In Houaphon Province’s small provincial capital of Xam Neua (Laos), way on the eastern edge of town where the main road ends, past the Buddhist stupa and around the corner on a small side street, sits a modest cement-block home and workshop of a most extraordinary weaver. [We’ll refrain from naming her as we do not have her permission to do so.]
The master dyer and designer showing one of her new shawls.
In 2006, on our first visit to Xam Neua (before Above the Fray), the local tourist office had casually recommended we visit her modest workshop. We did not have a translator but felt confident with our Lao-English dictionary and the calculator to see what she had to offer. She greeted us politely, indicated she knew no English, and invited into to sit down on an old couch. Glasses of water appeared, and then this woman brought out some textiles she had designed and made; our jaws dropped on the floor.
A subtle modernist, she takes the traditional motifs of her Tai Daeng culture and creates her own private line of unique, exquisite silk scarves and shawls. Her motifs and designs are deceptively simple and elegant, and tend to avoid the more traditional complex geometric play. Her use of rich hues and buoyant color-play, all created using natural dyes, allow the energy of her silks to jump right off the shimmering textile and dance. She uses only the finest, thinnest quality of silk thread, and doesn’t fear bold, sharp images; the weaving quality is flawless.
One of the traditional sets of motifs used by this designer in her shawls. This shows a “siho,” or mythological elephant lion, which represents both political and fierce fighting strength; on its back is an ancestor spirit, who helps guide the shaman to the ancestor world to seek help; a “hong” bird, perched to the left, symbolizes male energy. Various flowers, and a spirit tree grow by the siho’s trunk.
One of the young weavers modeling a shawl she just wove (note untwisted fringes) standing in front of finished shawls from the weaving works.
A weaver at work creating another masterpiece. All of the dyes are made from natural materials, even the bright turquoise on the shuttle she is using for the weft on this golden shawl!
She manages a small roomful of younger weavers who operate hand-made wooden looms using the supplemental weft technique. We imagined her to be a tyrant of a boss – how else could her textiles be so unusually error-free? But no. On our several visits (now with translators) we hear nothing but giggles and chat as the young women slide their shuttles back and forth on the nine wooden, hand-made looms that sit in the adjacent room. They quickly get studious when we walk in to admire their creations (and snap a few pictures); the moment we leave, their casual and cheerful banter returns.
On our last visit in 2011, she confessed that the dozen or so pieces we usually purchase from her represent her only regular sales outlet – save one. Yes, she admitted, except for the rare one-time visitors (like us on our first visit), she sells exclusively through a select silk boutique in Singapore. Apparently, the Singaporean contact will take every piece she and her small team can create.
“You are my only other regular customer,” she tells us through our translator. Her eyes brighten. “My special American boutique customer!”
A half-finished shawl on the loom – this weaver was too shy for a photo!
Questionable Cuisine and a Lesson Learned – by Zall, age 15
In all my travel experiences, I donʼt think that Iʼve never regretted something more than I did that night in Siem Reap, Cambodia.
I woke up in our hotel room after a night of taking in the sights, sounds, and smells of another country. Pain. Hurt. My head was light, my whole body ached. I fell out of my bed and tried to figure out where I was. The night was pitch-black except for a green blinking light in the corner of my vision. My sight was blurred. My body seemed to move without me telling it to.
Zall, our now 15-year-old photographer and “child-sherpa.”
I have no recollection of the scene or any idea how I made it to the bathroom before I threw up. As if teleported, I was curled on a floor of sea-foam green tiles in front of the toilet. I had thrown up until there was nothing left but cramps – pain beyond anything Iʼd felt before. A few minutes later, one of my loud dry-heaves woke up my Dad. He came into the bathroom and did what little he could.
The night is choppy: like a bad film where you never really know whatʼs going on. I remember being boiling hot, my forehead was scalding and the temperature kept rising. My arms were shaking so intensely that I couldnʼt even take a drink from the luke-warm bottled water that we had in the room. At one point, I gave up and laid down on the floor spread out and felt the cool bathroom tiles on my bare back. I remember digging my nails into my arm so hard that my dad had to tell me to stop before I hurt myself. The night was long. Long. Long. Long. Eventually I ended up falling asleep on the tiles.
I woke a little while later and the sun was scorching through the windows. I remember the relief that spread through me when I could at last stand without my legs toppling under me and the joy that rushed through me when I realized the night was over.
Zall, at age 9, two days before the events of his story. This is a healthy, local meal of fresh fried frog!
What I had eaten the night before was not a strange bug. Not a bat, nor some chewy internal organ. Not even a chunk of dog or rat meat. Instead it was at a higher-end western style restaurant – a “fish and chips” deluxe meal, Australian-style. I know, shame on us, but sometimes the craving for a taste of home is overwhelming and we give in to our desires. Consider that a lesson learned.
Last summer I was fortunate to go with a group of classmates for a exploration of some of the sites of southern Mexico, Guatamala and Belize. I warned my friends many times not to eat the western food that we saw. Or drink from the tap like weʼd been told. Needless to say they didnʼt listen. I chose to eat local cuisine for every meal – I think I was the only one not to get diarrhea.
Whenever someone asks me for advise on how to keep healthy on a trip to a foreign country, there are two things that I tell them immediately. Donʼt drink anything but bottled water, and DO NOT eat the food that is trying to be the food you eat at home. The street-vendor food, which is cooked fresh right in front of you, is the healthiest and safest meal to have. If the locals eat it, its most likely safe; locals don’t like getting sick either. So while eating in alley-way markets may seem sketchy, I have never gotten sick from local food.
Maren spent several weeks traveling – and “shopping” – in the hilltribe region of Laos and Vietnam without the family this past season. However, as she tells in the following e-mail excerpts sent home, she was never lonely:
Maren modeling a shawl, loving the trip.
[We open in Vietnam’s Lao Cai Province, in and around the mountain town of Sapa which is home to mostly Hmong and Red Dzao (Yao) people who have a long tradition of embroidered hemp and cotton textile work. This cooler mountain area is quite developed, and attracts the few westerners who tour north Vietnam as well as up-and-coming middle class Vietnamese tourists – giant Hanoi is but an overnight train-ride away. With a good flow of tourists, street-vendors can be pretty aggressive in gaining your attention.]
July 24: OK – I am having an absolute blast traveling without the family – sorry gang! I keep turning around looking for Josh and the boys to comment about something, but other than that, it is fantastic.
Black Hmong woman selling machetes forged by her husband.
I am sitting in my room in Sapa, Vietnam, in the Queen Hotel, our usual place, with a cup of coffee, listening to the sounds of fresh tourists arriving and hordes of Black Hmong young ladies chasing after them with volumes of “…you buy from me? You no buy from me but you buy from her… I sell very cheap. Made by hand, made by hand…” all accompanied by the appropriate facial expressions and hand motions to convince you to buy. It is so fun to be a regular and watch the faces of newbies coping with the onslaught!
To backtrack. I arrived in Hanoi four days ago. The staff at our usual hotel greeted me with big smiles saying “Where is your family?” I spent the first day in Hanoi looking for our usual haunts to seek things we are not able to find in the villages and markets such as older ritual art and shamans’ masks. A couple favorite places had lost their leases and were looking for a new space. Real estate prices in downtown Hanoi have doubled in the last year, and landlords are ending leases so they can remodel and/or get new tenants at higher rates. However, our favorite place was still there, and I spent several hours hanging out with Hanh, the owner, and talking about our businesses, the state of tribal arts collection in Vietnam (she says it is EXTREMELY hard to get good items any more as most of the old stuff is already in people’s collections), family, and life in general. Without the family, I was able to just sit and talk with her and we got to know each other better – a wonderful opportunity.
Flower Hmong mom and baby.
Took the night train to Sapa – it poured all night and all morning, so my bags got soaked going from the train to the bus to Sapa – fortunately things dry…
The hotels in Sapa were all full Saturday night with Vietnamese tourists – it is peak season for local tourism. Sho (see newsletter #6) met me at the Queen Hotel (they all remember me) and I ended up staying at her apartment that night – the advantage of traveling alone. I spent the entire day with Sho – shopping in the local busy market, gasping for breaks, and then diving back in. Friends of hers made dinner, and I ate with Sho and about 6 others- women who all speak English, and have vowed not to get married unless it is to a Westerner; tourism and the ensuing education of the women through their guiding and selling efforts has made a huge impact on the cultural norms and expectations from the women’s perspective.
In the lush and gorgeous Red Dzao village.
The next day Sho, one of her sisters, the mother of a friend of Sho’s and I took a van to a Sunday market to search out primarily Flower Hmong items. The friend’s mom, having lived in Sapa all her life, had never been to the market – a 2-1/2 hour drive away! That friend, by the way, married a Canadian man and is currently living in Myanmar with him and their two children, and has invited us to come visit – next trip perhaps??
The hotel had a room for me on Sunday and Monday (today) so I am here now, surrounded by my selection of traditional handspun, handwoven, hand embroidered blankets, bags, and clothes, among other things. Last night I was having dinner at the hotel to avoid the selling crowds outside (yes, even I can have enough shopping), and one of the little boys (age 2) was having a crying fit. I got him one of my punching balloons for distraction. 20 minutes later, his bigger brother, who was perhaps 4, brought me a note his mom had written asking if I had another of those balls for him! I had been thinking of getting him one too. This morning they are happily playing with their still un-popped balloons. Kid toys are definitely the best things to bring on these trips.
Red Dzao women eager to show their work.
Today Sho and I are off to a nearby Red Dzao (Yao) village. I am looking for the fine silk-embroidered cotton clothing, baby hats, and accessories that are the pride of the Red Dzao women, and that they constantly embroider in their “spare” time making clothing for the next year’s wear. Sho and I will spend Tuesday labeling all of the items to get through customs, then I go back to Hanoi on the night train, and then on to Laos.
July 28: I am in Na Meo, the border town with Laos, and, at 8:45 PM it has finally cooled down to 89 degrees! It is only survivable inside with a fan going full blast – too bad the fan in my room only operates on speed 3 of 8… There is a soccer game on TV here – Vietnam vs. Qatar – and there are simultaneous moans or cheers from through out the hotel, restaurant, and surrounding town from the men – all of whom are of course watching it.
The man who runs the hotel, and his wife who runs the restaurant, remember me and the family. The first question was, of course, “Where are your babies?” – sorry guys. And, after lunch (as happened in Laos 5 years ago), I was asked to sit on the scale to see how many kilos I weigh. I gave in sooner this time – it is inevitable once they get the courage up to ask. Wild hoots of laughter as I mimed that I was equal in size to 3 Vietnamese women – they appreciated that. Of course, they have size 2 feet, their hands are half the size of mine, etc., but I am not the usual backpacker going through, and, having been there several times, I was easier to ask…. Humor is the only way to cope with some things!
Shoʼs favorite “pho lady” in the Sapa market. On the table are additions to the pho, including raw and cooked eggs, chicken intestines, regular or black chicken meat, morning glory and bamboo shoots.
So, to backtrack, the Red Dzao village near Sapa was a madhouse. Many of the village women stayed at their village instead of going to Sapa because they heard I was going there on Monday in search of their finely embroidered clothing, and other items. Sho and I walked through the village’s center dirt square and up to the “residential area” where we visited two houses – one is a BEAUTIFUL homestay run by a Hmong friend of Sho’s who married a Red Dzao man (and who now dresses as a Dzao). She is fluent in English too. Then we walked back to the main area where we had told the women would go to look at their textiles. Oh…….my……goodness….. I swear we were surrounded by 100 women. They were at least 6 deep, fully encircling us, shoving items constantly at us. We found a few really beautiful baby hats that had been outgrown by toddlers, as well as some stunning aprons that the women all wear over their derriers. Prices were haggled (are they good at this!), money changed hands, change was sent back or passed onto the next person who needed that amount, and on it went. It was fun, but felt like absolute chaos! The two guys we hired for a motorcycle ride to the village were sitting back laughing at us, particularly after I asked Sho to tell them that I would pay them more for waiting so long. We spent over 4 hours in the village. We were only able to escape by shoving our way onto the motorcycles, climbing on, and the drivers plowing a path through the crowd.
Ta May (in Red Dzao headdress), Tea (in Black Hmong outfit), and Sho (in western garb) on the balcony in front of my room in Sapa. We are labeling items for shipping and customs.
Anyhow, Sho, her sister Tea, and a Red Dzao woman, Ta May, from whom we have purchased several quality items, all helped me sort and sew labels on the items I purchased – I took them out for pho (noodle soup with meat) in the market as a thank you. Took a van to the train, off to Hanoi, and on to our regular hotel. They let me have a room for a couple of hours to shower, sort my gear, and cool off in air con for a whole $2.50. I left 5 large suitcase-sized bags of items for our shipper to pick up at the hotel and took a bus to a town halfway to the border with Laos to spend the night at a guest house where we have stayed before. The lady who runs it remembered me (see, it pays to be visually distinctive!) and I got a private room. Had a great chat with a German woman, 25, who just gotten her law degree. She was on a 3-month trip through Asia and had invited her German-only speaking parents to join her in Vietnam. I got to use some of my rusty high school German! This village is a White Thai village, and I found some lovely used baskets. Then, I rented a van (there are no buses) to Na Meo, the border town between Vietnam and Houaphon Province in Laos, where I started this e-mail. I called my friend Mai in Xam Neua who is meeting me on the other side of the border tomorrow, and all is on as planned. I am so excited to get to Laos!
[Xam Neua is the provincial capital of Houaphon Province in NE Laos. It is the only town in the province with over 1000 people, and very few tourists or westerners visit this region. Houaphon is home to the Tai Daeng people who are some of the world’s most gifted traditional silk dyers and weavers. They maintain a long tradition of using 100% natural dyes and locally raised silk and have, for centuries, honed the art of creating some of the world’s finest, most opulent silk art.]
July 31: In Xam Neua again – what a comfortable, friendly place! However, nothing can hold a candle to our favorite weaving village which is another 6-plus hours by bus into the hills.
A beautiful village valley in Houaphon Province.
Our friend and translator Mai and her son, mother, and nephew met me at the border on Friday, and we drove to the village, with her 7 year old son barfing out the window the whole time – twisty roads do lead to that! On arrival, it seemed I was greeted by everyone in town, from the pho seller in the market to our favorite restaurant owner to our weaving friends. I got hugs from our main women weaving contacts, which is a novelty, as the Lao will usually just touch someone on the shoulder or hold hands. It was stinking hot the first day, but then the rain came, for the first time in a week, and it got all the way down to 80 degrees. The electricity only works from 10 PM to 6 AM two out of three days, and, of course, I was there the two out of three…. I used my little battery-operated fan that hangs around my neck – everyone wanted one, particularly the kids.
Phut, Souk, Maren and Sukkhavit in Phutʼs house.
The whole time we were in the village I was treated to every meal. Each of our regular weavers and dyers offered a meal. At each meal, I also had to have an extra drink (ceremonial drinking to welcome guests is a mandatory part of Lao hospitality) with my host/ess in honor of absent Josh. We ate frog soup, fried catfish, crispy fried grasshoppers (anything fried that much just tastes like a french fry), boiled greens, bamboo rat (they look more like hamsters), fireball fruit (somewhat like lychi), and bananas – the ripe but green variety is absolutely delicious!
I had a fantastic time conversing with everyone, with Mai translating, about our respective businesses, why we are buying the new materials, not the old like some other tourists, and how we sell their items in America. I explained that we buy the new items because, if we bought just antique textiles, we would not only be robbing the culture of their history, but would also not be encouraging the young women to continue the tradition of weaving by helping to provide another market for their goods. So many cultures, with industrialization, stop producing their indigenous art, and if we can make just a small dent in delaying or avoiding that outcome in Laos and Vietnam, we would be thrilled.
Souk and Mai eating chestnuts and green bananas; to the left are some silk textiles Iʼve been admiring.
At one dyer’s house, I made a selection of stunning pieces, but chose to stop buying textiles because I had a budget for that village, and wanted to spread the dollars around to everyone. When Mai translated my comments to my hosts, they said that that we have a “spirit business” – an ethical, honest business based upon good relationships and truly caring for both the individual weavers and the village as a whole. It is what we are striving for, and I was so pleased at their comment!
A woman in Houaphon Province posing with her baby and handwoven “phaa sabai.”
I also got to see Mai enjoying herself with her childhood friends, watching them reminiscing about climbing a huge tree and jumping off a branch 30 feet above the river into the water. Mai grew up in this village, but moved away 20 years ago as one of the rare locals to gain acceptance to the university in Vientiane, Laos’ capital city. That’s where she learned English. She has since returned as a “Director of Tourism Development” and works in Xam Neua. Still, she only rarely visits her home village. Two of her childhood best friends are master dyers and weavers, and we spent the whole time together. Phut, who lives mostly in Vientiane now, came back to the village (two day trip, each way) just to join in the party (and the purchasing), and Souk, who was visiting Vientiane, also came back for me. I learned that when they sell in Vientiane, they do not get paid for their items until the pieces sell – sort of a consignment arrangement – so they really like that we pay cash on the barrel. Souk, by the way, had just developed a new dye, a shimmery bright marigold, using the “ear leaf tree” leaves. The new color addition has changed some of her color schemes.
Mai, in her separate cooking shed, making eel soup.
I have to say that Houaphan Province is achingly beautiful in this season. The rice fields are neon emerald, the forests are overwhelming lush, with bamboo, deciduous trees and vines all dripping with the rain and humidity, and the predominantly limestone ridged landscape is dramatic, particularly contrasted with the patches of terraced fields wherever the land is flat enough and there is enough water to support crops. People are working the rice fields, and water buffalo and cows line the roads. Because of the rain, Mai wanted to come back to Xam Neua as early as possible today because she was worried about landslides closing the road. There were about double the number of landslides going back, but they were all small and left at least a car width open on the road.
I am now back in Xam Neua and plan to spend tomorrow snooping around. I am going to buy some handspun cotton and silk skeins, and probably a few more textiles. I have been invited to Mai’s house for dinner tonight, and she is going to pick me up at 5:00 so I can help her cook – she said no to my wanting to help as it is more polite to do all of the work for a guest, but I told her I enjoy cooking, and I wanted to see how she makes the food, so she said OK. I think I will just chop stuff so I can watch what she does, but not get in her way. We stopped at a small village along the road this morning and bought about 3 kilo of frogs and 1.5 kilo of eels for dinner. The eels will be soup and the frogs, I don’t know. Maybe stewed, maybe fried. Either way will be delicious!
An incredibly delicious dinner. Top and bottom are the eel soup, left and right are the frog, and the other plates are cooked greens and two different “jaows”, – spicy dipping sauces – with a sticky rice basket on the floor on the right. Mai made one dish each of frog and eel without MSG just for me!
[Phonsavan is about 8 hours from both Xam Neua and the northern city of Luang Prabang. It is the dusty take-off point to visit the eerie “Plain of Jars,” and is home to Laos’ Mines Advisory Group (MAG) office.]
August 2: I’m in Phonsavan right now, where the Americans bombed the hell out of the Lao people during the secret part of the Vietnam War. Almost 40 years after the war ended, 200-300 people in Laos are killed every year from unexploded ordnance left from that war. Bomb casings decorate the front of the restaurant where I am now having dinner, admittedly a rather backpack tourist oriented restaurant, but I came here because they have wi-fi. It is dumping rain, as it did 5 times on today’s drive. When it rains here, it is serious!
The frog dish in a banana leaf in a pot, ready to cook – you can see the brown frog leg on the left side.
Yes, frog and eel were absolutely delicious with Mai. I helped chop some vegetables, but she did most of the work. I shared beer with the people who continued to congregate at her house throughout the evening, all of us using the same cup, as is customary in Laos. If you do not accept the drink in the shared cup, it is considered very rude. Mai told me that all of her family and friends who were with us, as well as everyone in the village, commented on my (and our family’s) eating all local Lao food and going along with all Laos customs, and they were totally amazed that a “falang” (literally “french”, but applied to any western tourist), would so casually eat and participate on a local level. Mai and I had hours of good conversation about different customs, philosophies, et al, and, once again, friendships deepened. Mai, like Sho, is somewhat between cultures. Because of her English fluency and expertise in the developing tourist industry, Mai won a Laos-wide contest two years ago for a scholarship for a Masters Degree program in rural economic and tourist development in Japan where she spent a year. Her friends in her home village call her a “second Falang”. She agrees that she is in an in-between place, but doesn’t resent it. I met a bunch of her women friends – a banker, a real estate regulator, a restaurant owner, and a cosmetics vendor – lots of laughs, and comments on how handsome our sons are (yes, I had photos)!
Kaiphet, our first translator in Xam Neua years ago, accompanied me on Monday afternoon to translate again. We went to see the woman who makes the exquisitely fine scarves, and finally had a lengthy conversation with her. (More on this phenomonal artists in our next newsletter!) I also met the basket weaver in Xam Neua who makes gorgeous water buffalo woven from fern fronds – fair prices, beautiful product, new contact!
Mai had arranged for a van and driver to Phonsanvan for me for today, and we stopped at several towns and weavers’ homes to hand off pictures I had from prior visits – very well received! I did have to buy a few more things….
[Luang Prabang is the spiritual center of Laos and its second largest city. It is home to some beautuful temples that date back some 700 years. It is also Laos’ tourist center, although if you walk 15 minute from the central area you won’t see a white face. Why is it that tourists all hang together? Luang Prabang has one of Laos’ two international airports.]
August 6: Sabaidee! I’m back in Luang Prabang and Josh is here! Good thing, because I was down to about $8.50, not including my emergency funds. He is feeling major jet lag, and is gently snoring next to me in the room as I write.
Vandara stirring a dye-pot full of annatto dye – see the seeds in the bamboo tray on the bottom left.
Once again, Vandara, the owner of the Vanvisa Guest House where we have now stayed 10 times, has been more than welcoming. I have eaten all but two meals with her in the last 4 days, and we have had outrageous conversations, deeply admired each other’s collections, and decided we were sisters in some past life. We’ve discussed business marketing techniques, how to label products for different markets, branding, dyeing materials, and, of course, poured over her lovely handspun silk and cotton, naturally dyed collection – some of which is coming home with us… Vandara’s husband’s 108-year-old grandma is still alive, but overseeing the general operation on a much decreased level – she manages to sit in her chair in the lobby/living room for only about 1 hour each day, compared to her usual 8. All of the young people who live and work here “sabaidee” her with bowed bodies to show respect by being lower than she is. It is really touching to watch them care for her, making sure she has food, tea, and company.
My first night in Luang Prabang I went to the night market – a rather rambunctious, but low-key handicrafts market, and ended up just buying a mango shake and going back home – there were so many falang there that I felt overwhelmed, and had to leave! I really prefer the remote villages without all of those other people like me! It is amazing what some young travelers think is OK to wear in Laos. There is actually a sign posted by an ATM saying men need to wear shirts and bikini tops are not appropriate for women. The skin-tight, skimpy clothing that some falang wear is truly culturally inappropriate.
The woman selling the carved wooden hangers.
Bought wooden carved hangers from our usual source in the market again. She recognized me when I showed up, and even remembered what she had charged me for each type of hanger I bought from her last year, even without looking the information up in a book. It is so nice to have established relationships with the best artists! Her husband and brother do the carving, and she does the cleaning and staining of the finished goods. She gave me her “business card”, and said that next time we were there, she would invite us to her house so we could watch her family making the hangers. It really pays to make and keep contacts – creates deeper relationships and insights into the daily life here.
One of the bamboo soup tureens made in the Khamu village.
We went to Vandara’s second guest house in a town about 45 minutes away next to an amazing set of waterfalls. We sat on a wooden covered platform right next to the limestone-stepped waterfalls, eating a locally-grown organic lunch in the cool of the breeze from the river, in absolute paradise. Wished we were staying there for a day, but business calls in Luang Prabang. However, Vandara got two batches of dye going in huge pots over outdoor fires, and showed us the dying methods she uses to make a black and an orange dye. She gave me skeins of annatto (orange) and indigo (blue) dyed handspun cotton. She is using this dying station to teach the local Khamu women how to naturally dye fabrics, and then how to weave. The Khamu are one of the poorest groups in Laos. Since her second guest house is in this Khamu village, Vandara is working hard to help the people learn skills that they can use to make money from the tourists who arrive daily to tour the waterfall. She also set up a bamboo workshop for the men to make bamboo cups, soup tureens, day beds, couches, and gorgeous huge beds. We’re thinking about it…
August 9: Got all of our stuff – 10 huge bags and boxes – off to Vientiane and our shipper this morning. I left them by the bus as the driver was loading his passengers for the trip – being Laos, the bags will arrive as scheduled. Here, the bus drivers own their bus, and are the driver, mechanic, cleaner, and mail delivery service, so their reputation is on the line if a package does not arrive as ordered. I get the driver’s cell phone and bus number, and swap it with our shipper’s number, and the driver calls our shipper as he arrives at the destination so the bags are picked up. Great country!
It has been dumping rain today. Fortunately, rain brings the temperature down about 15 degrees, so it is survivable, as long as landslides don’t block the way. We’re heading to our next, more rural, destination. The last few days have been a more “urban” experience, and we are looking forward to being in a less westernized environment, even though we greatly appreciate Vandara’s company (and spoiling us rotten).
Bus has arrived. At our new guest house. Tired, ready for bed. Had Beer Lao, fresh tofu with vegetables, beef and basil, and the ubiquitous sticky rice for dinner. New adventures await us tomorrow!
It’s Dark, We’re Lost, and My Parents Are Approaching Useless – by Zall, age 15
Zall, photo-journalist.
It was about 20 minutes into the walk and about a kilometer (or two) later that we realized we had absolutely no idea where we were. There was nothing along the road except empty water bottles and forest. My dad was losing his patience, and my mom was beginning to think about sleeping on the side of the road. Time to do the only thing that a traveler can do in that situation.
15 hours is a long time to sit on a bumpy, rundown, and stinky local bus. The Akha woman the next seat over has thrown up seven times out the window and you’re getting really bored of looking at the 100-kilogram bag of rice under your feet. The bus is packed full: there’s no way to change seats; even the aisles are crammed full of the locals, vegetables, and bags of charcoal. All that there is to eat is dried out local jerky of an unknown meat that was bought 3 days ago, and a stale bag of sticky rice. An angry growl emanates from your stomach, but if you eat any more of that food that you brought, you might need to trade places with the Akha woman next to you.
The highway to Phongsali, Laos.
We arrived at about 9:00 pm – about the time that everyone goes to sleep – at the bus stop of Phongsali. The bus screeched to a halt and released some toxic vapor out of the muffler. The locals got off the bus and looked for their friends who had come to pick them up. In about 3 minutes, everyone had dispersed and all that was left in the “bus station” (really just a dirty chunk of pavement on the side of the road) was my family, a songtheaw (pick-up with benches) driver, and a small lady trying to sell us an unidentifiable dark fruit. We pulled our coats tighter – the temperature was really cold for a place with banana trees, perhaps 50 degrees. The songtheaw driver approached us with a smile and managed to get across that he will drive us to the town of Phongsali for 50,000 kip. So, of course, we take out our Lonely Planet guidebook. In the book it says that the bus station is just a short walk up the road from the town (how were we to know that the bus stop had been moved since the book was published?). 50,000 kip (6 dollars) – this was just an obvious scam that the driver was trying to pull on some westerners who looked lost. We declined the offer and set off down the road. As the last vehicle pulled out of the station, we were alone at 9:30pm in the pitch-black with two backpacks per personand barely any food. What could go wrong?
A Lao lady in a town en route to Phongsali peeling the wings and legs off of beetles in preparation for boiling and eating. A delicacy!
So here we are, having stumbled onward for a half hour. Dad has walked ahead of us muttering about bad maps and slow walkers. Mom had given up walking and was on the side of the road with that look that everyone’s mother develops: the “don’t mess with me or you will regret being born” kind of look. She was the one, after all, who had wanted to take the songtheaw. My brother is head-banging on the side of the road to a song he is thankfully keeping in his head, and I’m staring off into space imagining being home in my robe with a cup of hot chocolate and some brie cheese in front of the fireplace.
It seemed like a very long time until the echoing of a motor began to clap against the surrounding mountainside. We all stared hopefully at the bend 100 feet down the road. After several minutes, a car roared around the corner of the dirt road and stopped when we waved it down. Here is the part where the “language barrier” can be a problem. It took quite a few tries of sign language, English, and Lao before the message was clear: it would be a long walk to the town of Phongsali. The man smiled as we understood and motioned for us to get into his vehicle. Realizing that it would be getting into his car or sleeping on the side of the road, we opted for the vehicle. A 10-minute drive into town seemed like proof that the man really did know what he was talking about when he explained that it was a long walk. The driver refused payment for the ride, and dropped us off in town. My family stayed the night at a little guesthouse with bamboo mats for mattresses and rice and chicken for breakfast – much better than old jerky on the side of the road.
Downtown Phongsali, Laos, on a slow day.
Sometimes as a traveler, it reaches the time to do the only thing that a traveler can do in certain situations: listen for the engine bouncing off the mountainside, and pray that a pair of headlights comes around the corner.
SE Asian Tribal and Ritual Art: The Inevitability of Change
A Yao Shaman mask, from the early 20th century, acquired on our latest trip.
Older tribal and ritual artifacts – those dating from the mid-20th century and back – have nearly disappeared from the local markets. It’s not just a matter of prices inflating (and, in the robust, Chinese-fueled economy, they are), but the limited number of items originally created and used for ceremony that are still village-owned may be diminishing. A good example of this would be the wooden masks used in the Taoist ceremonies of the Yao (Yao-Mun subgroup) people of northern Vietnam and southern China.
When the region began to open to international business in the late 1970s following a generation of war and isolation, many of the older tribal artifacts were snapped up by international art and antique entrepreneurs and collectors. We’ve been told this is not a problem in itself for the Shaman and Taoist Priests; older, ritual items had their power ritually transferred to a new replacement – apparently, patina does not affect power. But much of the older, financially-valuable art was sold.
Our friend Phut (the “h” is silent), master-dyer and designer, modeling two of her shoulder cloths in her home. Notice the dichotomy between the turquoise Chinese refrigerator, plastic laundry basket, vinyl floor, and posters, and the traditional wooden stool with the hand- woven pillows and door curtain. This is one of the finest homes in Xam Tai.
Also, the mid-20th century hill-tribe elders were the last to be relatively unaffected by powerful global forces. Today the Yao and many other hill- tribe groups broadly support efforts to be literate and savvy in western ways. Like us, they yearn for their children get a good education and live healthy, productive lives. Refrigerators, motorcycles, eye-glasses, television, ice cream, medical clinics, Pepsi, power tools, political representation…. What’s not to like?
A Red Yao woman and children, with a mix of traditional and western clothing sit on Chinese plastic chairs next to the road.
This seductively convenient, modern world does not lend itself to investing time and talent into ritual protection and ceremony that supported a life that now, to many, may seem distant from modern realities. Three generations after Vietnam gained its independence, and two generations after a war killed millions and established a communist government eager to unify its people, the ancient village traditions that uphold the importance of certain beliefs are changing.
A young Lao man in western clothing playing pool with his friends while still wearing his hand-forged machete with a wooden hilt and handwoven rattan scabbard.
For those of us with our feet planted firmly in 21st century Western ways, a normal gut-reaction is to bewail what we might interpret as a loss of cultural innocence in an increasingly complex, competitive world. Indeed, many of these traditional hilltribe people are on the edge of a cultural precipice. How can the desire for health, comfort, stability and convenience be integrated into a world imbued with traditional beliefs? How can healing traditions maintain meaning in a world where Neosporin cures the infection?
The beauty, honesty, and expression inherent in the hilltribe people’s traditions inevitably must adapt to be meaningful in the modern world (as with Tai Daeng weaving), or else they will be buried in the sands of time as have our own ancestors’ ways
At the moment of writing these words, we are sitting in a thatch-roofed bamboo hut on the side of verdant rice patties watching two Akha women work the rice field opposite, while Tui, our guide, translator and friend, is cooking lunch for us on a fire below. These crude open-sided shelters are built primarily for use during planting and harvest seasons, and allow the field-workers to get reprieve from the sun, grab a meal or nap, or camp out overnight. But anyone is welcome to use one. We have an internet connection here, between Muang Long and Xieng Kok in NW Laos, about 8 miles from the border with northern Myanmar, because Tui has a mobile internet connection! He just plugged it in, logged us on, and here we are! Amazing.
In a rice field resting hut near the border between a Laos and Myanmar, with internet connection!
The town of Muang Long is wonderful. We are the only falang (literally “French”, but it refers to any westerner) we’ve seen in a week, except for a passing hello from Scott (of Maryland), who works with an agricultural NGO helping villages develop fish ponds and better planting techniques to improve consistency in food production. We are staying in a newer guesthouse in Muang Long that is owned by Tui’s sister. It’s a clean, simple, cement-block cube with a double bed, an overhead fan, and an attached bathroom with a squat toilet and a shower snozzle; joyful news – there is actually a hot-water- on-demand system. Tui is just as we remember him from 2006 – funny, kind and full of information on local cultures and people.
One question we are asked is how we present ourselves, as business-people, in small villages. How do we respectfully inquire if they have tribal arts available? Some villages, such as Xam Tai, are known weaving centers and new textiles are readily available for the inquisitive. Larger villages have open-air markets where business conversations are anticipated. But what about the small subsistence farming villages? One reason we love Tui is that he has an incredibly disarming and respectful approach.
This morning we visited Cha Kan Tanh. This village of perhaps 200 Akha people is about 2 km off the sealed road; the path to the village is well-worn by years of small motorcycle and foot traffic – a swaying, wooden plank bridge about 2-1/2 feet wide crosses the shallow river. The village is set on a knoll of hard-packed dirt, and the first sizeable home we encounter is wood-sided with a thatched roof, perhaps 500 square feet, and, like the other homes, set about 8 feet off the ground on thick wooden posts. The area under the home has wooden boards where two local children are sitting; stored under the home are farm tools, baskets, bamboo poles, and projects that need protection from the monsoon rains.
With other villagers laughing in the background, a young lady poses with her basket that she wanted to sell in Cha Kan Tanh village, Laos.
Today, however, it is humid and hot – the sun at this latitude feels close to the Earth. Tui and the two of us walk patiently up to the home and sit down on the benches. A couple children come over to ogle, and soon an adult, a woman in an Akha headdress, appears from upstairs. Tui says nothing at first, waiting for the sweat to dry on his face. He smiles and nods and then, in the Akha language, offers a “good morning,” which brings toothy smiles. The woman’s adolescent daughter brings out a tea kettle with three well-worn, unwashed glasses, and she proceeds to fill them with the light brown, boiled water (we ignore the “floaters”). We politely accept and, despite what our doctors might advise, take a draught. Tui looks around at the village scene, downs his water in a gulp, and doesn’t say anything for a full minute.
Tui begins by asking about the health of the village. It turns out that the night before a pig had given birth, not in the sty but in the village – a taboo. To appease the spirits, the pig that morning had been ritually slaughtered (and was to be eaten); thus most of the village members were not at work in the fields this morning, needing to attend to spiritual needs. “And the piglets?” Maren asks, “Did they also ….” “Yes, of course” Tui replies to us without asking our hosts.
As we share quiet pleasantries in the shade, other villagers start to drop by. One elder comments that we are the first white people in his memory to ever have visited their village, and everyone agrees; while tourists have zoomed by on buses and cars and motorcycles on the nearby road, none had ever walked the extra 20 minutes to this beautiful village. In Laos, one can easily “get remote.”
An Akha woman in full traditional garb showing skirt style.
Tui notices a particularly beautiful basket one villager is carrying, and he asks to look at it. He turns it over in his hands, and shows it to us. We all complement the basket-weaver’s talent, and this opens a conversation about who makes the local baskets. Tui also notices other items under the home – a couple of digging tools, a basket for catching fresh-water eels, a wooden plow. Tui is as interested in the cultural knowledge as we are (and keeps making Akha-language notes in his journal), and we all ask many questions about how the items around us are made and used.
More people join the hubbub. Soon locals are demonstrating how to bait eels, and another brings us a sample of the vines used for making shoulder bags. Tui, who used to be an elementary school teacher, starts teasing the once-skittish kids, and then he dons a small women’s basket and, to gales of laughter, mimes being a woman going off to the fields. About 60 Akha villagers now crowd in tightly, and, with more gales of laughter, watch our clumsy-fingered attempts to bait a delicate bamboo bird trap. By this time Tui has let the villagers know that we are collectors of quality tribal art who look for baskets and other wares that people might like to sell.
“Hex” symbols are being woven for the ceremony to appease the spirits of the rice fields and ensure a good crop.
Tui describes that we only seek baskets that are worn, but still whole. We bargain lightly for one Akha gathering basket with a deep warm patina; a few locals see the dynamic and over the next hour we are shown a variety of used baskets that the locals are willing to sell. The price stays stable – bargaining is inappropriate in rural Laos assuming a reasonable price is originally requested. In truth, cash is a valuable and rare commodity in the village, whereas basket-weaving materials and skills are indigenous. Another local brings us some finished piat shoulder bags that she had intended to sell at a nearby market; might we be interested? As we are “ooh-ing and ahh-ing” over baskets and textiles, we request if we can take photos of those selling us items. Most are eager to pose and then laugh as we share the picture on the camera’s viewing screen (we’ll bring them copies of the photos when we return). Some of the older women are bare-chested, but most cover themselves with a loose vest before posing for a photo; some choose not to have their photo taken at all. We are careful not to photograph small children alone who are thought to have more vulnerable spirits.
Maren learning from an Akha expert how to use a drop spindle to make recycled plastic “yarn”.
The skirts in this village demand some attention, as they are the lowest of the low- slung! It makes western “low-riding” pants look “square”. Most of the local Akha woman here wear a skirt that rides down around their backside to expose at least half their complete rears and rests underneath their bellies. What keeps these skirts up at all for modest coverage seems to defy the laws of physics!
An Akha silversmith shows us his technique.
Every village offers a different adventure. In one Akha village, in an open-air shop set like a watch-tower with a magnificent valley view, we shared time with a silversmith who was making a new set of ornaments for an Akha woman’s headdress. At another village, we talked at length with two women about piat, the jungle vine that is used to make fishing nets and knotted bags. Maren got a hands-on lesson on how to use a drop spindle – Tui said Maren was a natural – and she also learned to splice piat to make the string used for their nets and bags. The Akha ladies laughed and said Maren, with these new-found skills, was now an Akha! It helps to have patient teachers. A lot of their newer woven carrying bags are made from market nylon, or from used plastic rice-bags and tarps (those blue tarps are everywhere!). The Akha women simply undo the bags and tarps into fine stripes, and use the drop spindle to twist it into “yarn”.
Carved water buffalo horn forms for casting silver half-moons and circles.
At yet another village, we arrived toward the end of the weaving of a dozen bamboo “hex” symbols, three simple baskets, and a larger hex that were going to be part of the ceremonial offering to the spirits of the rice fields. The baskets were to each hold a chicken that would be sacrificed for the offering. Tui motioned to us to wait back a bit until he checked to see if it was OK for us to come near during the weaving of these objects to be used in a sacred ceremony. The locals said it was OK, and we were even allowed to take photos. No, we didn’t ask about acquiring a “hex.”
Not every village has things to purchase. Often we get a treat of traditional art only for viewing – just yesterday a shaman showed us his tools to appease the spirits – but of course a shaman’s tools are not for sale and we would never think to inquire as to such. Another village was stricken with grief at the loss of a 5-year- old; we shared glasses of weak tea, paid our deepest respects, and then excused ourselves.
A Hmong shaman’s altar with bowls, incense, gong, sword, offering cups, and bronze bells.
We can smell the fresh fish that Tui is cooking on the small lunch-time fire. In the middle of the hut, set out on a banana-leaf table, is the dried buffalo meat, a spicy eggplant dish, some pickled cabbage, fried pig skin, a cooked green leafy vegetable moosh, bamboo shoots, fresh aubergines, greens just pulled up from the edges of the rice field and rinsed in the watering stream next to the hut, and sticky rice that Tui has pulled out from his small pack to accompany the delectable fish. Ah well… here’s to our image of being rugged, outback adventurers on the “edge of civilization.“
Oh boy – lunch is on…..
Josh, Tui, Ont (Tui’s guide-in-training), and our driver (Tui’s new uncle-in-law) digging into a delectable lunch.
Market Pho and the “Bpaeng Neua Blues”, by Zall, age 15
So the giants from the West walk into a local marketplace, and every head turns our way. It’s not a usual sight to see a family of Americans traipsing through a community market. Smoke is heavy hanging under the canopy stretched above, and one or more of my family chokes on the homegrown tobacco fumes. Small tables with even smaller chairs are placed around the open sided shelter in a somewhat orderly fashion and near the center table is a woman bent over a colossal steaming pot throwing herbs and garnishes into the behemoth of a vessel. After the initial shock of four American intruders being present, commotion erupted again and the daily arguing, haggling, and chatting of the town’s most recent gossip ensued, mixed with talk of the strange new travelers (“falang” in Lao) now present in their midst. We begin our walk over to the tables set up for breakfast, through the herb tables, past the meat section (trying to ignore the various organs, meats, birds, rodents, and dogs), and over to the great pot stewing in the center.
Eating breakfast pho, with grandma, in the Xam Tai market in NE Laos.
The woman cooking looks up to us with a confused look and says something in her local dialect that we don’t understand. “Sii pho gai?” my mom asks. The plump woman breaks out into a warm smile to reveal her horrible teeth and tilts her head back and releases a gale of amused laughter. She sits us down at the nearest picnic-style table and heads back to her cooking table, chuckling to herself all the way. As she adds more ingredients to the pot and telling everyone who would listen about what had just occurred, she takes out the clear bag of monosodium glutamate. “Bo! Bo sai bpaeng neua!” My mom manages to say just in time to stop the cackling woman from dropping two heaping tablespoons of the white crystallized substance into each bowl. The woman looks at my mom with even more disbelief and breaks out into an even louder howling. The whole crowd around us bursts into laughter, and soon we joined in.
Another pho experience; this photo is from 2007.
After several minutes of the whole marketplace roaring with laughter, we wipe the accumulated tears from our eyes, and the cook serves us with four huge steaming piled bowls of chicken pho (pronounced pfuh guy). Pho is a noodle soup with chunks of meat and an assortment of local herbs and spices dropped in. You’re supposed to add various sauces that are provided on the table, but seeing as we can’t really read the labels on the bottles anyway (and they’re mostly salty), we tend to opt out of putting any of them into our bowls. There is also always a huge heaping pile of fresh lettuce, mints, basil, and every other imaginable leaf that you are supposed to eat along with the soup. Unfortunately, the leaves have been washed in local tap water or river water, which however safe it is for the locals to eat, we can’t because of all the different diseases that are in Laos’ water that aren’t in ours at home.
Dad took the first bite and gave us a look. He mouthed the word salty. Our whole family groaned with disappointment. When we asked for no MSG, the lady had assumed we would want more salt to compensate. Caught up in our laughter, we had forgotten to ask for her not to add salt either (“bo sai gaena”). The whole family drooped our heads; we do not like the copious amounts of salt and MSG that the Lao are so fond of. Regretfully, I looked down at my soup to discover that I had also forgot to ask for no cilantro (“bo sai pak sinnali”), a thing that I despise in my food. Even the word “cilantro” makes my skin crawl. Oh well, I thought and gave into my hunger, doing my best to ignore the dreadful taste of my arch enemy vegetable and the salty soup. Next time, I’ll remember to ask….
We have to bid good-bye to Ari’s regular stories as he commits to generating his own adventures. This Fall, Ari joins Earlham College, a small Quaker-founded liberal arts school in eastern Indiana; we can report that he is already having a fantastic time living and studying without hovering parents. His classes in social anthropology and psychology intrigue him most.
Ari on his first Asia trip, age 12!
I have been traveling with my family for over five years now, but my time living with them has come to an end. I am leaving for college. Although this is incredibly exciting for me, there are going to be some major drawbacks, like not having anybody to cook me dinner, not being able to go to Asia for free, and having to buy my own laundry detergent. I have taken a lot from my parents, but one of the things that has defined me to a huge degree has been our travel.
The first time I went to Southeast Asia in 2005, my paradigm of what life is and how I define myself as a person and an American changed dramatically. I had not realized how incredible different other cultures could be. Sure, I had been told that other people had other beliefs and different life styles, but I didn’t know it until I had seen it first-hand. Now, wherever I go, I bring my new paradigm with me, which has led me to a whole new set of experiences, from going to Korea with the Sister Cities program to volunteering in Sovie, Ghana to build a latrine. None of these life-altering opportunities would have been available had my parents not taken the initiative to take my brother and me overseas.
A more pensive, thoughtful, older Ari.
Now, going into college and what seems to me as the tireless flatlands we call the Midwest and the big bad world in general, I have already seen my experiences shape my life’s direction. I received the Bonner Scholarship from Earlham College. This scholarship is awarded to students who demonstrate a desire to improve the world, and my international travelling and volunteering helped me earn the honor. There are two components to the scholarship. The first is that I will do community service work instead of a work-study (which the program will pay me for), and the second is that I will receive a stipend for doing social justice work during the summers. The summer section can be done anywhere, so, although I may use it as an opportunity to come home to serve the Eugene community, I could also go abroad and work for a nonprofit organization that builds schools for impoverished girls in, say, Turkmenistan.
All in all, I am a very different person now than I would be had I not traveled. Can I tell you exactly what about me is different? No. I can’t pinpoint the changes. But every time I have come back from a trip my friends (and sometimes my family) have told me that I am a new person. I have yet to fully define this new person, but I know that, as I head off to college, I am about to embark on another adventure that will surely redefine who I am. I wonder who I will be when this next adventure comes to an end. I also want to thank all who have traveled vicariously with us through Laos and Vietnam – you have helped us look more deeply at our experiences through our writings.
The most striking characteristic of the Akha people are the ornate headdresses worn daily by the women you see in the photos. The many different sub-groups of the Akha maintain different shapes and adornment traditions; in Laos, the Akha Puli are the largest sub-group and are represented in these photos.
Akha woman weaving a carrying bag.
An Akha woman we visited with on her front porch.
An Akha headdress shown from behind.
The headdress begins with a strip of bamboo that is molded into a ring that encircles the head; a black cotton cloth is then carefully wrapped around the ring and head. Most of the headdresses weight is older silver coins, minted by the French for Indochina in the early 20th century (some are Indian rupees as well). Local silversmiths also fashion bells, buttons, half-shells, chains and other “bling” to adorn the headdress. Books tell us about how the power inherent in the headdress appeases the spirits and protects the woman, and also that the head is considered a bodies’ sacred vessel and is not to be touched by others. Despite this, we never sensed any fear or embarrassment if the headdress was not yet in place or was in the laundry (and we often saw women washing the ornaments or hanging them out to dry). A certain pragmatism seems to permeate their daily living routines.
An Akha silversmith showing his workbench and techniques.
A girl’s first headdress, as a young adolescent, would more likely feature less expensive, non-silver ornamentation. The Akha Puli leave the back head-panel void of decoration until marriage, when a dowry then affords the recognition. Certainly, a woman’s status is related to the quality and weight of the adornments. Many Akha, for financial reasons, use aluminum or nickel-bronze in place of silver; women may, over time, trade up to higher quality ornaments when economics allows. A full silver headdress costs well over a thousand dollars even in the local economy!
The same silversmith showing the water buffalo horn forms for silver spheres and half moons.
Above the Fray does not usually seek to obtain silver ornamentation, and we do carry some beautiful and unique authentic earrings and accessories made of other metals. If, however, you are interested in silver tribal arts, please introduce your desires. We certainly do enjoy personal shopping!
The Akha were originally a Tibeto-Burmese minority group who, in order to escape persecution in the 19th century, migrated south into southern China, Myanmar (Burma), Laos, Thailand, and Vietnam. Most are subsistence farmers who, by virtue of being late migrators, live in the more hilly, less accessible, and hence poorer parts of the region. There are 1-2 million Akha people divided into many “sub-groups” (classification techniques vary); 60,000 live in NW Laos. Traditionally they are animists, believing in ancestor worship and the spirits of the forest. Traditional Akha villages have a spirit gate at each entrance through which people who stay in the village must pass – this keeps unwanted forest spirits in the forest. Their ancient history is oral, and preserved in 10,000 lines of poetry memorized by “Pimas”, the designated story-tellers of the Akha. Only recently has a written form of the language been created.
The Akha leadership struggles for recognition and support in their host nations; some seek autonomy. About one-fourth of the Akha people have been converted to Christianity, also creating concern among its leaders, as conversion to any other religion undermines Akha traditions and culture. Laos does not allow active missionary work.
Akha women and children in NW Laos.
Last month, our guide and friend in Muang Long in NW Laos, Tui Chaddala (see newsletter #6), again created an unusual and magical opportunity for us. We had told Tui that while we were on a “shopping” trip for authentic cultural items, any chance to see unique cultural events would be most welcome, whether business-related or not.
Next day, quite by chance, we arrived at an Akha village (Puli sub-group), Pha Home, on the third day after an important 75-year-old elder, Pha Home’s coffin-maker, had died. We had missed the first two days when the body is wrapped in black and red fabric, the extended family is called to join, and a team of young men is sent into the forest to cut down an appropriate tree for the coffin (the Akha have government permission in a nearby forest reserve for such needs). We stumbled upon the event on its third day, after family and friends were assembled, and just after a water buffalo had been roasted to feed everyone for the ceremony’s duration.
Maren in front of an Akha Spirit Gate with a human figure showing the people’s side of the gate, NW Laos.
Upon our arrival, Tui, who knows some Akha language, checked with the villagers who nodded that it was OK to go up to the mourner’s house; we assumed our presence might be inappropriate, especially given the Akha belief that spirits directly affect daily life. Maren took a few surreptitious photos of the colorful scene with her camera resting on top of the case and set on the no-flash, low-light setting. People were in full ceremonial regalia – Akha women in headdresses covered in silver ornaments, jackets with embroidery and more silver on the back, pleated low-slung skirts, and a trapezoid-shaped shirt, most often tied just under the breasts. In Akha culture, women’s breasts are not sexualized, and are often bared, particularly on older and nursing women. Men wore loose indigo-dyed cotton pants and jackets with silver buttons down the front, and some wore red headdresses wrapped many times around the head so as to make a brim about 3″ wide.
Akha women in full regalia in the town of Pha Home, NW Laos.
Tui discovered that one of the sons of the deceased, Mr. Champa, was an acquaintance of his, and Mr. Champa quietly said we could join the family’s funeral party that day. We were then offered the traditional 2 shots of lao-lao (distilled rice whisky) and cigarettes, which we dutifully smoked (cough, hack!) to shared laughter. Tui told Mr. Champa that it was Maren’s first cigarette, and she was smoking it in his father’s honor – he thought that was a hoot! Around us was a great deal of laughter and conversation. Younger men were playing cards and gambling on the patio under the stilt-raised house; dogs were running around sneaking bones and tidbits of fat; chickens were hunting for rice grains and anything they could beat the dogs to; kids were yelling, chasing, crying, and generally being kids.
Akha men in full regalia, Pha Home, Laos.
After perhaps an hour, Mr. Champa invited us into the house and room where his father lay in state. The body was wrapped in red cloth, and an altar had been placed next to his head where people stopped to pray and chant and offer rice, meat, lao-lao, eggs, and other items in his honor and that he might need in his afterlife. We were invited to sit with the village chief and some other headmen of the village. A daughter-in-law of the deceased offered us each two more shots of lao-lao followed by a cup of water. Before drinking each shot, we poured a small amount into an old rusted tin can full of cigarette butts as an offering to the coffin-maker. Same with the water. That signified that we were officially a part of the funeral party. Mr. Champa then announced that we were welcome to take as many photos and videos as we’d like – a stunning opportunity that we never expected to receive. Being allowed to photograph any rite of passage, particularly an Akha funeral, is unheard of. We promptly set to work photographing everything possible.
Akha women.
An hour later we heard a hullabaloo, and all of the people, led by the young women, headed off to greet the cutters and shapers of the coffin just a short way into the woods. We followed, slipping on the muddy trail and eventually giving up all attempts to stay clean. We reached the coffin, which had been carried in two pieces, top and bottom, through the woods by strapping them onto long bamboo poles with rattan ties. The mourners each walked between the two coffin pieces, placing an offering of a paste of rice and spices onto the crude coffin halves. This cleansed the coffin of forest spirits who may have followed the coffin back to the village. Then, with a shaman chanting throughout, the relatives offered lao-lao and cigarettes to the dozen-plus men who had gone to the forest to cut the tree and roughly form the coffin. There were probably about 150 people all told in a tiny clearing made by chopping down some bushes – the ants that lived there were not pleased, and climbed up legs and bit when possible. As non-locals, we were strictly forbidden from touching the coffin as we might have introduced foreign spirits into the scene requiring deeper cleansing – who knows what might have happened then! We followed the coffin and the line of ululating mourners through the forest back to to the roadside village, and, with night falling, returned to our guesthouse in nearby Muang Long.
Procession past rough coffin pieces with offerings to cleanse them of forest spirits.
After spiritual cleansing, the rough coffin top is carried back to the village.
The next morning we visited two other 200-300 person villages, slipping on the trails after each monsoon rain burst. Maren had a particularly exciting “pirouette” and spent the rest of the day with a mud-decorated skirt. However, our minds kept returning to Pha Home and the opportunity to immerse ourselves in what seemed like a “National Geographic” moment.
Younger son making offering to his father, who is covered in red cloth.
We talked to Tui and said that, given Mr. Champa’s blessing to film the rare event, we would rather see the funeral than to go trekking, as planned, to another village; the funeral was something we would probably never get a chance to see again. So in the afternoon, we returned to Pha Home. Mr. Champa smiled broadly and raised his hands in the traditional Lao “sabaidee.” We were welcomed with more lao-lao and cigarettes – Maren gently refused the cigarettes this time. All afternoon we studied a team of about 15 men who trimmed and smoothed the coffin until it was as thin as possible. They even used an electric planer (!) to assure a quality finish. The finished coffin is a striking artifact, with it’s boat-shaped bottom, and eerily out-of-this-world wooden flanges that reminded us of sails. Meanwhile, a different type of wood was carved into two “feet” to hold the coffin upright, and a man thinned and smoothed long rattan strips to hold the coffin closed. Off to the side, Akha women were using a bow to fluff fresh cotton to use to line the wooden coffin for the deceased’s comfort. After the coffin was shaped, each relative took a handful of fluffed cotton and stabbed it with a machete or other tool into the inside, both top and bottom, of the coffin until the cotton stuck.
The coffin is trimmed using hand and electric tools to create the best shape as befits a coffin maker’s final resting place,
We were then motioned upstairs. Maren managed to squeeze into the room, but Josh and Tui didn’t make it in as the room was so crowded. Maren videotaped the entire process of moving the body into the coffin amidst a constant and loud discussion that appeared to be about how to do it correctly. It seemed that for each talker there were two opinions! First the cousins and important friends and villagers placed small (about 12″ x 8″) pieces of handspun handwoven cotton cloth on the bottom of the coffin. Then, the body was lifted in on the mat it was laying on. (In the heat and humidity, it was clear why the body must be placed in the coffin on the 4th day.) The red cloth was pulled back from the head, the black fabric wrapping the body was opened just enough to see the forehead, and then the cousins, shaman, etc., touched the forehead with cotton pieces (we later learned they were ritually wiping away “tears” from the deceased’s eyes) they then placed on his chest. The head was then rewrapped, the red cloth put over again, then more white cotton fabric placed over the body. His mattress cover (minus the filling) was used to help tuck him gently in, and then the top of the coffin was put in place.
Carving out a spot for the deceased’s head to rest.
Women were chanting and ululating in the corner of the room while his body was placed in the coffin. Suddenly, there was a piercing scream and a richly adorned woman collapsed in the corner and had to be carried out of the house on the back of a man. What we had assumed was a family member overcome by grief turned out to be a woman shaman whose head was accidentally touched by a mourner in the crowd. The Akha believe that the head is a sacred part of the body and it shouldn’t be touched by others. The shaman was whisked away followed by a dozen women and men (and the usual gaggle of children) to have her face and head cleansed. Darkness had fallen as they were sealing the cracks between the two coffin pieces and painting bright decorations on the rich wood coffin; it was time for us to return to our guesthouse.
Cotton being bow-fluffed to create a soft bed for the deceased.
Cotton being affixed to the coffin inside.
The next morning Mr. Champa invited us again up to the room with the body in state. The coffin had now been painted with stripes and zig-zag patterns using store-bought acrylic paint in red, blue, and green. A bright red pyramid, perhaps 8” tall and representing the coffin-makers heart, was placed upside-down in the center of the coffin’s lid. A shard of wood made from the same tree-type of his pre-deceased wife’s coffin was wedged between the rattan ties and the coffin; this assured that the two would be together in the next world.
The body being lifted into place in the cotton and fabric lined coffin.
After sharing a modest meal of the water buffalo, fried pork, and rice, Mr. Champa proceeded to tell us he was very grateful for our being there to document the funeral. Most funerals now do not have a traditional coffin due to cost and the rarity of the right types of trees. He said that not only would he have photos for himself and the family of the event, but now, any Akha who did not know how to conduct a traditional funeral could come and look at the photos and video to learn how to do so. He said that no one at the funeral knew of another funeral where falang (westerners) had attended. We, of course, expressed how honored we were to both witness and photograph the funeral; we would always remember them and the funeral as a special and rare opportunity to see a slice of real Akha tradition. Mr. Champa said that his father had never been outside of Laos in his life, but now, with our photos being taken home, his father’s spirit would be able to travel to see America. Everyone thought that was a wonderful thing!
Coffin being tied together with rattan.
Then another hullabaloo arose outside. A pig was being ritually slaughtered. The squealing pig was held in place while the shaman directed the oldest son of the deceased where to stick the pig. A piece of banana leaf was held between the pig and the knife, then the son quickly shoved the knife in and the pig bled out. A hole was then dug in front of the pig’s nose and several fern fronds were woven together in a specific design, with cowry shells laid in lines along the stem of the bottom-most fern. At this point the entire courtyard went silent.
Cowry shells ritually placed on the fern frond in front of the sacrificed pig’s nose.
Fully decorated coffin surrounded by the deceased’s belongings.
You can see the whiter piece of wood representing the deceased’s wife.
The eldest son repeated after the shaman for all the locals to hear the names of the 57 consecutive ancestors of the coffin-maker and then the name of his father. This was the first time the coffin-maker’s name was included in the list of ancestors. A bowl of rice and salt was poured over the pigs nose, and the ceremony concluded. The pig was quickly gutted, seared, cooked over an open flame and distributed in small pieces to all the villagers not related to the deceased. The relatives were not allowed to eat any of this pig at all. Meanwhile, while the pig sizzled on the fire and the young people returned to gambling games and laughter, the youngest son sat quietly in place, alone, clearly mourning.
Meal of water buffalo, pork, and rice with Mr. Champa and village elders.
After the pig was cleared away, everyone came down from the house, two bamboo poles were tied together with large sturdy lengths of rattan, the coffin was brought down from the house (amidst a thousand loud directives), and the procession took off for the cemetery complete with bags of the dead man’s possession: clothes, rattan chair, hat, basket, machete, etc. We were not allowed to go to the cemetery unless we were committed to follow the tradition of the mourners who were required for the next 6 days to remain inside the elder’s home eating only rice, salt, and water. About 370 photos and 25 videos later, our experience was done. Mr. Champa was most grateful for a DVD of all the festivities, and we felt ecstatic to have witnessed this rare event. We are deeply grateful to Mr. Champa, Tui, and the entire community of Pha Home for inviting us to join in this unique and powerful experience.
The women and other family members carrying the deceased’s belongings.
The coffin on its final journey.
The next day we visited 3 other villages. The first was a Hmong village where a 5-year-old girl had died. We were, again, welcomed by the village members into the mourner’s room. The drummer nodded and bowed at our entrance, missing only a single beat, and then returned to his task. The body lay on a platform against the far wall about 4 feet above the ground. A person in the dark room set out a wooden chair for each of us to sit front and center. This funeral was hard; no one was gambling or celebrating or preparing colorful rituals. There was only the soft shaman’s chanting, a constant drum beat, the eerie drone of a kaen (reed organ), and the crying pleas of the family who repeatedly touched the small body and then held there hands in front of themselves as if asking “Why?” In the dark and humid hut, our eyes welled up. The pain was exposed and raw, unjust and cruel. Again, however, the community was present, talking, playing music, shucking corn, and being a community together. All present – parents, villagers, and even this couple of wandering falang – were invited to mourn and feel the deep and profound loss and the power of what we cannot control or understand.
Hmong family grinding corn off of the cob just across the way from the girl’s funeral.
The contrasting funerals gave us pause. In one home death was celebrated in full regalia, and in another it was mourned in deep grief. Such festivity and beauty; such pain and fragility. The warm glow of long-burning coals; the quick extinguishing of a bright spark. The mystery of death and life was exposed; the earth accepts us regardless of age or status. That is what we surely share; that is the proof that we are all one human family.
