers took small sickles to the plants, stacking them into tiny bundles atop the severed stalks. Diesel-powered engines rattled heavily and belched black smoke as threshers separated the husks of rice. Scrap was left like large piles of exhausted hay.
Nearby roads were painted yellow by grain left to dry. As the sun glimmered its final smiles, women used hoes to pile it back up and bag it.
Like the friendly locals in these fields, I, too, could only smile: this was a great way to cap off my trip.
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