Cluster Casualties: A Report from Mines Advisory Group
by L. Syphavong, MAG Comm. Coord. – Laos; ed. by Above the Fray.
Mines Advisory Group (MAG) is a neutral and impartial humanitarian organization that clears the remnants of conflict for the benefit of communities worldwide. MAG was the co-laureate of the 1997 Nobel Peace Prize (with the International Campaign to Ban Landmines) and has worked in 35 countries since 1989. They began work in Laos in 1993, and Vietnam in 1999.
Half of a bomblet-holding bomb casing used now as a vegetable planter.
The Convention on Cluster Munitions (CCM), an international treaty that bans the use, production, stockpiling, and transfer of cluster munitions, entered into force on August 1, 2010. (The USA, the largest producer of cluster munitions, is one of the few nations that refuses to sign this treaty). Although the CCM is an important step, the ban has not lessened the need for unexploded ordnance (UXO) clearance to continue. Millions of bomblets – fist sized munitions delivered 600 at a time from a larger cluster bomb – still plague many communities, and many innocent people are still injured or killed from leftover, decades-old unexploded bomblets each year.
A bomblet hiding in a bush (MAG display).
Ti, an 11-year-old boy from Nathong village in Xieng Khouang Province in Laos, is one of the latest victims of a UXO. While working in his family’s paddy field in June, Ti’s pick struck a cluster bomb and he was severely injured by the tragic explosion. Most of his teeth were knocked out, and metal fragments similar to ball bearings were sent tearing into his right arm, stomach, and legs. Ti explains, “One day, a few weeks ago, my father asked me to go to block off the stream that brings water into our paddy field. After I finished that, I went back to digging our vegetable plot. I tried to remove a small bush by pulling it out, but that didn’t work. So, then I used my spade to dig it out. Suddenly, I heard an explosion; and, at the same time, I fell down unconscious.”
MAG workers clearing a field near Phonsavan, Laos.
As Ti’s family has no vehicle, it took them more than two hours to get him to the provincial hospital in Phonsavan. Once there, Dr. Somsavay, the head of the hospital, helped to save his life. However, while Ti is amongst the 60% of accident victims who survive, his injuries are extremely serious. “Ti only has a small chance of keeping his arm, but we will do our best,” said Dr. Somsavay.
Many others are not so lucky. According to Laos’ National Regulatory Authority, about 300 UXO casualties are reported each year in Laos alone; Dr. Somsavay says that his staff deals with an average of 2 UXO casualties every week.
A re-purposed mortar.
It is a sad fact that Laos is the world’s most cluster bomb-contaminated country. In the 1960s and 70s, it is believed that more than 270 million bomblets were dropped in a region that is roughly the size of Oregon. Some estimates suggest as many as 80 million of these bomblets failed to explode on impact and still litter the land – buried in a rice paddy or wedged in a bamboo grove. “People in Laos have been living with the legacy of one of the heaviest and most under-reported bombing campaigns in history for 30 years, and although serious efforts to clear the land are being made, there remains a huge amount of work to do,” said Lou McGrath, CEO of MAG.
While the threat of war is past, the threat of UXOs in the soil looms as a daily threat for Laotians in poor, rural areas. Without continued clearance work, Laos will be plagued for generations by the threat of these random violent atrocities. Fortunately, MAG has been working in Laos for nearly twenty years, helping to clear deadly cluster munitions and other dangerous remnants of conflict that threaten people’s safety and prevent economic and agricultural development. In 2008 alone, MAG destroyed over 98,000 UXOs and cleared 3.76 million sq. meters of land, 65% for agricultural use, and the rest to clear land for schools, access roads, water supply projects, and safe tourist sites. Still, less than 1% of the land needed for UXO clearance in Laos has been made safe.
Our hunt for textiles and tribal goods in hilltribe Laos and Vietnam leads us to some great market settings, each with its own charm and challenges. In this story, we visit a larger hilltribe market in Cao Bang Province in far north Vietnam. Regional markets are weekly, colorful affairs when thousands of nearby small-village residents from diverse ethnicities come to the region’s hub for business, shopping, news, and good chat.
Waking up in Bao Lac on Market Day, I peer through a soot-stained window of our third floor room to see throngs of locals wending their way to the market center. The women are dressed in bright ethnic fineries, and their cheerful, chatty laughter echoes through the streets; the few men are in their daily wear – drab pants and a shirt – and for whatever reasons they seem more intent and quiet. It is 6 AM; the day is dim gray.
The busy Bao Lac morning market, complete with multiple tribal and urban outfits and people.
Early mornings are busiest and best in a market, so we rouse the boys, quickly throw on our clothes and stumble down the unlit stairs onto the dusty street. Bao Lac is a modern Vietnamese minority town; its several roads are paved and the buildings around the few blocks of the downtown area are narrow 3 or 4 story-high businesses and homes. People are arriving on foot, bicycle, and 100cc motorcycles from neighboring smaller villages. This is the biggest weekly market in perhaps 30 miles in all directions, and a dozen different ethnic groups – Green Hmong, Dzao, Black Lolo and more, each identifiable by the women’s outfits – reside in the surrounding steep green hills and valleys. An occasional car or truck honks and edges its way down the street that is rapidly filling up on both sides with vendors selling and trading their goods.
A beautiful San Chi woman at the market.
There is that hesitant moment before plunging into the throng – take a deep breath. We do have a game-plan that includes breakfast in less than an hour, but to get to the food stalls will require bustling and squeezing our way to the central market plaza where the wood-smoke is rising. Our guide, Sho, with a wide-awake smile, will help us translate in Vietnamese and Hmong with the vendors and other locals; she’ll also help us locate hand-woven or embroidered textiles and other unique wares, be it an old opium scale, a beautifully worn basket, or locally-crafted jewelry. We know that the local Dzao and Lolo people create intricate embroidered textile work, and Maren has her heart set on finding some full traditional outfits. For the next four hours, I surmise, we will be engaged and in the middle of a crowded market with our attention-inviting appearance (and wallets).
Dzao women selling shaman paper, shovel blades, nuts, and incense.
I no longer worry about the kids getting lost – our youngest, Zall, is a confident 14 and an adult by local standards. That, plus we are all a head taller than the average local adult and our white faces and brown curls stand out above the crowd like candles over a cake. Zall is also in Heaven; as a photographer he is entranced by a thousand colorful outfits and sun-wizened faces parading the grounds. Most noticeable are the women’s outfits decorated with brightly colored embroidery and applique, a dozen different headdresses, large hoop earrings and chains of necklaces. Zall clicks away – some shots of the unsuspecting are snuck over my shoulder; other shots gain tacit permission with a smile or nod. It helps that he’s cute and young. Some do wave off the invitation to be photographed. (Practicing respectful photography etiquette – asking permission before taking photos or being discrete – enables all to continue to photograph stunning local scenes and people.)
Green Hmong woman with a baby on her back (note dark circle on forehead from heat-suction headache treatment.)
People are hauling chickens and pigs in open-weave bamboo cages, rolling barrow-loads of greens and garlic and ginger, and shouting out for others to come and see the wares spread out on their blue tarp (yep – the tarps are everywhere). The carnival energy is accentuated by the sight and smell of a popcorn vendor. The sides of the main street turn into a street fair; every tarp has someone sitting cross-legged making change, barking prices, and catching up on the week’s news. The array of items for sale is boggling: Nylon socks, medicinal tree bark, indigo-dyed hemp and cotton yardage, bright Chinese-made acrylic scarves and skirts, newborn chicks, pig intestines, donuts, high-heeled shoes, water buffalo horns, dried bamboo shoots, shaman paper for ceremonies, tobacco, crossbows, rice whiskey, and on and on. A mix of new and shiny and old and traditional; pastries for the wealthy and rice balls for the modest. Children beg parents for sweets, and adolescent men and women flirt on the bridge over the shallow, mucky river. In the entire morning we notice only two other western couples with whom we share a few words of market appreciation. As westerners, we gather a fair share of stares and nods, but in a town as modern as Bao Lac our appearance does not generate a hovering, gawking crowd (as does happen in some smaller markets).
Red Dzao woman in front of sugar cane and chicken (in bamboo basket) seller.
Sho buys us each some unnaturally-green banana-rice goo wrapped in a leaf. I take a bite and smile, then quietly discard the chalky remains in a pile of refuse someone has swept to the curb. No doubt a treat for the next dog that wanders by. We walk toward the center area, sort of a cul-de-sac at Bao Lac’s heart, that on other days houses the daily market. A large, simple wall-less cement building, perhaps 100’ x 100’, offers cover from the regular rains. During the week, all the vendors easily fit under the large roof with their vegetables, groceries, and plastic or acrylic Chinese-made wares.
Barefoot Green Hmong woman.
Sho gone Lolo!
Today’s weekly market fills this building and then spills out onto the street for blocks. The sides of the streets and every nearby business is busy and involved. People sit in small circles on the curb’s edge drinking strong, bitter tea; women in gaudy yellow and magenta headscarves haggle over prices; children with sticky hands and faces chase and squeal and weave through the busy crowd. Inevitably some car wants to drive through and it creeps along, at a crawling pace, honking continuously for the crowd to part, which it ever-slowly and patiently does. A horse patiently walks through the scene carrying vegetables in its appliquéd hand-made saddlebags. A barefoot Green Hmong woman strides by with her now-empty backpack basket. Everyone seems to have something they make or grow or raise or have acquired that they are eager to sell or trade. Everyone, from the youngest walker to the most bent-over ancient, has a market-day agenda.
Horse with appliquéd saddle bags.
We squeeze onto half an unoccupied bench amid the food stalls; our cook looks up at us, wipes her sweaty brow. A small fire at her feet heats a flat pan that cooks what look like crepes, and she eagerly points at the bowls beside her – one holds what looks like minced pork, another has whole eggs, another has a brownish sauce. We look at her, shrug and smile as if to say: “Whatever – you’re the chef!” She smiles broadly, points a finger at our boys, rubs her stomach and gives us a thumbs up. She ladles a soupy rice porridge onto the crepe pan, and with a long flat narrow spatula careful and quickly cooks one side and then flips the thin pancake. She gathers a spoonful of meat and sauce and cracks an egg into the mix. The steam and smoke from a dozen different food stalls fills the noisy, packed sitting area. Egg/pork “crepes” arrive in a minute and we each devour two or three to the delight of the cook. Sho strikes up a conversation on the side with an unusually dressed woman who is delivering firewood. The woman explains to Sho that she is of the small San Chi ethnic group, and that yes, she would like to eat, but doesn’t have any money. Sho, without hesitation, buys the woman breakfast and they sit and chat quietly in Vietnamese. Sho is always eager to improve her guide skills by learning of the local cultures.
An elderly woman carries fresh fish home in a bag from the market.
After another hour of wandering – and feeling a bit disappointed at the lack of hand-crafted wares – Maren becomes enthralled with the Lolo women’s bright-banded outfits and wanders to a group of a dozen Lolo women selling medicinal herbs and bananas on the market’s edge. Maren smiles broadly and admires a woman’s earrings, and then the colorful armbands on her cotton jacket. Smiles are shared; our children are introduced. Through Sho, Maren finally asks if the outfits woven by the Lolo people are available anywhere for sale. The women giggle. “No, they are made in our village – each woman makes her own.” Maren, gaining courage, perseveres and learns that their village is about 30 minutes away. One woman, it turns out, would be delighted to take Maren to the village where she has additional outfits perhaps to sell, but a motorcycle is required as the path is too rough, muddy and narrow for our rented vehicle. Maren asks if we will need a permit to visit, as would be customarily required for going “off the track” in this particular province. “No,” the woman replies. “My husband is the police chief, and I am the government officer for our village, so it will be no problem.”
Our breakfast chef, tending her rice crepe over the wood fired stove.
It takes Maren and Sho almost an hour and a fistful of Vietnamese dong to locate a driver of a 125 cc motorcycle (the usual 100 cc bikes are too tiny for a small local plus a … ahem … larger westerner). Sho – all 80 lb of her – hops on the back of the Lolo woman’s cycle, and, with a whoop, Maren, Sho and the drivers zoom off.
Black Lolo women at the market.
Now in the U.S. I might have worried. There goes my wife on the back of a stranger’s motorcycle to an unknown town. And there goes our translator, leaving me with the rest of the family to fend for ourselves in the market’s chaos. But this is hilltribe Vietnam, and adventure only befalls those that seek and act. Imagine not taking advantage of such an opportunity!
San Chi woman wood vendor.
Some three hours later Maren and Sho reappear at our hotel. Sho is now dressed head to toe in a traditional Lolo outfit (as if she weren’t cute to start with!) and Maren carries two immense plastic bags filled with authentic Lolo-made tribal clothing, complete with headdresses. She is beaming, sore from the bumpy unaccustomed bike-ride, and perhaps lightened just a touch from the rice whiskey that is compulsory at most every business transaction. The ride had been a bit longer and slipperier than anticipated (isn’t it always?), but the outfits and jewelry are stunning traditional pieces, and the experience itself was priceless.
Maren and Sho taking off on motorcycles.
Other than some hand-spun, handwoven, indigo-dyed cotton Hmong shirts, the most wonderful hand-made textiles were those being worn, but not sold, by many of the local minority women. And thus the Bao Lac market itself didn’t yield many treasures, unless, of course, you count the smiles, the adventure, the fresh donuts, and the photos (thank you, Zall!). That’s the way, sometimes; but I‘ve got to believe that the measure of a day’s value is best assessed by the adventure you had, and the company you’ve kept.
Facing Life and Everything It Has To Offer, by Zall, 14
I believe that every person must experience life to it’s fullest, especially when presented an opportunity, and accept all ideas with an open mind.
As a traveler, a student, a musician, and a human, I’ve experienced some extraordinary things. I was once traveling by local bus on a long winding road for a 12-hour ride from Luang Prabang to Xam Neau in Laos when the bus screeched to an abrupt halt beside a complex of dimly lit shacks. All the local folks streamed out of the bus and immediately dispersed like water into the many shops standing on the side of the road in formation, selling food items to the hungry travelers. Four big white people tumbled out of the local bus and everyone looked up. The spotlight was upon us.
Sipping silk worm poop tea – REALLY (with a mulberry smoothie chaser in reserve).
My family and I cautiously stepped out of the vehicle, knowing all eyes were watching. I was examining the food setup nearest us when I spotted one of those gifted moments. A friendly, skinny man sat hunched over a monstrous bowl, overcrowded with a colossal mound of greasy bugs. The kitchen fires and a single bare low-wattage fluorescent bulb behind the smiling man cast an eerie glow on the insects. As I got closer to the mound of dead creatures, I realized the myriad of amazing shapes: spiny, long, round, big, and small. This was too good to be true! A perfect opportunity had presented itself. My family came up behind me and we all agreed: we had to try some. We purchased the insects from the ever-smiling man, and his grin grew, knowing we going to try something new.
My first pick was a large bamboo grub; the grease shone in the faint light and my stomach gave the usual “DON’T EAT THIS” feeling. I closed my eyes. Now or never. I lifted the 3-inch grub to my mouth and took a deep breath. I could smell it: greasy, fried, salty, and juicy. The crowd that had accumulated around us became silent as we raised the greasy creatures to our mouths. With a final turn of my stomach, my body gave in. I put the grub in my mouth and bit down. The shell gently crushed between my teeth and the insides squirted like a gusher into my mouth. A river of grub juice ran over my tongue. My mind started to comprehend what I’d just done, and my taste buds kicked in.
Chomping on a large bamboo grub in Laos a few years ago.
This is the part where I’m supposed to tell you how incredibly gross it tasted: the awful flavor – it’s slight tang resembling something sour and rotten; but this is what you think, because you’ve never tried it.
Like the time I tried “cooked” bat… I’ll leave that taste to your imagination… Or maybe the time I woke up and had water buffalo organs with whiskey and beer at 8:30 in the morning.
Or the time I tried rat….
Or dog.
People shoot down opportunities without even thinking of the possibility that they’ll like something. If you don’t try something, you’ll never know what you missed. Life is too short to give up an opportunity. In truth, ten years later you’ll wish you had tried that beetle. That is why I encourage every single one of you: the next time you’re offered something different, strange or new, take a step back and think, will I regret not doing this in 10, 20, 50 years? I encourage every single one of you to try something new because if you don’t take every opportunity in life and live it to the fullest, you’re not truly living your life.
“BLAM!” Typical – our van has once again broken down in the worst possible location. We back up a couple of feet so that we were not in the middle of a switchback and got out of the vehicle, expecting to see a flat tire. We weren’t so lucky. The left rear axle of the van was broken and protruding two feet out of the wheel well; black fluid stained the coarse pavement. It wasn’t going to be a quick fix. Luckily, Sho, our trusted Vietnam guide, knew the protocol for a van that has broken down on a switchback in Northwestern Vietnam. She gathered some branches and rested them on top of a rock at the top of the steep switchback. This theoretically alerted drivers who were coming down the mountain on the just-wider-than-one-lane road who would not have been able to see the disabled vehicle. Our driver, meanwhile, whipped out his cell phone and, in a surprisingly calm manner, called friends and bosses for repair ideas.
Sho, our driver, and our broken axle.
After standing around for a while, convinced our van was not repairable, we decided to walk down the hill until we got to a village that could put us up for the night or found somebody who would be willing to give us a lift to a place where we could stay. The driver, who because of our ample bags of Above the Fray procurements, knew he had to stay to guard the vehicle and our stuff. Sho cheerfully announced that we had two options: she could talk a local into providing a home-stay in the small local village we had just driven through (the village was too small for a guesthouse), or we could ask anyone and everyone if they knew someone who could drive us forward, over the up-coming pass, to the next town large enough to have rooms to rent.
Walking toward the small town to look for a lift or a bed for the night.
Sho led us down the road, inquiring with the several locals about sleeping or transport options. In the meantime, the rest of us were entranced by the tree-sized hemp plants leaning over the road; this was, needless to say, incredibly interesting to my brother and me because they are illegal to grow in the United States.
The sun was setting behind the rocky hills and we felt a cool evening breeze. Just when we were about to start asking if someone there could house us, a government vehicle passed by. Sho, a most beautiful woman, was able to wave the driver down and detail our situation. It’s a miracle – we are saved! Almost.
Incredible landscape, steep cliffs.
We crammed a few small bags that we had packed with necessities and squeezed four immense Western derrieres onto the narrow rear seat. Grandma got the comfortable front seat, which seemed like the throne of luxury to the rest of us. We were so tightly squeezed in that Sho had to sit on my lap (Oh no! The suffering!).
Another view of the gorgeous scenery of Ha Giang Province, Vietnam.
The Jeep-like vehicle began its slow trudge up the mountain. The landscape was stark with jagged rocks, and the one-and-a-half lane “highway” was crudely carved across the steep cliffs. The narrow valleys had small lonely homes that seemed to squeak out a living from the crude rugged garden terraces. Our weight was obviously making the drive far more difficult, and we crept up the incline at a fast walking pace. Then we hit the downhill. We were white-knuckling the person next to us, as there was no seat that we could grip, in an attempt to hold on. Our driver zipped around the sharp turns tossing us to one side, then the other. If I hadn’t felt so mortal, I might have enjoyed the many towering cliff faces that formed the majestic, cloud-topped mountain spires that surrounded us. Then we were heading back up the next slope slowly; and then another hair-raising ride down. The silent driver seemed to hardly notice our presence.
After a forty-five minute stomach-churning thrill ride, for which the quiet government worker adamantly refused any payment, we clambered out of the jeep and into the town of Dong Van, our new destination for the night. We desperately forced our legs to remember how to walk, as they had fallen asleep during the drive, and found a guesthouse. I don’t think I have ever been so relieved to have a place to lie down.
In our frou-frou beds in Dong Van, Vietnam.
Oh, and here’s the most amazing thing. Apparently our driver had phoned his boss some 15 hours drive away, who phoned a car parts store in Hanoi (12 hours away), who that evening put a new axle component onto a bus. Our driver slept in the van, and then by 10 AM the next day the bus delivered the axle to our driver right at the incident site. By 11 AM the driver installed the new parts himself, and picked us up before noon in Dong Van. I was amazed to witness such efficiency and technical capability in what felt like such an out-back place!
Here’s the situation: I’m staring into a smiling man’s eyes. He has horrible teeth and crooked glasses. In his shaking hand, he offers me a glass of Lao-Lao (traditional rice whisky). My brain freezes. Can I? Should I? Would my parents be mad? Would I insult my host? I take in the smile on his face, the cautious look on my dad’s face, the hungry look on my mom’s face, and the oblivious look on my brother’s face. I decide to take the shot of rice whisky. Do I sip it? Do I go bottoms up? What would be appropriate? My thoughts are whirling around in my head. The look on my host’s face is encouraging. What do I do?
Receiving a glass of beer with good wishes.
In this situation I normally make some strange noise between a yes and a no and look at my parents for advice. I’m 14, I’m underage; not supposed to drink until I’m 21. My parents look distracted and they may have had one too many Lao-Lao: mom’s cheeks are getting rosy and dad’s stupid grin is trying to refuse another drink… they won’t be too much help. If I drink will I test my families’ boundaries? If I don’t, will I insult my host?
I’m in a strange place in my life. I am both a child and an adult. Both international and American. Both traveler and student. What seem like simple questions can, in reality, be confusing and controversial cultural conundrums. When do I sit down or stand? Do I eat or wait for my host?
One of several Lao-Lao toasts at the Basi ceremony – this one from Suk, who hosted the Basi for us.
Sukkavit is a good friend in the village of Xam Tai, Laos who we go to see every time we travel. When we meet, it may be for the first time in almost a year. This year, she looks so short. So do I offer the formal way of saying hello by cupping each other’s hand or bowing? Or are we good enough friends to hug or put our arms around each other? In truth, we normally end up in some awkward position of one of us extending our hands while the other attempts a hug. Luckily, Lao is a fairly relaxed country as far as customs go.
These questions arrive multiple times a day in the travel-world, and truthfully, the guidebooks can only tell you so much. When you’re facing a cultural or social issue, your mind stops working. In the end, you wind up staring into your host’s eyes with a blank look until he puts the glass in your hand and begins a toast.
All of us, including Grandma, at the Plain of Jars – it was COLD!
At a family meeting before our most recent trip, my dad had expressed a bit of concern at grandma joining us. She lives in Seattle, so we don’t get to spend a lot of time with her, and he thought perhaps she may be a touch more frail, being 79, than we were used to. “Let’s be sure to not push her beyond her comfort zone,’ he had said. “Someone should always walk in front of and behind her along bustling streets.” “Let’s make sure we eat foods that agree with her.” Although we kept these ideas in mind while traveling, we found that the meeting may have been a little overkill. Grandma was amazing! She ate everything, never complained about hard beds, saw the world through eyes that were understanding of cultural differences, and always made the best every situation.
Grandma toasting a village elder in Xam Tai, Laos with Lao-Lao
We saw Grandma’s positive attitude and energy starting on our very first day, when everything was most new and foreign. Our first stop in Hanoi was a tiny coffee shop that serves the thickest, richest Vietnamese coffees. We sat on tiny plastic stools right on the road’s edge and grandma feasted on the scene of street vendors, overloaded motorcycles, and a woman in a bamboo hat washing dishes in the ditch. Revved up on coffee, we went to our favorite bun cha restaurant. Bun cha is a rice noodle soup with chunks of an unidentifiable grilled meat and sausage and slices of kohlrabi in a slightly sweet-sour broth. The restaurant is a hole in the wall – a mildewy cement box on the side of the road that doubles as the entrance to a house. Nonetheless, Grandma squatted down at the low table and relished the new flavors. She didn’t hesitate to dig in to the unknown meal or to enter the restaurant that, in the United States, would have long been shutdown.
Grandma’s first motorcycle ride!
A couple days later, in Luang Prabang, it rained – really hard. When the downpour began, we were wandering through the night market seeking a dinner. We wove our way through the vendors’ tents and jumped when the rain-soaked light bulbs sparked and died; buckets of water held in the tent folds gushed onto the street shorting out electric lines and we felt crunched between the anxious people desperately packing their wares and tourists scrambling out of the now-chaotic market. Despite the discomfort, Grandma, drips rolling over her glasses, was laughing at the hustle and bustle of the soaked market.
Our third homestay, at Babe Lake, verified our belief that grandma was born to travel. After a fantastic, homemade dinner, we crowded into our host’s kitchen to share traditional toasts of rice whiskey. Grandma joined us as the host passed around the seemingly magically refilled shot glass. The men in the room were transfixed by the television, which was showing “Vietnam’s Next Top Model.” They decided that yet another toast was necessary – to “long legs,” much like those parading across the screen. Sho, our guide and family friend, quickly interjected, “And to men’s broad shoulders.” Grandma couldn’t just let this stand alone, so she added, “And big muscles!” After a round of applause and a decent amount of head nodding, we drank to beautiful bodies, something that all cultures can appreciate.
The very next day, I watched grandma hop on the back of a motorcycle – her first motorcycle ride ever. She hooted “tally-ho” and waved as she shot off down the road. Now, whenever anyone asks me about my dad’s mom, these and other travel scenes are going to pop into my head – some of the best grandma moments ever.
Highlights from Grandma – Hemp Weavers of Vietnam by Joy Hirschstein (Mom and Grandma)
Grandma’s modeling her scarf gifted by Mrs. Loum, master dyer.
I was very excited to be able to join my son Joshua and his family on their latest venture to Laos and Vietnam. As a 79-year-old grandma, this “trip of a lifetime” seemed a bit intimidating before we started; my doctors loaded me with pills and dire warnings of tropical diseases and unusual diets. However, my worries were not warranted. The scenery was fantastic, the hilltribe weavers were warm and welcoming, the health hazards were greatly exaggerated, and the local food was fresh, tasty and healthy. The moderate winter climate (70o days, 55o evenings, and moist air) even dismissed my arthritis! We traveled about half the time in a comfortable van (although the axle did break on one particularly steep mountain turn), but I also had the chance to travel in local buses, airplanes, boats, and even on a motorcycle!
A Hmong hemp weaver in Lung Tam.
Age in Asia is certainly an asset; neither family nor locals allowed me to carry a thing other than my own purse! I was consistently honored for being so “healthy and beautiful”, and was even gifted with several beautiful scarves. The weavers of Xam Tai even presented me with a a special “Basi” ceremony and feast, with a local shaman blessing our family with long-life and good wishes. (Note: See Newsletter #3 at www.hilltribeart.com/events for information about Laos’ Basi ceremonies).
The owner of the hemp shop displaying the bags we bought.
A most memorable visit was to the small Vietnamese village of Lung Tam, set in a rocky, rugged valley in Ha Giang Province, that produces hemp products. We saw the hemp stripped from the plant, spun, woven, bleached and drying in the sun in great sheets spread along the dirt streets and fields. The hemp was spun into thread on home-made spindles and then woven on simple wooden looms. These sheets were ironed flat by a woman standing on a large flat stone who rocked back and forth over the fabric that had been placed on a rounded stone. Watching Maren try her hand at ironing got the whole village doubled over in laughter! The village women then naturally-dye the hemp material and sew it into decorated wall-hangings and shoulder bags.
The woman who ran the shop explained to us, through Sho, our translator, that she hires women who have returned from being kidnapped and forced into the sex and child slave market that is prevalent in nearby southern China. Since the Chinese often favor boy children, there is a shortage of marriageable women available. Apparently, many young women in Ha Giang Province are kidnapped each year and married through an underground market in China. Many escape or, after having a girl child, are dismissed only to return to their homeland needing to support their child. (In one of Sho’s sister’s villages in Lai Chau Province, 6 young women were kidnapped on one evening -only 4 made their way back home.) Her business offers these women an apprenticeship to learn the hemp weaving trade, a home, and place to earn a decent living. Here, amid the beauty of the land and the pleasant simplicity of village life, we were shockingly reminded of the cruelty and selfishness of some humans and the grim challenges that remain hidden to much of our world.
In a weaving village watching fringe tying.
The trip was very memorable. Not only was I welcomed by so many wonderful hilltribe people, but I also had the chance to spend some unique quality time (as in 24/7!) with my son, daughter-in-law, and 2 grandchildren. Even though I didn’t always have the energy to charge up to the top of the hill, I did feel that my age did not hold me back from enjoying the fantastic scenery and daily adventure, and was even an asset when it came to connecting with the local villagers who culturally revere their elders.
Trekking to Trang & Tea’s; Trang’s Traditional H’mong Jewelry
I wasn’t sure we’d make it. Between the recent soaking rains and the prevailing hilltribe conviction that switchbacks are inefficient, the steep route ahead look unforgivingly slick. Especially for my 79-year-old mom.
Trang and Tea’s home in Lao Cai Province.
Our friend and guide, Sho Lythi (featured in Newsletter #6), led the way. “My brother-in-law Trang is just up the hill,” she chimed. “Maybe 20, 25 minutes more.” Of course she weighs about 80 lbs. and has danced on these slippery slopes since she could first walk. “This is no problem – I will help your mother. I will pull her from above, and you can push from below.” My confidence was not increasing.
Sho and Ari helping Grandma across a slippery, steep slope.
10 minutes later, Sho’s sister, Tea, came gliding down the thick mud slope. Incredibly, not a spatter of muck touched anything but her thin flip-flops. She laughed as she looked at our trepid stance. Tea said something coyly in H’mong to Sho and quickly fell to pushing and pulling us up to her modest home at the very top of the habitable mountain-side slope. Fortunately, we encountered no crisis that the laundry couldn’t resolve.
Trang crafting an earring while the cat warms by the fire.
Tea’s home nestled on a carved terrace ledge overlooking the valley; each 10-foot wide terrace had an abrupt wall-edge that dropped several feet to meet the next terrace. Scraps of wooden branches were cleverly woven into fences to protect the precarious mud-walls from the pigs, buffalo and humans that might damage the sculpted farmland. Being winter, the terraces lay mostly fallow save for a few pumpkin plants and a rich array of leafy greens. Spring would see corn, rice, and other crops filling every fertile corner.
Tea’s husband, a talented Black H’mong metal-smith, greeted us shyly, then returned to his crouched position next to the slatted window that allowed sunlight to illuminate his workspace. A variety of small hammers, pliers, and metal punches sat on a work stump. He worked quickly, methodically, efficiently; metal shavings littered the ground at his feet. He was eager to complete the “fern-frond” earring set before lunch, knowing he had one more sale if he could finish the task. And, in truth, we bought every necklace and set of earrings he completed.
Tea wearing earrings and hair comb crafted by Trang.
Tea disappeared into the side-room kitchen as Sho stoked the living area fire with one stick of hardwood and a couple splinters of wide bamboo. We all appreciated the extra warmth on this mid-winter day, and the smoke smelled good. To a westerner, the home, like much of rural Vietnam, offered an eclectic mix of Spartan simplicity and modern practicality. The simple fire on the dirt floor was juxtaposed with the rice cooker’s glowing red light. Tea and Trang’s youngest son, a smiley 3-year-old, played on a wheel-less bicycle set in the front room. A large sow slept a few feet outside of the front door, and grunted greedily when a pumpkin was split open. The daughter helped wash greens using the hand-pump in the kitchen. Drying corn hung from the rafters.
Trang and Tea’s youngest on his bike.
Sho had thoughtfully requested that we purchase food at the morning market to contribute to the meal as the family’s means were modest, and the addition of our appetites would stretch their resources. Within an hour of our arrival, a large meal was set for our family of five plus five more – the adults guests got to use the four chairs. Steaming plates of greens with pork and ginger, fresh bamboo shoots with buffalo, fresh tofu from the morning market with tomatoes, and garden pumpkin soup were served with gracious smiles all around. It was delicious!
Trang had learned his metal-working skills from a local elder. Trang knew that farming alone would not support his family in this sparse environment, and living a couple hours walk away from the tourist town of Sapa granted him access to a wider customer base. Several members of the extended family (which including Sho before she moved on exclusively to guiding services) offer his jewelry to both western and Vietnamese tourists in the local market.
Tea cutting up pumpkin for lunch.
Trang can work with silver as well as nickel-bronze. But the high up-front cost of silver and its limited market appeal pulls Trang to work more with nickel-bronze. Most H’mong women as well as tourists prefer more affordable nickel-bronze or aluminum “bling” as well; locals relegate silver jewelry to wedding-wear and dowry value, and not to the desired everyday use of bright dangly and hoop earrings and extravagant necklaces.
Trang crafting earrings for us to buy that day.
His workbench is a slab of wood, his tools simple, and his workmanship traditional & exquisite.
After three hours of eating and chatting, and our promise to sell Trang’s jewelry in the USA and come back seeking more, we gathered up our treasured bag of finished jewelry and prepared to slide back down the mountainside. Luckily, an hour of afternoon sun had set the mud a bit firmer, and our careful steps, with Sho’s firm support and freshly-chopped bamboo walking sticks, got us back down the hill without catastrophe.
The Hmong shaman mid-trance, chanting to invoke healing spirits.
Near the bottom, we heard a constant drumbeat and a monotone female chant coming from another hillside home. A rather distraught and inebriated gentleman stumbled out of his dark, smoky home and, bleary-eyed, indicated for us to enter his home. Sho confirmed that indeed a H’mong shaman had been hired to clear his home of recent illness. We were unsure as to whether it would be appropriate for us to interrupt the healing ceremony, although we were intrigued with the rare opportunity to see a shaman in trance doing her work. The man looked desperate and again, through Sho, urged us forward. We tiptoed into the dark home, and watched the candlelit shaman rock back and forth intently as she wailed a fast, tuneless prayer. We stayed only a minute or two, feeling both honored and out-of-place. The old man nodded quickly as we bowed with gratitude for the honor of bearing witness to the ceremony. Afterward, Sho confided to us that the elder thought our family’s presence in his home might intimidate the malevolent spirits so they would exit more quickly.
The gracious kindness of Trang and Tea and the heartfelt plea of a mourning elder were the bookends of an amazing afternoon’s adventure. And we can’t let the story go by without thanking Sho Lythi and her extended family for welcoming us into their lives in rural Lao Cai Province in northern Vietnam; she has opened so many unusual and wonderful doors for both our pleasure and our business.
If Above the Fray were to select a single artist most emblematic of the modern talent and skill of the hilltribe weavers, or if we had to choose a single textile expert to represent, Souksakone Khakampanh would be our choice. Hands down.
Souk (rhymes with “book”) lives in Xam Tai, Laos, a village on the Xam River surrounded by the jungle hills of SE Houaphon Province. The village of several hundred people is 5 hours by vehicle from the provincial capital of Xam Neua, a drive that winds across the steep jungle ridges of the remote Nam Xam National Protected Area. Xam Tai, however, is anything but desolate and backward. The internationally-acclaimed silk weavers, designers, and dyers of this district – Xam Tai and its surrounding hill villages – are legendary for their skills at raising, dyeing and weaving silk into intricate, complex forms. The locals, primarily of the Tai Daeng ethnic group, are industrious (every home seems to have several floor looms), healthy (a new hospital clinic just opened), wireless (everyone has a cheap cell phone), educated (district secondary schools are located here), and, most obviously, proud of their community’s ancient and renown talent and reputation.
Souk modeling one of her intricate healing cloths.
When we visited Xam Tai in 2007, Souk was introduced to us by Mai, our translator from Xam Neua who just happened to have grown up as Souk’s best friend (needless to say, that worked out well for us!); we brought home several of her textiles for our own personal use that year. In 2008 we returned, this time with business plans, and Souk dedicated an afternoon to teach us about how the traditional natural dyes are made. It seems that in addition to being an expert weaver, Souk is a master dyer who can coax subtle tones and rich hues from the traditional natural dyeing materials. [No one in Xam Tai uses commercial dyes, despite their efficiency, brightness and longevity.] She showed us lac, a bug excretion found on a certain tree that is exuded to encase and protect the bugs’ eggs, that had been collected for the required reds. Sappan wood creates a range of pink to violet. The haem vine creates one hue of yellow, mango tree bark another. Cooking techniques and additives can additionally shape colors to have certain tones. Mordants, such as lye from rice ash or slaked lime, are then skillfully added to set colors onto the material. Souk’s created colors are treasured as much locally as by dyers around the world. [More about the dyeing process, as well as a bibliography of resources, can be found at www.hilltribeart.com.]
Souk is modest and beautiful; she displays a calm exterior and easy smile that hides a whirlwind of creative talent and “get-it-done” energy. Her home is base to a hundred projects. A rainbow of freshly dyed silk skeins, from bright yellow to murky green to rich maroon, drape over a bamboo pole. Vats of deep colors bubble and froth on a series of small focused fires – bundles of silk bob in each differently colored “soup.” Two floor looms, one in pieces, sit beneath a roofed arbor in front of her home; a rich blue is strung on the warp, and the weft threads are beginning a stunning green and red pattern of naga – the mythical river-serpent motif – that will stretch across the textile. Chickens, children, drying corn and a small tractor engine share the shade. Friends, as well as a couple aunts and cousins, upon hearing that “falang” are in town, drop by eager to show their goods as well; Souk makes time and room for everyone.
Souk next to one of her complex large shaman cloths (or ceremonial wedding blanket.
Souk, who does not speak English, shared her personal story through Mai. She was born and raised in the center of the Xam Tai weaving community; she began her training with her mother, first learning basic weaving at age 7, then dyeing techniques at 10. Her family, like many households in the area, had looms set up under the thatched-roof bamboo homes; it was assumed that girls would participate in the traditional art both because of its cultural importance – and Xam Tai is particularly renown for its complex Shamans’ ceremonial blankets – and because of the textiles’ trade value. Soon she had learned all she could from her mother about dyeing, and began experimenting with her own dyes and color combinations. She has since taught others in her village her new dyeing techniques, and has taught a multitude of dyeing classes in Laos’ capital, Vientiane. She has even been invited to go to Japan to teach dyeing!
These days Souk focuses on dyeing and design-work, and she directs a cadre of 70 weavers in regional villages who can meet her highest-quality expectations – a single ceremonial wedding blanket takes 4 months to weave. When designing the motifs and patterns, Souk reverently adheres to her Tai Daeng traditions, but she also has the confidence to create some subtle new design forms. She explains to us that while the traditions are important, each generation needs to make an impact on the art. She now finds herself to be one of the communities’ leaders and works tirelessly to maintain the ancient artistic traditions, and yet all the while developing new forms, dyes and markets.
Souk always gives us 2-3 hours to sort through her several stacks of tidily folded silks – it is tough to choose from the range of designs and colors. Once she disappeared for a half hour only to return with and big grin and bowls of steaming frog soup. At the end of our afternoon, we negotiate a little – but she smiles and budges on pricing only an inch; we all know that she can sell her textiles, sight unseen, through distributors in Laos’ capital at her asking price (indeed, we saw some of her pieces in some up-scale silk shops there). She knows the value of her art. After all, she knows the people who raised and spun the silk; she knows the time it takes to find and process the raw materials that make each threads’ color; she knows the hours it takes to create each pieces’ unique design; she knows the effort and precision involved in the months of Koh weaving (see the next article). She knows she offers the very finest, and, smiling proudly, she readily accepts that compliment.
Crouched under a bush, I laid down on the dirt; the dusty camera lens poked through a gap next to a mud-stained fencepost. Pulling back the zoom a little bit, I attempted to focus on a group of women trying to sell things down below. I adjusted a few things; no, it’s way to dark, bring up the light settings. Ease down on the button, and… *click*. Being a photographer overseas isn’t as easy as you may think. As a matter of fact, there can be some major drawbacks and problems along the way. A lot more work and effort goes into each shot than one might believe.
I’m loving her grin!
One major problem with shooting photos of the tribal groups is that a lot of them don’t want their picture taken due to religious or community beliefs. A very common belief is that a depiction of them takes away part of their soul. As you can see, this makes the picture process even more complicated, because now you have to hide in a bush, or behind a house. I would often ask my dad to stand still and then act like I was taking his picture, when in truth the lens was focusing over his shoulder on a person behind.
Another dilemma is that nobody smiles in a photo. Photos are believed to be very serious things, so you must look very serious, leaving most of our portraits looking gloomy or mad. In truth, the people look so much better when they smile. It seems their personalities shine when you can see the wrinkles and teeth.
A sneaky shot of a hard-working mom harvesting manioc root with her hard-sleeping baby.
An additional problem is my parents (yes I’m blaming this on them). They like to continue walking on and not stop for a couple of minutes for a good shot. They’re normally almost out of sight on trails, yelling at me to hurry up. Because of this, I can’t get just the right angle or light settings.
One of the perks of the job…
Yet another problem with time is that people don’t stay in one spot or do one thing for very long. Most of the time I may only have half a second of the right angle, and if I don’t click the button on that moment, I miss the shot. I don’t like getting pictures of people when they know they’re getting looked at by a camera lens, so the only way to do that is catch when they’re doing their regular everyday things. So it seems I walk around with my camera out, ready and wasting battery power, a lot more often than I’m actually focused on taking a specific shot.
Problems, problems, problems; It seem like that all I can talk about, so I have to add: photographing things overseas is one the best things of my life. I love the constant struggle to get the right point of view, and to get the shot just at the right time. I truly think that taking photos in the remote hilltribes of Laos is the best possible photography assignment I can think of.
