An Akha Spinning Tale

Posted on March 1, 2016 by josh

The muddy path was literally steaming. The brief monsoon downpour had been followed by the re-emergence of the close, tropical sun, and all three of us – Maren, our local guide Tui, and I – wiped our brows as we trudged up the hill to the small Akha-Puli village. It was only a one-kilometer walk from the sealed road, but the slippery path and inescapable humidity were quickly wearing us down.

The Akha-Puli spinner.

We rounded one last corner and welcomed the sight of the first thatched-roof homes of the village. Tui smiled and waved to a woman sitting on the bamboo porch of the first home. As we approached, Tui greeted her: “Udu-tamah.” She squinted and then smiled at the unusual sight of two 50-something westerners negotiating the slick slope in their flip-flops and a non-Akha guide speaking Akha (albeit, Tui admits, with a heavy accent). We could see she had a wooden spindle in her hands, but she laid it down as we approached.

The woman wore her traditional silver-decorated headdress and a well-worn, handspun, indigo-dyed cotton skirt. A commercial acrylic scarf wrapped over her shoulder and around her back to hold an infant.

The Akha-Puli woman winds her spindle

She excused herself for a moment, disappeared into her home, and re-emerged wearing a sleeveless factory-made spaghetti-strap shirt to cover her bare chest. She swung the small child around onto her back again and wrapped a printed towel around the both of them. We sat in silence for a few moments catching our breath. We smiled and nodded toward the spindle, encouraging her to continue with her work. She pointed one hand at Maren and the other at me and then placed her hands together, inquiring if we were “together.” We confirmed we were a couple and had two sons, now grown. Through Tui, we learned that she had 6 children, two boys and four girls, the youngest of whom was on her back. We told her we were Americans visiting the beauty of their village and that we were enthusiasts about traditional textiles. She nodded with every careful word Tui translated.

She adjusted her headdress and picked up the thin, wooden center-whorl spindle she had earlier set aside. With her left fingers, she stretched the white fiber she was working with up and away from her standing body. She adjusted the floss-like material between the fingers of her right hand, and then hooked it onto a notch cut into the top of the spindle. With her right hand, she pressed the pencil-thin spindle against her skirt with her palm and rolled the spindle downward against her thigh; the elegant spindle dropped and danced an inch from the ground in perfect vertical balance, twisting the fiber suspended from her left hand. After a few seconds of spin, she reached down and grabbed the spindle with her right fingers, one finger deftly knocking the fiber out of the notch and then manually wound the new-spun material onto the spindle.

Maren takes her turn.

Seamlessly, the woman reached down with her left hand and grabbed another strand of material. With her right, she split the now-spun material with her fingernail, making an “eye-hole” about two inches from the fiber’s end. The new strip slipped precisely through the hole. With her right thumb and forefinger, and using a quick one-two motion, she rubbed the new material and the right side of the eyehole together and then reversed the spin, winding the half-strip and the full new strip back over the left side of the original thread. The material was spliced tightly. She pulled the clingy new length out and away from her body, and then repeated the leg rub, the drop of the spindle, and the tidy wrap.

Our eyes wandered to the source of this white fiber: it appeared to be coming out of a stained 50-kilo plastic rice bag that lay on the bamboo-slat decking. Maren reached down to open the bag.

She stopped, then smiled. The fiber, indeed, was the bag, and she was expertly spinning the 3 foot (1 m) long fiberglass threads. Maren laughed. The woman nodded and laughed with her.

The Akha-Puli woman spins her “thread.”

”What are you making?” we asked through Tui. The two exchanged words, and then Tui turned to us.

“She is making a carrying bag.” And, of course, we had a flood of other questions. Yes, they still spun cotton, when it was in season, but not as much as before. Pre-made clothing was readily and cheaply available, as evidenced by her knit shirt and the children’s commercially-made clothing. But yes, her own skirt was spun and then woven of locally-grown cotton that had been indigo-dyed.

A few years ago, she explained, she would have used the wild-grown piat vine as material for this current project, but it took a long time to find, strip and splice the wild vine before then hand-knotting its threads into a purse. These “pre-shaped” plastic strips were free, available … and even waterproof! She reached into a plastic bag set on the ground and handed Maren a ball of expertly-spun fiberglass stripping.

“Harder than it looks.”

The woman proudly stepped forward and handed Maren the spindle. She said some words, which we assumed meant: “It’s your turn.”

To the delight of the family, Tui and the growing group of curious children, Maren spent the next few minutes learning the fine art of spinning and splicing fiberglass the Akha-Puli way. Everyone laughed at her initial awkwardness – Maren most of all – but the woman patiently helped her with splicing the fiber, rolling the spindle against her leg to get the quick spin, and then letting the spindle fall and twirl at just the right height. A moment’s pause – then the quick hand-winding to a tidy bundle. Everyone cheered when success was finally achieved, and Maren took a formal bow.

The woman reached up and grabbed Maren’s shoulder and laughed an outpouring of words. Tui smiled: “She says now you are an Akha woman!” And we all laughed again.

The Traditional Silk Artists of Xam Tai, Laos

Posted on November 10, 2015 by josh

Souksakone, Xam Tai’s leading master-dyer, template designer, and weaver.

The Traditional Silk Artists of Xam Tai, Laos

In the remote Annamite Mountains of NE Laos, and most notably in the Xam Tai District of Houaphon Province, the rich, cooperative, silk-weaving traditions of the Lao Loum and Tai Daeng ethnic groups still thrives, much in the way it has for millennia. Our family (mom, dad, and our now 22 and 19 year-old sons) has had the great privilege and opportunity to nurture friendships and forge textile-based business relationships with Xam Tai’s artists for the last 10 years. Their art, traditions and warmth have nourished us and opened up worlds of personal insight.

The silk weaving arts of the region are born from both Buddhist (the Lao Loum ethnic group) and animist (Tai Daeng and other Tai groups) traditions that are focused on healing and maintaining the strength of both the individuals and the community itself. The silk-raising and textile-creation processes have been central to beliefs and spiritual health and have also provided an economic foundation for countless generations. Not to diminish the essential building and farming roles of the men (all villagers participate with planting and harvesting), the women’s historical central role in textile creation has supported both core cultural beliefs and access to the cash-based trade-economy of the outside world. Because of this, women have been, on the whole, equally empowered and valued within the culture.

A weaver models her newly-woven shaman’s shawl. The silk is locally-raised and naturally-dyed.

Local tradition holds that these complex weavings grant healers access to the spirits that affect health, both of the individual and of the community. Ancient motifs are woven into the textiles forming the geometric complexity; river-serpents (ngeuk) emblematic of female power, elephants (saang) that uphold political power, “hong” birds that represent male power, ancestor spirits, and fierce giant spirits (phii nak). These spirits can be invoked by shamans to heal a person from an injury or fever, protect an infant, revitalize an underperforming rice-field, or generate luck for a business venture.

An 8-year old silk weaver with a “sample-sized” silk, affectionately called a “love token.”

Even today in the shade of the thatched-roof homes in Xam Tai, silk shaman, healing and other ritual and household textiles are still woven for economic support as well as actual village use. However, the textile’s role of accessing spiritual and ancestral power for healing is diminishing as their world increasingly overlaps the modern 21st century.

The traditional silk-weaving process in Xam Tai has six distinct roles:

The seri-culturist, who raises the worms from tiny egg to fuzzy cocoon, all in the shade of their village home, taking great care to avoid disease and predators.

The reeler, who nurtures the warmed silk strands through her fingertips, pull by pull, pacing her work to match the cooling rate of the silk’s sticky seracin.
A weaver works at her village-made loom.

The dye-master, who pride herself on using only natural dyes created from what the jungle provides. A scale-bugs secretion, lac, forms the traditional foundation of red that is integral to so many of their textiles, but nearly every hue can be generated and fixed to silk.
A young weaver (and her baby) models her temple-cloth. Both Buddhists and animists in this region create and use textiles in their traditional ceremonies.

The pattern-template maker, who is likely also an expert weaver with highly-developed visual skills. The floor loom’s pattern-template (khao ti dai) contains the instructions for the weaver for the textile’s line-by-line creation as the weaver concentrates on her weaving precision and effective use of supplemental colors. A khao ti dai is saved for re-use, allowing certain effective, desirable patterns to be re-woven through the generations.

The weaver (of whom there are several hundred in the Xam Tai region, age 7 to 80), who sit at their large floor looms and deftly and miraculously create the most intricate and vibrant traditional silks in the world. The region is most famous for its discontinuous supplemental weft patterns, but one also finds superb samples of tapestry weave, ikat and supplemental warp patterning. A singe large masterpiece shaman’s cloth (phaa phii mon) may take a woman 4 months to create at the loom. For many families, weaving is the sole source of income, keeping a high level of interest among women with the skill, patience and talent.
A 13-year-old weaver works on a silk healing cloth.

The businessperson, who gets the silk to the marketplace (assuming that’s its destination). This vital role, which requires both economic savvy and outside contacts, is often managed by the dyer.
The design of the template-pattern can be clearly seen on this loom. After each horizontal memory-thread, which represents a line of pattern in the weft, is used, it is moved from the template’s top to the bottom; later, the memory threads will be moved from bottom to top, creating the traditional mirror-image motifs in the design-work.

While factory-spun silk, analine dyes and synthetic fibers are all readily available in local markets in Laos, the ethic of the silk-artist community of Xam Tai demands that the traditional processes be maintained. This cultural ethic has, for hundreds of generations, supported a cooperative and healthy lifestyle and economy that has allowed their traditional way of life to endure into the 21st Century. Their recent efforts to reach larger outside markets, as through our business, will be essential if these traditions are to continue to remain vital and attractive to future generations of Xam Tai’s cultural silk artists.

The beautiful and remote Xam Tai valley in Houaphon Province in NE Laos.

Maren and Josh study a textile with the Xam Tai weavers.

Me Tau Lu (Grandmother Lu)

Posted on October 1, 2015 by josh

Me Tau Lu (Grandmother Lu)

The elderly woman, intently concentrating on the narrow weaving set on the full frame loom in front of her, chewed on her gums as her thin, brittle fingers deliberately tied the supplemental colors onto a row of silk weft. Her hands, knuckles slightly swollen with arthritis, reached automatically for the shuttle and she deftly tapped the shuttle across the top of the weft threads, adding another silk-thin length to the narrow skirt border she was weaving. The 5-inch wide strip, upon completion, would be sewn onto the bottom of a Lao skirt (phaa sinh) for colorful decoration and as protection of the larger skirt body during wear.

Me Tai Lu (Grandmother Lu) proudly displaying the sinh she wove.

She glanced up at our faces briefly, and I held up my small camera with raised eyebrows in a silent appeal for permission to film. She gave a quick nod and then, with her concentration seemingly doubled, she sharpened her posture and returned to the methodical and creative task of turning nature’s silkworm thread into beauty and spirit. I pushed the start button and began to archive her talent.

She licked her lips and set a firm and consistent pace as the camera studied her deliberate and smooth motions. Her deep moist eyes measured every finger’s measured movement.

This is a loom set up like Me Tai Lu’s loom. The black warp threads are primary; the white warp threads is the supplemental warp. The vertical tan threads are the pattern template (khao ti dai)..

The woman was working with the silk raised in the village where she lived, which is known for its sericulture. Her pattern template (khao ti dai), the web of “instructions” that assured every weft line was accurately formed, was made of a coarser string, no doubt because it was easier to feel and manipulate with her worn fingers. The design required surprisingly intricate finger motions in applying the supplemental colors, and the shapes of the textile’s woven motifs were knife-edge precise. She worked her fingers in an even rhythm. Perhaps her fingers were a little slower than that of a nimble 20-year-old, but her measured precision, molded by 70 or more years of practice, revealed an adept efficiency that was a pleasure to watch. She wove for 3 minutes in focused silence as I filmed her from a variety of angles and zoomed in on her patient, trained finger-work.

I clicked off the camera and casually bowed my head with my hands together under my chin as a traditional “Thank you.”

I caught the surprise in the eyes of a young woman as she watches Maren and Me Tai Lu chat.

A young woman intently watches Maren and Me Tai Lu chat.

“She is the oldest woman in the village.” Mai’s voice surprised me – I had no idea she had crept up on us. Mai, our friend and translator, had grown up in a nearby town, and she had relatives in this village and had known this woman, at least casually, for over 40 years. (Mai seems to have relatives in just about every village in Houaphon Province!)

“Her name is Lu. We call her Me Tau Lu, Grandmother Lu,” said Mai and she turned and asked a question of the old woman. The elder stopped her concentration, smiled toothlessly at us, and returned a sentence.

“She says she is over eighty year old,” Mai continued. “She does not know exactly how old, but she can remember back longer than anyone else. She wonders if you would like to see a piece she has finished. Perhaps you would like to buy it?”

Maren and Zall in the village in Houaphon Province, Laos where Me Tau Lu has lived her 80+ years.

“Of course we would like to see your finished piece.” Maren answered. The elder turned to a young boy who had been watching and gave sharp directions. He dashed off, only to appear a moment later with a tidily folded sinh, or Lao skirt, held flat in his hands.

Through Mai, we learned that this skirt had been made a few years ago, back when her fingers were more nimble and her eyesight sharper. Given the sinh’s size and intricacy, it took two or more months to weave.

She stood up from her worn wooden loom-bench and took the fabric from the boy’s outstretched arms. She shuffled into the sunshine and, after again straightening her posture, she wrapped the skirt tightly across her belly to show off the intricate pattern.

And indeed it was, and is, a stunning 100% silk sinh woven from silk that had been raised, and naturally-dyed, in this very village. The pattern – seen in the photo – was an older style and a less common skirt form, especially for its vertical stripes. (Most skirts resemble the design worn by the woman in the background of the photo.) The central motif of her sinh was also less common: the crab, which lives (and is hunted) in the clear freshwater rivers.

Our friend and translator Mai (in the green) and a seri-culture expert looking at the silkworms that are puinned to a board. The worms are in the stage where they are actually making the precious silk.

Our friend and translator Mai (in the green) and a seri-culture expert looking at the silkworm cocoons that are attached to the board. The worms are in the stage where they are actually making the precious silk.

“Did she spend her childhood here?” Maren asked through Mai.

“Yes,” Me Tai Lu answered as she posed. “I was born in this village, and I raised my children and grandchildren and now their children here, too.”

“What else do you remember?”

“I remember the French [who occupied the region until 1953], when they visited us here. They came a couple of times, and were very nice – and tall, too. They walked down the street and shook the hands of the men. I thought they were very kind.”

“Do you remember the war?”

“Oh, yes. I remember the bombs and the sounds that they made. We had to move our entire home into some caves that are over that way,” and she waved her hand toward the lush limestone hills. “We worked the fields at night then, planting and harvesting the rice.” Her voice was firm, and she looked directly at us as she spoke. “I had young children then. Now they are grown up and old, too” she laughed. “Two of them now live in Vientiane (Laos’ capital), and one lives here.”

The cocoons are put into boiling water for about a minute before the silk is hand-reeled.

Maren eyes Me Tau Lu’s skirt, still stretched across her waist, and says to the woman in Lao, “Sinh, nyam lai.” Skirt, very beautiful. The woman turned towards me, pointed to my camera and stiffened herself. She held a firm face for the photo; smiles are reserved for present, shared moments, not moments frozen in time. I snapped the shot you see here.

The woman flipped a quick few words to Mai, who smiled. “Mae Tau Lu asks if you want to buy this sinh. It is for sale.”

“Chou, chou!” Maren blurts out, turning directly to the weaver. “Um … Me Tau Lu, sinh to dai?” Skirt how much?

The elder offered Maren a big grin and nodded her head up and down. The two of them took perhaps 15 seconds to agree to a price. Maren does know her Lao numbers well.

Perhaps the price was just a little high for the “going rate” in the region, but, on the other hand, this silk carries a certain provenance knowing it represents a culmination of a lifetime of skill and effort and participation. Its very manifestation harbors an element of her precious uniqueness, her vital and relevant breath. Each unique, handwoven textile does carry the spirit of its creator.

We paid the proud weaver in cash, as always. She counted the bills carefully and folded them into the waistband at the top of her own faded sinh.

The woman looked directly at Maren and tossed out another line.

Mai laughed. “She wants to now if you want to see another phaa (silk textile) she wove.”

Yes, of course.

The Basket Weaver

Posted on May 17, 2015 by josh

The Basket Weaver

The elderly gentleman sat on the corner of the second-story outdoor deck that led to his home’s entrance, his eyes focused on the bamboo basket that sat half-finished in his lap. Like all the village’s older homes, his sat on 8-foot stilts; under the home were the tools of life: a wooden plow, a warped loom, a pile of drying rough-sawed boards, a gas-powered rice thresher, a motorcycle, and several baskets covered with dark cloth.

The basket weaver.

“Sabaidee,” I said and I brought my hands briefly together under my chin, and then I waved hello. The wave caught his eyes and he smiled. “Sabaidee,” I repeated more confidently. The man brought his hands together as well, and then waved his left hand over his ear and gave a shake, indicating that could not hear. Maren pointed to her eyes and then to his basket, and then made a swooping gesture that inquired if we could come up and join him. The old man grinned widely and waved us up the steep ladder-steps to the deck.

It has become our routine when initially visiting a village to just walk through the narrow paths that weave around the thatch-roofed homes and sheds seeking anyone who is engaged in getting something done – perhaps a weaver at the loom, or someone fixing a fishing net or running a billows. There is no such thing as trespassing – the village is open to everyone – and it only takes a eye-contact and a smile for a stranger to receive the same in return. This moment brought us a basket-weaver.

The basket weaver’s village in Meung Kuan district of Houaphon Province, Laos

Mai, our dear friend (and today, translator), and Maren and I took off our flip-flop sandals, climbed the well-worn ladder-steps and took a seat on the untreated bench. The man smiled and nodded. Maren reached over to feel the bamboo strip he was weaving together, and the man proudly held up his loosely woven broad basket – it was the style of basket used for raising silkworms. I took out my camera and lifted it in his direction, asking if a photo was permissible. He nodded ok, straightened his back, and, masking himself with a most studious look, determinedly went back to the weaving task while we snapped a few shots.

“Hal-lo,” said a disembodied voice, and then a younger man came out from the home’s second-floor entry. “Sabaidee,” all three of us guests replied, again with hands pressed together. The man spoke quickly in Lao, first thanking us for visiting. Mai translated: “My father had been a soldier in The War as a young man when he lost his hearing. Please excuse him.”

Josh visits with the basket weaver.

The elder watched his son and nodded, smiling, and then began: “As a young man I was a soldier in The War,” the elder said directly to us in a loud voice. “But I can no longer hear. A large bomb went off very close to me. After the war, doctors tried to fix my ears, but they cannot..” He looked away from us. “I saw a doctor in Vietnam, and another in China. But no one can fix it.”

The son’s wife appeared from inside the house with a plastic tray holding four rinsed glasses and a plastic pitcher of water. She poured three glasses, and Mai, Maren, and I each reach for one. It is hot, dusty, and humid, and the water is welcome. [And yes – Maren tossed me a crinkled-eyebrow that warned: “Hope we don’t get ‘the runs’.” Etiquette can demand a little risk-taking sometimes.]

A clutch of stunning old Tai Daeng storage baskets woven of bamboo, and probably about 30 years old.

A clutch of stunning old Lao Loum storage baskets woven of rattan, bamboo, and wood, and about 50 years old.

The elder returned his gaze toward us and smiled again: “I am not sad, however. I have a good life. I have two sons, each is married with a family. I have been a farmer, and we have been well.”

We nodded at each other and Maren, in stilted but surprisingly adept Lao, told him – quite loudly towards his ear – our names, where we were from, that we had two sons in college (but no daughter-in-laws yet), and that, while we had visited Houaphon Province many times, never his village. He smiled, and, well, perhaps understood us. The son and daughter-in-law shared about their children, who were at school or elsewhere working at this hour. Water glasses were refilled.

The basket weaver’s daughter-in-law shows off their crop of maturing silkworms being raised under the house.

Maren and I refocused our attention on the basket that sat in the elder’s lap and asked, “How did you learn to weave baskets?” Mai translated our question for the son, who then literally yelled the question in his father’s ear. The elder nodded emphatically and told us his father had taught him, before the War. “Now that I am old, like my father was, farming the rice fields is more difficult, and so I spend time on these small tasks.“

He looked away again, but continued to talk to us through his son: “I am sorry I cannot hear you well. But even the doctor in China could not fix me.” He looked back and we nodded at each other, and he looked away again. “The bomb – it landed very close, and I was thrown through the air and landed in the dirt. Everything was suddenly covered with dirt, and I did not know if I was still alive. I could not feel anything.” He paused.

We all paused. In the still heat, we listened to the buzz of a nearby cicada. “I did not know even if I still had my arms and legs attached. I could not tell. I was covered in dirt.”

He gaze shifted back to us: “I was very lucky.” His smile returned. “I still had both of my arms, and both of my legs. So I could still be a farmer. I only lost my hearing, which the doctors cannot fix. And I am well. I have raised a family and have a good life.” More nods.

Mai and the family exchanged a few sentences left untranslated, and we then excused ourselves to let the family get back to their tasks.

Maren checks out the crop for the upcoming silk-weaving season.

Once down the ladder-steps, the daughter-in-law took Maren by the elbow and showed us the silk worms that sat in the already-woven bamboo baskets in the shade of the home. The 3-inch white worms – several hundred per basket which looked to be happily chewing on mulberry leaves – were just a few days from when they would begin to spin their precious thread. The Spring crop’s strands will be harvested – then spun, dyed, and woven – starting in just a few weeks.

We thanked our hosts, who in turn thanked us, and then we all thanked each other again. We wave a quick “sabaidee” with the hands towards the old man on the deck, who nods but keeps his own hands busy with the bamboo.

Then we turned and continued our afternoon’s walk in the village.

Cooperative Economics and Houaphon’s Silk Artists

Posted on February 28, 2015 by josh

Almost every silk creation Above the Fray showcases that comes from Houaphon Province, Laos relies on several cooperating independent artists.

A sericulturist in Houaphon nurtures his crop in his home.

The silkworms in boiling water being prepared to be hand-reeled.

The silkworm cocoons in boiling water being prepared to be hand-reeled.

The silk to weave Above the Fray’s textiles is raised by Houaphon’s sericulturists in the traditional method that goes back 1000 years. These “farmers” work year around to breed, raise and nurture the tiny worms to produce on of the world’s finest textile fabrics. And they really do only eat mulberry leaves!

The developed silk cocoons are then put in boiling water and the raw silk is carefully reeled. The reeled silk is purchased by the dyer, who prepares the silk’s texture and color using 100%-natural and locally-available materials that include bug secretions (lac), bark, roots, leaves, wood ash and more. Dyers also use their chemistry skills and add special mordants to the silk to assure that each color adheres with no bleeding.

Our friend, Lun, a master-dyer, shows us some of the materials she uses to makes dyes.

The dyer then takes the silk to a weaver who creates the finished cloth on a large bed-sized loom-frame. While the selection of colors is conceived by the dyer, the weaver herself determines the location of the supplemental colors that, in her mind, most effectively enhance the complex, nuanced geometric pattern (often helping a particular motif stand out or remain hidden).

Dyers preparing red silk. Red dye is from the secretion of a scale bug that is called “lac.”

The “herd” of silkworms out to pasture.

The specific, detailed design for each textile is generated by the loom’s pattern-template (khao ti die) that was created by yet another artist. Khao ti die can be stored and re-used, and many patterns have gained powerful, symbolic meaning over generations of use.

Upon completion of the weaving – which for a large cloth may take four or more months – the weaver is compensated by the dyer, and then the dyer has a vital, secondary role: getting the silk to market at a fair price.

This cooperative system allows the sericulturists, dyers, weavers, and template-makers to continue to live, if they choose, in their own small village, raising their families and maintaining a stable, traditional lifestyle. The system also allows the dyer to “oversee” the entire process to assure quality and continuity. Dyers who maintain this oversight role are notorious for their business savvy.

A silk nearing completion on the loom.

It should be mentioned that not all Houaphon silk artists participate in this traditional cooperative economic model. Some may perform multiple, or even all roles, in the process of raising, dyeing, designing and weaving a textile (and getting it to market, as well). In fact, we have yet to meet a dyer or template-maker who did not start out excelling as a weaver.

Here we are with the silk artists of the village of Muang Vaen.

Here we are with some incredibly talented silk artists of their village in Houaphon Province, Laos.

A superbly crafted ikat-style (in Lao, matmi) silk skirt (sinh).

Above the Fray travels directly to the independent artists in Houaphon allowing us to select the best of the newest creations and obtain a photographic record of the people whose time, talent and vision created that cloth. Several artists anticipate our regular visits, holding back their recent pieces for our perusal and purchase.

The friendships and warmth that these talented people and their communities have offered our family over the years has been our deepest enrichment. We are grateful for the hospitality, trust and companionship that has been extended not only to the two of us, but also to our two sons (now both in college) who traveled with us for our first 10 years. These on-going, personal relationships with the independent artists allows Above the Fray to uniquely showcase the world’s finest silk artists and textiles.

Lun displays one of her masterpieces, a ceremonial wedding blanket.

Lun, a master-dyer, displays one of her creations, a ceremonial wedding blanket. She created the colors and was responsible for the pattern. Motifs include a the rim of ancestor spirits in a candle-adorned temple, and, in the lighter colored center-design, a virtual nest of geometric river serpents called naga, or nyeuk.

Our Xam Tai Family

Posted on November 8, 2014 by josh

Our Xam Tai Family

Our family has had the great fortune to become good friends and business partners with the world’s finest natural silk artists who live in the Xam Tai district in NE Laos.

In July, I caught myself doing something I thought I would never do. Maren and I were in the village of Xam Tai in Houaphon Province, NE Laos – our favorite re-visiting spot on all our ventures. The usual crew of weavers, dyers and local leaders – our friends – had trundled to a small restaurant on the banks of the Nam Xam (Xam River) where we could watch the sunset and have a drink to welcome the evening cool. Maren and I had just ordered another round of grilled duck meat and several bottles of BeerLao for anyone with an appetite and an empty glass. Of course the karaoke machine was on (no, the recent addition of electricity to Xam Tai did not improve every aspect of life). The vice governor of the region had just finished singing a Lao pop song – leading elders almost always seem to have the smoothest richest voices – when a cheer went up, and he handed the microphone to Maren and me.

Phout models one of her "man-woman" healing cloths. Phout is known for her rich purples and reds.

Phout models one of her exquisite “man-woman” healing cloths. Phout is known for her rich purples and reds.

What to do? Neither one of us has a singing voice others really want to hear. I looked for help from, well anyone. “I don’t know any Lao songs,” I pleaded. Mai translated and everyone laughed. “Wait!” Mai announced in English. “We have American songs too.” Oh, no. The first was a Phil Collins song I had never heard. Perhaps Maren and I had escaped – but no. “We have one other,” Mai laughed. Yep – and for anyone who has traveled through the weird corners of the planet, the second song option will be an “of course.” A song so well-known we knew we could no longer avoid the inevitable. The lyrics play across the bottom of the console and Maren and I charge into the song that is a good half register too high for our voices:

On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair,

Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air…

What is it about The Eagles anyway… and “Hotel California” is what – 40 years old?

We finally and thankfully finish – the locals, some with unevenly-raised eyebrows, cheer as they would cheer any performer. The microphone is passed to another and we return to Lao pop music.

Sukavit and Maren in 2007 - our second visit. Sukavit, a village elder and "most-determined social-leader," took it upon herself to full-heartedly welcome us into the community, which opened up so many doors for us. She and Maren are "two peas in a pod."

Sukavit and Maren in 2007. Sukavit, a village elder and “most-determined social-leader,” took it upon herself to full-heartedly welcome us into the community, which opened up so many doors for us. She and Maren are truly “two peas in a pod.”

Our family of four – mom, dad, and then 13-year-old Ari and 10-year-old Zall – first visited this region of Laos in 2006. A blurb in the Lonely Planet Guidebook briefly mentioned the quality silk artistry that local minority groups were famous for. But on our first visit we were backpack tourists, and only a dim spark of the fantasy of an import textile business had been lit.

Our memories of whom we met on that first 3-day visit are vague – who thought we would ever return? Xam Tai itself had only an hour a day of electricity and a single mildew-y $4/night guesthouse. Westerners were rare as the town is at an endpoint of a narrow sealed road. Only a rutted track continued into the jungle hills.

Phout, our son Zall, and Phout’s aunt, Sukavit model new silks in Sukavit’s home. Photo from 2009.

Now, after a “dozen plus” visits, Xam Tai feels like home. Sukavit, a 60’ish village elder and the first to invite us to join the village socially, now carries a few more lines on her face. She has recently handed the “reins of power” to her niece, Phout, who is a master-dyer and weaver, and also a very sharp business-woman. Phout, well-known for her deep purple and maroon-toned silks, carries waves of wonderful ebullient energy and a raucous sense of humor; she and Maren have formed a deep friendship over the years. And the party always begins when Phout arrives!

Souk’s masterpieces consistently represent the finest dyeing and weaving in the region. Souk continues to develop new natural dyes and woven art using traditional methods, materials and motifs.

Souksakone, the acknowledged best dyer in the Xam Tai region and who has presented to us what we believe to be the world’s finest and most intricate naturally-dyed silks, now opens up her home to us when we arrive and we share all meals. Three years ago Souk and her husband built their own small guesthouse (some of the funding for this came from our customers!), complete with air conditioning. Yes, here in 2014 Xam Tai now has 24/7 electricity, bringing with it a world of refrigerators, washing machines and florescent bulbs (allowing for weaving after dark). Sousakone and Phout have been best friends since childhood, although we do sense a prideful and serious competition.

A local bus getting ready for the 6-hour drive from Xam Neua to Xam Tai.

Phout and Sukavit also grew up with Mai, who was one of the very few locals to be able to achieve a secondary, and then college education. Mai, who once taught college-level English in Laos’ capital city, is now the Director of Tourism Development for Houaphon Province. We met Mai in 2008 when she was able to offer us her translating skills on our third visit to Xam Tai – she herself got to return to her home village that she had not visited in many years and was enthusiastically greeted by, well… everyone. It was Mai who introduced us socially to Phout and Souk as her very good friends. [Sukavit, on the other hand, has no problems ever introducing herself to a visitor.] And for whatever reason, Phout, Souk, Mai and Maren have formed a tight and real bond – like 4 sisters. So much laughter, and sharing, and good meals, and smiles, and some business…

Much of Xam Tai district is rugged and wild, and home to the Nam Sam Wilderness Area.

Now Mai (and her 11-year-old son Bingo) visit Xam Tai at least once a year – when we visit (and hire her translating services). Perhaps because we bring both cash and Mai back to Xam Tai regularly that the entire village has adopted us. We owe much to Mai for bridging the communication gap that hinders most cross-cultural relationships; her seamless translating makes an entire roomful of weavers and dyers and husbands and kids feel like family.

Maren in Xam Neua on our first visit in 2006. Maren literally bought the basket off this woman's back!

Maren in Xam Neua on our first “buying-visit” (and second formal visit) in 2007. Maren literally bought the basket off this woman’s back!

A quick word on friendship in Houaphon – it is a deeply felt and enduring commitment. Initially several of our Xam Tai friends hesitated to reciprocate our social efforts –westerners are known to come, and then go. It was about the fifth visit, all with our kids in tow (and once, even Josh’s 80 year-old mom), that people started to believe we could be counted on to keep the bonds of friendship vital. But once you proclaim a true friendship – once you look into someone’s eyes and tell them you like them and want to share – that friendship becomes deep and real, and it comes with obligations of trust. It is a commitment, and that recognition allows for a meaningful connection with someone who seems so different on the surface, but is so close at heart. There is comfort, clarity and contentment with a trusted friend. It is perhaps the greatest gift that humans can share. It runs all we truly hold dear.

Good friends: Bonkeo (Lun’s husband), Lun, Phout, Maren, Souk, Mai and Josh. Lun, Phout and Souk are the region’s leading dye-and weaving experts and business-persons. Mai, childhood friends of these artists, is able to translate so very well!

Other wonderful artists and village characters have been introduced to us over the years: Lun (another most talented master-dyer), the Vilays (who always have a couple unusual textiles), the vice governor of the district and his extended family, the elders in the near-by silk-raising village of Ban, sweet Chola (whom we wrote about on our blog in April 2012) – these are member of our family now, and, like other loved ones, we find ourselves looking so forward, every time, to a shared time.

We plan to return this March. We will again be eager to share the stories of our kids (now in college) and our homes, to share a Lao – and we’ll bring an American-style – dinner, to play a little petanque (bocci ball) while sipping the local home-brewed lao-lao. Maren and I will ”ooooh and ahhhh” over the newest silks; Souk will share her newest created hue and design element; Phout’s eyes will get huge and her voice will jump an octave as she narrates some story that will have everyone laughing until tears flow; the vice governor will work to improve our Lao vocabulary so Mai doesn’t have to be the go-between every time; Bingo will again beg first-dibs on having the chicken’s head in his dinner bowl; a few pillowy clouds will lazily cross the deep green of the valley lending brief reprieve to the jungle sun.

And we will smell the comfort of knowing we really are in the right place at the right time with the right people.

Maren On Summer’s Assignment: Of Sushi (Twice), Sinh, Batik, a Venture to Muang Et, and Friends (Part 3/3)

Posted on July 25, 2014 by josh

The week leading up to July 25, 2014

Very fresh fish, caught when the rice fields are first drained.

OK – we have attained a new culinary height (or depth) that will make many cringe – sorry in advance for PETA fans. Yesterday we visited a village celebrating the “fish in the rice fields” day, a day, post rice planting, when the plants are well rooted, when the fields are drained of water and the villagers scavenge the fields for small fish that are left flopping in the mud. The fish are a central part of the fish day celebration, accompanying many shots of lao-lao (distilled rice “whiskey”), grilled river fish, and many other local delights. These small fish are kept alive in bowls of water, then, individually, placed into bowl of spicy vegetables and we’re not quite sure what else, poked around in the spicy mixture (many flop their way out during this ignominy) and then, grasped between chopsticks and with a splop of spicy food, popped into ones mouth alive and flipping for a tasty sushi treat. Zall declined, but Josh and I each managed a fish, then Josh continued to eat 2 more! A new height in western ideas of grossness, but, in order to be part of the festival, this is what needed to be done! Try everything once, is our travel motto.

Josh with a “squiggler.” Lots of chili, quick chew, and down. Easy as pie.

Sushi – bottoms up! A chaser of a shot of strong lao-lao fortified us!

This culinary delight followed our truly delightful time in Houaphon Province. We also ended up going to the silk-raising village with the District Vice Governor, and eating huge amounts of fish – grilled, in soup, and, delightfully, raw dipped in soy sauce and wasabi! We had never seen wasabi before in Laos, but, apparently, it is made in Thailand, and is the same brand we use in the states (at least the same color packaging, though ours is usually in English). That fresh, raw fish was incredible – we saw the fish swimming, then it was sliced and on a plate – incredibly delicious.

Maren leans in to watch; weaving can be mesmerizing!

Josh and I wandered around the village a bit, and Josh videotaped several women weaving intricately patterned sinh (skirt fabric) using the usual discontinuous supplemental weft (brocade) method of weaving to create patterns. We ended up buying one sinh from a woman who raised the silkworms, reeled the silk, made the natural dyes, and then wove the fabric. Quite amazing. Josh videoed young girls weaving simpler patterns, women weaving more complex patterns, including a skirt fabric with supplemental warp, and an older lady with goiters weaving a skirt border with thicker pattern strings to accommodate her arthritic fingers – boy did she beat back that reed hard! Quite the tough lady, and she seemed pleased with the attention too!

Our friend, guide, and translator Kaiphet.

We returned to Xam Neau for a day, shipped our accumulated textiles via bus to our shipper in Vientiane (safe as can be), and then the three of us set off for the far northern part of Houaphan Province to see the sights and to explore the textiles. We went with our first guide from 2006 , Kaiphet, who’s baby just turned one yesterday (we were Kaiphet’s first-ever clients as well, and we have remained good friends over the years). We stopped to see an elderly Hmong man who was one of our first contacts on that road 8 years ago, who was a blacksmith. We brought back photos of him (taken on our 2008 trip), and, amazingly, he was still there! He is now quite very elderly, but remembered us, and requested that we come back to visit him again. Really delightful.

An elderly Hmong blacksmith who captured our attention in 2006. This photo is from 2008.

Zall, the very elderly Hmong blacksmith, and Josh in 2014. The gentleman is holding a picture of himself with our boys from many years ago.

Zall, the now very elderly Hmong blacksmith, and Josh in 2014. The gentleman is holding a picture of himself with our boys from many years ago.

Later, we stopped at another Hmong village where Kaiphet said they did painting on cloth – turns out he meant batik, but didn’t know the word in English. We went to a house in the village and had a long and instructive conversation with a woman who does batik on hemp in the traditional Black Hmong way. She said that only the Black Hmong still use hemp – something we had also noticed in Vietnam – why, we don’t know. She proceeded to take our her batik tools and show us how the patterns were drawn, the direction in which the wax “pens” were moved, how she used a small piece of bamboo to draw the lines straight and evenly, and was totally delightful and pleased that we were relatively educated on the process. We bought a used skirt from her, and she gave us a handful of raw hemp ready for splicing and one of her batik tools to use as display items for our Gallery. I had to argue with her a bit about giving us the tool, but her son said she had another one just like it, and she wanted us to have it. I did insist on at least making a small extra contribution so the family could have a special dinner that night.

Maren learns traditional batik-technique from this Hmong woman.

Maren asks a lot of questions and learns traditional batik-technique from this Hmong woman.

Traditional tools for batik art.

The landscape going up to the northern reaches was beautiful, though a Chinese company is doing mining on a wide section of the hills and the Laos government is putting in a dam, so there were lots of scars on portions of the landscape. Otherwise, we drove through Tai Dam (Black Tai), Tai Daeng (Red Tai), Red Dzao (Yao), Hmong, and other villages on the way. We spent the night in Muong Et after dinner in a Karaoke bar – loud and hot, but delicious and spicy! Drove back again, stopping in different towns, mostly Dzao. We visited several older Dzao lady’s houses, and bought some choice hand-made clothing and bags. Zall was having a fabulous time taking photos of the elders’ faces!

An Red Dzao elder models an outfit she recently made. She happily sold it to us.

An Red Dzao elder models an outfit – long-tailed jacket, pants and belt – she recently made. She happily sold it to us.

Back in Xam Neua, we were invited to Kaiphet’s home for dinner and our first chance to meet his son – a cutie! The whole family looks healthy, cheerful, and well. I think the addition of another woman to help around the house (Kaiphet’s wife), and the grandson, have added a great deal of brightness to the whole family.

Our stop to meet the Dzao elder drew quite a crowd.

Today we packed our gear and did our last market wander. Tomorrow we’re off to Vietnam, and a (hopefully) relaxing time at the beaches of Sam Son near Thanh Hoa – not reputed to be the best beach in Vietnam, but it is both convenient and a draw for Vietnamese, but not Western, tourists. Then to Hanoi to finish labeling our materials for shipping, then home.

Laos is about over, and our friends are already saying they miss us and want us to come back as soon as possible. And Josh and I are already laying plans for doing just that!

Maren On Summer’s Assignment: Of Food, Silk, And Friends (Part 2/3)

Posted on July 17, 2014 by josh

The week leading up to today, July 17, 2014

Maren on the right, Mai (our Houaphon translator, guide, and very dear friend) pon the right, Mai's mother is middle. Mai's neice and son, Bingo, are in the front.

Maren on the right, Mai (our Houaphon translator, guide, and very dear friend) is on the right, Mai’s mother is middle. Mai’s nephew and son, Bingo (no, not Batman), are in the front. We do feel like giants there sometimes….

Josh, Zall and I are sitting in our room taking a break and digesting our lunch of steamed bat (yes, again), water buffalo liver (Josh’s favorite….), green zucchini-ish veggie boiled with venison, water buffalo meat stir fried with some green onion, lots of sticky rice, chili sauce, bamboo soup left over from last night’s dinner, and more of the green zucchini-ish veggies boiled (Zall and I really like them). So much of our social life focuses on food – preparing it, planning it, eating it. This morning we had another smaller American-pancake breakfast for a smaller crew – pancakes, bacon, and coffee. Delish!

Two nights ago we had the “Han-falang” – foreigner restaurant – where we made hamburgers, fries, salad, and s’mores for dessert, with appetizers of gin and tonics, brie, stilton, smoked gouda on crackers, and olives (yes – we actually hauled 24 hamburger buns). As expected, the hamburgers were a hit (with water buffalo ground in the hand-cranked cast iron meat grinder Z and Josh hauled from home – the women have all asked for more of them – they love the grinder!). We served them with a thin slice of onion, Heinz ketchup, French’s mustard, my pickles (yes, Josh and Z hauled them too), all on hamburger buns from home. The potatoes we bought here and fried in oil from home – all were eaten! The salad was cucumbers, tomatoes, green beans, and some spicy greens from the market with Italian salad dressing. The surprising thing was that everyone ate each type of cheese, and, although it was not their favorite food, they did not react with the tastebud horror we thought they would to aged and moldy calf food. What did surprise us is that only about half of the people liked the G&Ts. Most switched happily to Beer Lao. One of the men helped make s’more sticks from a freshly cut large bamboo, split into stick widths, shaved to eliminate splinters, then carved into points. I couldn’t believe it – no marshmallows burned!

The meat for our American hamburger meal could not have been fresher.

Hamburgers and fries with the works, including paper plates.

Jsh heating American hamburger buns on the “stove.”

We’ve been fed some amazingly good meals – fresh catfish from the river, bamboo soup with the bamboo cut that morning from Phout’s garden – a huge shoot from timber bamboo that was incredibly sweet, mild, and delicious. Chicken, of course, lots of fresh greens, a tiny pea-sized fruit that is so bitter that it fills your entire head and the taste lasts for at least 10 minutes – it’s supposed to be good for health and blood sugar – and many other things we don’t have at home. So far we’ve sampled no bugs and no extra MSG in our honor, although we did get another round of “poop soup” – water buffalo stomach, intestines, liver, meat, cooked in water and the contents from a 6” section of intestine; at least it was all very fresh, as we had purchased it along the side of the road on the way to our favorite town in Houaphon Province, having noted a fresh butchering under way. Somehow, the intestine contents don’t strike me as “fresh”, regardless of age….

Souk shows off one of her silk masterpieces from this year. Just when you think you can’t get more intricate, precise, or attuned to the art….

On a business note, seriously gorgeous textiles in abundance are all around. We’ve managed to skim the best off of the top. Some have color combinations that don’t work, hang “banana” (one selvage is too short and it hangs off to one side) or “hammock” ( the selvages are both too tight and the middle sags), or there are too many flaws or “imperfect” weaving – in other words, absolutely exquisite, but there are better. We pick the best we can find across the spectrum, though favoring the little girl’s weaving whenever possible (age 9 and weaving unbelievable textiles!) The theme this year seems to be center diamond patterns, though some new and unusual designs have emerged too.

A nine year old holds up the small piece she wove, and we purchased.

We spent 7 hours straight at Phout’s house yesterday buying textiles. All of the women in the village joined us in the house, upstairs above the looms and farming tools. The house is made of wood with teak floors, support beams, and walls. The walls are covered with posters from calendars of beautiful Laos models – women – with coy looks, wearing sinh (Laos skirts), and pabiang (shoulder cloths). About 30 women were in the house, with two fans going, a couple of windows open, and the temperature must have been 95 degrees. We were sweating gallons, and Phout gave me a huge bath-sized towel to wipe my brow so I didn’t sweat on the textiles. Whew! Zall was incredibly patient, sitting, sweating, and waiting for us to need his photography services. What a great guy!

A very elderly weaver in Houaphon Province. She sold us a piece she had woven in her youth.

A very elderly weaver in Houaphon Province at Phout’s house. She sold us a piece she had woven in her youth.

The elderly woman modeling the mosquito-net border which she wove some 60 years ago.

Tonight we have been invited to the Vice Governor’s house for dinner and games of Petanque (bocci-ball) – most often played as a drinking game, leading to great hilarity. He is also going to be accompanying us to a neighboring silk-raising village tomorrow, and, it turns out, most of our friends are going too, leading to a caravan of 3 cars descending on the tiny village at once. I think we’ll double the population with our arrival! Mai, our friend and translator, is mightily impressed with the amount of time the Vice Governor is spending in our presence – he seems to have learned the amount we drop in the village each year and is investigating more himself. He has 4 daughters, and is working (in all jest) to get Ari and Zall to marry into his family!

One thing we have learned this trip is that we are an excuse for all of our friends, including the V. Gov., to get together just to chat, relax, and party. Apparently, they are so busy with their daily lives and work that they don’t often make the time to get together, despite how it appears when we are here. So, our visits are not just money makers for them, but also their own social occasions plus the opportunity to hang out with foreigners and have an American meal. Quite the set of events.

A monsoon storm threatens in the late afternoon.

Souk and Phout have been working with me to discuss creation of a dye chart. They are going to collect dye-stuff and threads for our next visit, and we’ll spend a couple of days then creating dye charts for each of us to explain the natural dyes used in this region. Looking forward to it!

Maren On Summer’s Assignment: Of Hemp Looms, Luang Prabang, and Friends (Part 1/3)

Posted on July 7, 2014 by josh

The week leading up to today, July 7, 2014:

A woman shows off her baby – and beautifully embroidered baby-carrier made of local hemp and cotton. The textiles coloring and patterns ndicate the woman’s ethnicity is of the “Blue kong” people.

I am currently sitting at a restaurant in Phonsavan, XIeng Khuang Province, Laos, nursing a wonderfully cold Beer Lao. In Vietnam and Laos, so far, it has been hotter’n hell – 84.5 degrees at the coolest in Luang Prabang and Vientiane, Laos, at night! High humidity increased the discomfort. However, nothing beats being here.

Started in Hanoi – three shops and the hotel, the Bia Hoi (“fresh beer”) seller, as well as the used bookstore owner, all greeted me back to town. Then off via train to Lao Cai Province in the north, where I spent most of my time with Thi, my Black Hmong friend, sister of our first guide, Sho, as well as all of their family, including sisters Sa, Zu, Bam, Dang, mother Tai, and Thi’s husband,Trang, the traditional Hmong jewelry maker who, once again, came through with beautiful earrings and necklaces. The major coup of the whole Lao Cai trip was obtaining an older style Hmong hemp weaving loom for display in our Gallery. Thi managed to find one no longer being used, by her uncle’s family, took the loom “guts” to a woman who had sufficient prepared hemp to warp the loom, who then brought it back and assembled it on the loom frame (two legs and two arms, with one piece missing that Thi’s husband Trang replaced by carving a tree branch with his machete to fit the loom frame in time to assemble). It was assembled in front of Thi’s sister Chai’s husband’s coffee shop with at least 6 Hmong women and several tourists watching.

Thi: Our good friend, translator, guide, Black Hmong arts’ advisor, seeker of textiles, and more.

The younger Hmong women had never woven using this older loom, and were fascinated by the process. The older women jumped in and helped assemble it, resulting in the woman who warped the loom weaving about 10” of hemp for me. I got to weave about 6 rows before the rain came dumping down and we had to cover the loom so the hemp was not ruined for weaving from the rain. Quite funny. I sat on two beer crates, upside down, with several women “helping” me weave – yeah, I had a hard time coordinating the backstrap tension, the one heddle controlled by one foot, and the shuttle all at the same time, but, I have to admit, 6 hands helping me weave was a bit much! Great fun. Got it disassembled and down to the train back to Hanoi where I had to purchase another bunk on the night train to get the loom frame and the 4 bags of purchased gear back to Hanoi for shipping.

A Black Hmong woman catches a meal in between shifts of dyeing local hemp with indigo.

Laos, where I’ve been for the last few days, has been a whole different experience. In Vientiane, I did a bit of hunting and located some good used masks from the Ta Oi people. Then I was invited to my friend Phout’s (one of the natural dyers from Houaphan Province) daughter’s house for dinner, to meet Phout’s first grand-baby – 2 month old Nui. Phout’s daughter’s husband, Nan, was a fabulous translator, and it is really nice to have more friends in Laos.

Thick, chocolate-y, sweet but still bitter, and, one might say, “mighty powerful” Vietnamese coffee.

Flew to Luang Prabang and had a magnificent time with friend and “sister-in-textiles” Vandara, who owns two guest houses, is a weaver of handspun organic naturally dyed cotton, promoter of all natural and traditional “handicrafts” of Laos, and an all around charitable, elegant, and lovely woman. Vandara went with me to Vietnam last year, and met all of Thi’s family except Sho. Just two months ago, Sho, her daughter Alice, and her French-born husband Antoine moved to Luang Prabang so Antoine could take the position of General Manager of the Victoria Xiengthong Palace Hotel, a hotel occupying the former Prince of Laos’ home. Vandara invited Sho, Alice, and Antoine over for a home-made dinner (Vandara is a noted chef, among other skill sets), and I was so pleased to finally be able to introduce them. I think Sho and Vandara will have a good friendship, and Vandara has all sorts of contacts for the family, including where Antoine can have new decorations made to accessorize his hotel.

Maren’s sister-in-spirit and dear friend Vandara explains how she creates the dyes for her village’s cotton textiles.

Yesterday, Sho’s family and I accompanied Vandara to her second guest house at Tat Kuang Si – the “big” waterfall about 45 minutes from Luang Prabang. Beautiful, crystal clear water to swim in – a huge relief from the humidity and heat of Laos – and another excellent meal, including some fabulously delicious fish from the Mekong, blue tea made from flowers, limes, and mint, and other dishes including local mushrooms and organic herbs from her extensive gardens. Once again, spoiled rotten. I purchased many beautiful, traditional baskets from the Khamu villagers, and even bought a large, wooden, hand-carved elephant for myself (or the highest bidder!). Of course, in Luang Prabang, I also bought some of Vandara’s organically grown, handspun, naturally dyed, handwoven cotton yardage, as well as more beautiful silk scarves from our friend Bounmy.

Rice fields enjoy Laos’ summer monsoon season.

I have also had a great time searching out items for two European customers – one looking for tribal aluminum items, and another looking for any textiles with gibbons or representations of gibbons in them. I found Red Dzao (Yao) pants with geometric representations of gibbon prints, and a cloth book with an embroidered gibbon. I have more research and textiles to see in Houaphan Province. The aluminum has been harder to find – the markets in Luang Prabang are not as diverse as in past years, and I have already found what I consider “the good stuff” – I’ll keep looking though!

In Phonsavan, I am meeting up with friend Mai (from Houaphon) and her son Bingo, and, in two days, we will be driving to Xam Neua, stopping in several weaving towns on the way to add to the collection.

Josh and Zall will join me in Xam Neua for the rest of the trip, and I’m looking forward to seeing them again!

Jarai Gravesite Guardian Spirit-Posts

Posted on May 1, 2014 by josh

Jarai Gravesite Guardian Spirit-Posts, Or

What You Won’t Find At Our Sale

They were hardly visible – just an aged, gray stump sticking up amid the tall grass, on the shadow’s edge of a lush and untended grove of trees.

A Jarai guardian of a grave peers over the grass.

Our guide, clad in a black business suit – daily business wear for office owners in Kontum, Vietnam – caught his breath. “And this…” he puffed, “This is where some of my ancestors are buried.” He took a white handkerchief from his rear pocket and wiped the beads of sweat from his face.

There was no breeze; some insect droned from the still trees. The sun felt heavy. Our guide tipped his hand to usher us forward. We slipped through the natural hedge on a thin path and a small village of haunting wood-carved spirits leaned in.

A Jarai gravesite that is still being tended.

Traditional Jarai tombs are small huts that hold the possessions of the deceased and some offerings to appease the spirits. Wooden pillars topped by haunting carvings, representative of spiritual guardians, overlook each grave site. Traditional Jarai burial ceremonies are extremely expensive (involving many water buffalos and cows), and it may take a family many years to afford the proper burial rites for a loved one. The graves are well-tended until the ceremonies are competed. After the final ceremonies, and after enough time has passed, the tombs are abandoned. The final abandonment ceremony marks the point where death becomes final and the deceased spirit is released. Nature then runs its course with the carvings.

A very old Jarai guardian spirit watches over its long-abandoned grave.

Teak wood, like cedar, takes long to decay, but the regular rains and heat of the region etches its influence upon the site. Each guardian is for each ancestor, and they to continue to be shaped by time and memory. A soul and a teak log can each take generations to dissolve.

A spirit guard tends its duties.

But here, now, in this Jarai village of spirits with our guide and the sun is a moment of timelessness (and it’s just a moment). Are the spirits still here? Can there really be a hundred years between a yesterday and a tomorrow? What is of our memories…

We have seen these posts for sale in tourist-focused shops that seek “western-sized” pockets. The posts often still have a rotted, earthen stump, proof of being uprooted from its vigilant role. Stacked in a corner of a shop, they look lost – and even older. The more shaped by time, the more valuable. The more determined the features, the “better.” The bigger, the more.

Each guardian in the shop leans: defeated, exiled. How could one remove such a treasure of time and memory, upsetting the order of decay? Such items command the respect inherent in their purpose.

A newer guard.

Some things are not meant to be traded or owned.

On the Fringe

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