on how i became a rice farmer, temporarily

I eat a lot of rice. I have always enjoyed it, but after I fell ill again in 2006, the NHS team assigned to me in Cambridge designed a special diet aimed at controlling my health mainly through diet, and at the base of that diet was rice. The diet has been a successful, and I have been healthier since then since at any other point in my life, increasing my love for both the NHS and rice.
And so I find myself in Indonesia, surrounded by endless green rice fields, and inevitably I grow curious. A locally based American anthropologist explains it is the world’s most labour intensive crop, requiring months of work. So I decide to give rice farming a try, to see if I can sustain the amount of physical labour the locals seem to be putting in. the answer, in short, is I am a weakling. I try various aspects of it. The first time I climb into the watery field to start planting rice is a shock. I had seen the water-filled fields from the road, obviously, but I had imagined such rice fields as some sort of mini-pool structures. Of course I realized that there was certainly some earth/dirt/mud at the bottom of those fields, but that didn’t not prepare me for what happened when I climbed in a rice field for the first time: I sunk almost up to my knees in thick mud, loosing my balance and nearly falling over. More surprising still, the mud was extremely hot, almost like some thermal therapy treatment. Unable to understand the instructions being given to me, the locals and I resort to sign language. So I copy them by taking 3-4 of the sprouts at a time and sticking them in the goo below at what appears the correct space, horizontally and vertically. After completing one section comes the task of stepping backwards in that goo, which proves harder than it had looked when I had been observing from the grass footpath above, but I manage without falling over in the mud, which is my constant fear. it is backbreaking work, literally, as you must remain bent over the entire time. The novelty of the experience quickly wears out and my back starts to ache and burn in the 35 degrees heat. Then, predictably around 4pm, the rain starts. It feels great for about one minute, then the drops start splashing on the mud-goo, which bounce and coat my face and shirt with mud. Afterwards, I wash up as much as possible in a stream, but I suspect the mud under my toenails might prove to be permanent. Back at my hotel, the staff are horrified. “you were in a rice field? With INDONESIANS?” shrieked my attendant in horror, adding that he would NEVER resort to such activities (despite being both Indonesian and the grandson of rice farmers, by his own admission). The next day I am allowed to plow another field with the cows. Once I get used to the creatures, I find this really fun, although even messier than planting the seedlings. After less than 5 minutes and one turn of the patch, I am covered to the waist in mud, but I cant stop giggling. Probably even the cows think I am insane, which could well be the case.
Each plot can sustain 2 crops of rice a year. In some areas, a third, different, crop may be planted on the same turf for another part of the year to replace the lost nutrients. Rice is a labour intensive crop that relies on back breaking human labour. Incredibly, a bag of rice in the supermarket in Indonesia costs more than it does at Tesco’s in London, and that somehow seems horribly wrong.