As the gentle winds of the North whisper through the verdant fields, a less visible, more suffocating blanket often descends upon the rustic landscapes of Chiang Mai, transforming the skies into an eerie palette of grays and browns. This daunting haze, thick with the fine dust of seasonal crop burnings, poses a formidable challenge to the health and well-being of local inhabitants, casting a shadow of urgency over the region’s agricultural practices.
In the wake of this environmental and public health crisis, Chiang Mai’s esteemed governor, Nirat Pongsitthithavorn, convened a digital assembly with the 25 distinguished district chiefs this past Tuesday. His directive was crystal clear: to rigorously uphold the strictures against the customary burning of agricultural leftovers. The message resonated with gravity as the governor underscored the significance of the region’s ban on unsanctioned farm waste burning—a prohibition stretching from the advent of the year until the waning days of April.
The farmers, those venerable stewards of the land, now find themselves in an intricate dance with bureaucracy, as they must secure the district office’s benediction to set their farm scrub ablaze. And even then, they are bound to the digital chains of modernity, for their fires must be reported and submitted for scrutiny through an innovative application known as ‘FireD’.
The revered district chiefs bear a new mantle of responsibility: dig deep and unearth alternatives to this fiery cycle. Can the farmers be swayed to embrace the plough and bestow their crop remnants back to the earth from whence it came? Might they join forces with energy recycling facilities, ushering their straw and stubble towards a noble destiny as compressed energy bars to power factories and fuel industrial dreams?
Governor Nirat’s revelation that over a thousand potential pyres await review by the district chiefs is a testament to the scale of the task at hand. During this recent virtual gathering, Nirat implored the chiefs to not just oversee, but physically verify the necessity of each burn. He envisioned a future where their office extends beyond mere oversight, providing tangible aid to those who till the soil—fuel for their mechanical beasts that will allow them to bury their post-harvest detritus with dignity.
And so, after the strategies were laid out and screens went dark, Pinyo Puasriphan, San Kamphaeng’s committed district chief, pledged his diligence to the cause. He vowed to traverse 8,510 rai of agricultural expanse, championing the gospel of ploughing and burying. Furthermore, his office has mobilized campaigns to sweeten the deal with the promise of fuel support.
Meanwhile, Mae On’s district chief Chalit Thipkham, wielding the list of 115 proposed burning sites, professed his intentions to guide farmers towards the light of alternative methods. He wagers that his persuasive tactics might spare at least 12,000 rai the fate of the flames. His words echo with a straightforward mantra: prevent, persuade, and protect.
Elsewhere, the deputy governor of Chiang Mai, Thossapol Phuanudom, alongside a phalanx of agricultural visionaries, accelerates the scheme to transform excess farm waste into a fountain of energy—pressurized bars to feed the hungry maws of power plants.
Charoen Pimkhan, the sage chief agriculture officer of Chiang Mai, watched 75,000 families weave their hopes into half a million rai of rice, promising them refuge from the remnants of harvest. With machines to compress the hay, the farmers face a crossroad—feed it to their livestock or barter bales for baht.
Today, as Chiang Mai’s hills cradle both tradition and progress, the narrative is being rewritten—one bale, one app notification, one plow at a time. The golden grain shall grow again, and perhaps next season, the skies above the North may breathe a little easier.
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