By seven o’clock on a summer morning, the sun in Yi­lan’s ­Jiaoxi Township is already brutally hot. As a light breeze blows across the paddies, veteran harvester Su Li­xue climbs onto his combine, starts its engine, and prepares to head into the fields.

His wife, ­Jiang Chun­tao, wears a broad conical hat and ­patterned sleeve covers that leave her nearly invisible amid the golden sea of rice. Stooping, she hoes weeds and picks up stray bits of metal, wood, and piping.

Both hands on the controls, Su turns the roaring red-and-white combine into the paddy. His eyes focused on the rice ahead of him, he advances steadily, then turns and comes back.

In almost no time at all, he has carved a visible swath through the paddy.

Taiwan brings in its two annual rice harvest around June and October. During those periods, professional harvesters migrate slowly northwards with their million-NT-dollar combines, weaving back and forth across the highways and fields like nomads as they follow the ripening crop from Ping­tung to Kao­hsiung, ­Chiayi, and Nan­tou.

Mechanical agriculture has changed the feel of Taiwan’s farming villages, but ­landowners still show their appreciation for their harvesters’ hard work by ­providing them with “harvest lunch boxes” and cold water.

Su spends early July in ­Jiaoxi Township, Yi­lan County, waiting for the third leg of this year’s harvest to begin. He is staying at the home of Lin ­Changfu, a relative who serves as an agent to professional ­harvesters.

Su Li­xue and ­Jiang Chun­tao harvested their own 30-odd hectares in ­Chiayi in May, then brought in the crop in Xi­zhou Township, Chang­hua County, before coming north to Yi­lan.

A farmer for more than 30 years, Su still remembers the more traditional farming methods, the oxcarts and mechanical plows, and the sowing and harvesting of crops by hand. Taiwan’s agricultural sector didn’t begin transitioning to machine-assisted farming until the 1970s, when powered sowers and harvesters began displacing the large teams of people who used to do the work.

Su bought himself a piece of secondhand machinery more than 30 years ago, before the mechanization of Taiwan’s agriculture was widespread, just as something to practice with. Then, with the amount of land he had under cultivation increasing, he plunked down NT$1 million on a combine with the help of a loan from his agricultural cooperative.

But the yields from his own land weren’t enough to cover the cost, so, 20-some years ago, he began helping other farmers with their harvests as well. Every year since, he and his wife have used the down time between their own May harvest and August planting to help farmers all over Taiwan bring in their rice crops. Nowadays, Taiwan is estimated to have at least 100 professional harvesters like Su.

The cost of hiring Su and his ilk rises as you move north, owing in part to the difference in the sizes of northern and southern paddies. The harvest-for-hire business is very competitive in the southern and central counties during both of the year’s harvests, with prices generally running NT$8,000–9,000 per hectare. In the north, where fields are smaller and there is only one crop per year, the price is NT$10,000–12,000 per hectare. In principle, professional harvesters can bring in as much as NT$1 million per season from the work.

But their actual incomes aren’t that high. Su laments that rising fuel and repair costs have been shrinking his income for years. Making matters worse, farmers tend to prefer harvesters with new equipment, meaning he has to buy a new combine every year or two.

To minimize his outlays, Su has honed his reaping skills to razor sharpness and learned to repair his machine himself. He studies the parts manual for each new combine­ the moment he gets it, and spends his down time on the farm maintaining his machines. He also makes a point of keeping extra chains and bearings at hand during harvest season in case he needs to replace a part on the fly.

When summer gets underway, Su Lixue and his wife Jiang Chuntao become modern-day nomads, tracking the rice harvest up and down the length of Taiwan with their combine harvester.

Lin ­Changfu, an agent for harvesters who also works as a funeral director, insurance salesperson, and farmer, says that being a good agent requires a high EQ. It helps when he has to step in and mediate the kinds of disputes that can arise when the weather turns bad and farmers begin pushing harvesters to work faster.

Sitting on an embankment between paddies, Lin records client information on his iPad while calculating the day’s harvested acreage in a notebook. As he works, a farmer walks over to put his fields into the harvest queue.

Lin began contract farming other farmers’ fields a decade ago. When he began lining up harvesting work for his relative Su Li­xue, he became an agent as well. Nowadays, his phone rings nonstop during harvesting season.

Lin, who used to own a factory in ­Jiaoxi and has run businesses for years, notes that a farmer’s two biggest concerns are crop prices and yields. He therefore goes the extra mile when arranging for a harvester, not only booking Su, whom he trusts, but also helping farmers find the best price for their crop. That care has earned the trust of farmers, who have been contracting him to farm at least 100 hectares on their behalf every year for the last decade and more.

The June harvest coincides with typhoon season, and farmers are anxious to get their crop in before the weather turns. The photo was taken in Jiaoxi Township, Yilan County.

After six grueling months, farmers are finally ready to harvest. Their eyes fixed on their fields, they worry that the combines’ blades will spin too fast, reducing their yield. For all that combines are wonderful tools, not every harvester is willing to spend a million dollars on one.

Chen Yan­qing, a 2004 winner of the Shen Nong Award for farming and the owner for more than 30 years of Tao­yuan’s He­ping Nursery, explains that combines cost NT$1–2 million a decade ago and now sell for more than NT$3 million. Given that harvesters charge roughly NT$10,000 per hectare to bring in a crop, you need to be farming at least 80 hectares before such a purchase makes sense. That means buyers need both money and access to a lot of land.

In the past, competition among local harvesters for contract farmland and harvesting business sometimes led to disharmony. Chen organized 22 fellow farmers into a “contract farming brigade” in an effort to avoid such disputes. The group, which he leads, shares the use of seven ­combines.

He explains that his nursery has long functioned as a gathering place for local farmers once the growing season is over, which led directly to the brigade’s formation.

Chen used to often hear farmers complaining about other farmers snatching contract farmland out from under them. He thought that rather than competing among themselves and then reducing the quality of their crops by rushing them, why not work together as a contract-farming team? He figured that the approach would eliminate the animosity and be a win-win for farming and farmers.

The key would be providing more convenient dispatching of harvesters. His group therefore coordinates when there is an urgent need for combines, as when a typhoon is coming and at harvest time. And they support one another when overwhelmed with work.

Brigade members have been meeting twice a year since the group’s formation to divvy up contract farmland, talk about the harvest, and exchange information. They also travel together to Yun­lin for the Agricultural Machinery and Material Expo to keep on top of the industry’s latest ­developments.

When green ears of rice turn ripe and golden, farmers prepare to welcome the biggest event of their year: the harvest.

The trend towards the commercialization of farming is seemingly unstoppable, but if it goes too far farming communities may well become less warm, inviting places.

In the old days, the harvest was the event of the year. Bringing it in required the help of large numbers of people, and farmers would show their appreciation by serving workers meals of white rice and local specialties.

Nowadays, combines have displaced the teams of laborers, and store-bought box lunches have largely replaced the home-cooked meals. Few farms provide modern-day harvesters with carefully prepared meals. Chen also laments that people just don’t interact the way they used to.

The dramatic changes in village “ecosystems” are causing young people to lose interest in becoming farmers. Fang Fu­zai, a 42-year-old man from Wu­jie Township, Yi­lan County, is one of the few youngish harvesters.

Born into a farming family, he began working with his father in the fields while still in his early teens. He went on to become a professional harvester after completing his military service.

When Fang was starting out, his lack of experience often landed him in hot water with his employers. But, coached by his fellow farmers, he gradually learned his trade. Nowadays, says his wife You Li­xue, he’s a “farming equipment nut” who trades tips with other young farmers online. After a hard day’s work in the fields, you’ll often find him reading up on the newest combines, his eyes glued to the computer screen.

But you can’t just rely on tools to bring in a crop. A seemingly square field hides all kinds of traps, like the metal plaques marking the boundaries between fields, plastic irrigation pipes, and natural hazards such as frogs and snakes, any one of which can disable a million-dollar combine. A harvesting crew therefore has to be able to work together. The harvester’s assistant serves as a second pair of eyes, constantly scanning the field.

As evening falls, You, scouting ahead, warns Fang about something via their walkie-talkies, driving home the point.

You is a graduate of the information technology program at National Lo­tung Industrial Vocational High School. Prior to marrying Fang, she was a bookkeeper with no farming experience whatsoever. When she swapped her air-­conditioning and computer for work gloves and a farmer’s hat, Fang had to teach her the business from scratch.

At the outset, You had a hard time distinguishing between the rice plants and weeds. Experienced farmers can also tell at a glance where to add seedlings once the tiller has made a pass, but You used to have to mull it for a bit.

Married for more than a decade, You can now proudly proclaim, “By the time he gets his combine started, I’ve got everything in the field cleaned up.”

To a farmer, a field is a treasure requiring the most conscientious of care. Even seemingly useless rice stalks can be transformed into fertilizer for the field.

While novice harvesters can learn the skills the profession demands, the race with the weather is a perpetual challenge.

The rice crop ripens in June and July, which coincides with typhoon season. Bad weather can bring the harvest to a grinding halt. For example, Fang was once forced to suspend work for more than 10 days when heavy storms struck Yun­lin during the harvest.

Xue Ming­xiang, a Wu­jie farmer who works with Fang, says that farmers are terrified of rain during the harvest. Harvesting rice from plants that have been knocked over is a tricky business. Plus, when rice that has been knocked down and gotten soaked dries, it sprouts, reducing its value by 20%. Wet rice is also difficult to thresh, doubling the length of the harvest.

Eager to pay off his combine, Fang takes all the work his agents offer. Whenever one calls, he hands his infant son to his mother-in-law and heads south with his wife, sometimes spending more than 20 days at a time away from home.

Having spent several years following the rice harvest up and down the length of Taiwan, Fang felt a bit like a nomad, and worried that he was sacrificing time he could be spending with his son. Three years ago, he began cutting back on the number of trips he was making to the south, replacing his lost harvesting income by cultivating organic Ko­shi­hi­kari rice on around 40 hectares of leased land.

Currently the head of the ­Wu­jie Farmers’ Association’s No. 4 production and marketing group, Fang is slowly transitioning into plant breeding and organic farming. Having spent years driving his combine across paddies throughout Taiwan, he has now chosen to settle down and farm his own fields in his own hometown.

Harvesting for hire is difficult, sweaty work, but work that is imbuing modern agriculture with its own distinctive character.

Harvester Fang Fuzai and his wife You Lixue work well together, quickly bringing in the rice crop.

Chen Yanqing (right), a Shen Nong Award winner from Dayuan Township, Taoyuan County, formed a group of his fellow farmers into a contract-harvesting team whose members support one another.