Making A Difference in One Small Place – by Ari, age 17
Our oldest son, Ari, had the good fortune to volunteer overseas this summer. While we are most jealous that he got to have international adventures without his parents and brother, it only seems reasonable that young adults get to grow into their own lives. Here is his report:
Ari and companions shoveling materials for making brick in the hot sun.
This summer I spent 7 wonderful weeks in Sovie, a small community in rural Ghana, serving with the American Jewish World Service, an organization dedicated to international social justice issues. As one of fifteen high school volunteers selected from across the United States and Canada, I gave my summer to build a latrine alongside the people of Sovie. This jungle community of about 2000 people had, at the beginning of the summer, no usable facility for the safe disposal of human waste. Our team was charged with providing labor, alongside some local workers, for building a facility that would meet the long term needs of the community.
When we arrived local workers had already dug and cemented the three by five by fourteen-foot holes for the “10-seater” latrine. Although the project had commenced, there was still a lot of work to be done. We spent the first three days learning how to make bricks like the locals do – by hand – and creating the base that spanned the trench. Although we celebrated like it was quite an accomplishment at the time, looking back I realize that we had barely started.
Locals in front of the finished latrine.
With the base constructed, it was time to create our building blocks: bricks… lots and lots of bricks. I am very proud to proclaim that we made 186 bricks in one day. Not only did this number exceed the local expectation of 150, but it was also a vast improvement over the fifty bricks that we created on our first day on the worksite. Then we had to move all of the bricks – again, local style on one’s head – an eighth of a mile, to the construction site (which doesn’t sound like much until you have to haul a 50 lb. block 186 times). Next we had to mix cement and concrete – yep, local style with shovels – which we used as a mortar to hold the bricks together and, later, as a plaster for the walls. After weeks of running through the cycle of making, moving, and building, we finally completed the structure of the latrine. Then came the roofing… and the priming… and the painting. Needless to say, by the time that we had finished the latrine everybody, local and volunteer, was exhausted, but proud. In celebration, every worker returned to our house and had “minerals” – the local options being Pepsi, Coca Cola, or Mirinda. Even today I feel good knowing I had a hand in the enduring health of this friendly community.
Ari with some of his students. .
Balancing a load of mortar for the bricks.
I also spent an hour each day teaching English to the fourth grade class. The kids were awfully squirmy and, although I really enjoyed their smiles and energy, getting good lessons taught was tough. It sure made me appreciate my regular teachers’ abilities!
The biggest thing I learned is that one person really can make a difference, and a lot of small differences do add up to a significant effect. Sovie is cleaner and healthier today thanks to the efforts of our whole team of volunteers and locals. It also confirmed that good people exist everywhere, and that the differences we see between individuals, ethnic groups, and nations really are minor compared to the ways in which we are all alike.
The Intricacy of Koh (Discontinuous Supplementary Weft Pattern Weaving)
Souk and other weavers who create the intricate ceremonial blanket, shaman and healing cloths utilize a complex technique of loom weaving called discontinuous supplementary weft (or Koh, in Lao). Once the warp threads (the length) are strung, Koh requires that the artist, while weaving the weft threads (the width), hand-picks different colored threads and loops these supplemental threads onto selected warp threads to create the desired designs. These textiles are woven with the backside of the fabric facing up on the loom so the weaver has access to looping the supplemental threads neatly. However, the weaver cannot see the emerging finished pattern on the bottom side and must, as Patricia Cheesman writes (Lao-Tai Textiles, 2004), ”work in the abstract since nothing is written down… (and) hold the image of the design in her mind.”
The heddle on the loom.
Close up of a vertical pattern heddle.
To assist the weaver with complex designs, long shafts made of wood can be placed within the vertical heddles that create each row’s pattern. To set this up, the heddles (vertical threads that intersect with the warp threads) are first positioned in the warp by looping strings around each warp thread and passing about a half meter above and below the textile. Pattern sticks are then placed into the verticalheddles, instead of the warp, with each stick (and there may be hundreds of them) lifting the selected warp threads according to the desired pattern. The weaver brings the heddles separated by each pattern stick in turn towards herself, lifts the selected warp threads, and places a wooden sword into the shed (the selected warp threads) to hold it open while she hand-picks that one row of what may be dozens of supplemental threads. She then removes the sword and weaves a tabby shed (a row of plain weave) to hold the new threads in place. The pattern stick is then placed into the vertical heddles below the textile in the same order which stores the pattern; this allows the weaver, once a design is complete, to start the process in reverse creating the mirror image of the original pattern (thus, each complex design image is woven with its reflection). Sometimes the designs are so complex, using over 1000 pattern sticks, that string is used instead of sticks to take up less space on the loom – this is the manner in which most of the textiles we purchase in this region are made.
Mirror image patterning in a shaman cloth.
Koh is an amazing process to watch. The weaver’s fingers dance over the threads, moving shuttles, looping threads, and lifting warp; a slip of the finger or the mind, or a single dropped thread can create glaring errors. Precision, consistency and accuracy are required with every move, from designing the pattern to raising, spinning and dyeing the silk, to completing months of weaving.
Young weaver picking the supplemental weft color patterns from the back side of the cloth.
For centuries, these Koh textiles have been used for ceremonial purposes by shaman as well as ordinary villagers. These traditional textiles have been created to symbolize, access and affect the world of spirits and ancestors, and are used for healing ceremonies, planting and harvest rituals, protective rituals for travelers and newborns, and at weddings and funerals. These devoted dyers and weavers, their art and traditions, have been central to their cultural memory.
Full view of the vertical heddle with pattern strings stored both above and below the warp.
The Meat Market (Warning: Explicit Animal Parts Ahead)
Writing these stories gets increasingly difficult. The more I travel, the more I think that what I see overseas is normal. A simple walk down the road will reveal people burning plastic garbage, little kids rolling rusty metal hoops down the slope, and busy looms under every thatched-roof hut; it all seems entirely normal, just an everyday walk. But if someone who had not traveled saw this, they might have freaked out, taken hundreds of pictures, and written pages of articles on this one walk. So I’ve been trying to see Lao life through the eyes of a fresh visitor. What would be amazing? One example: every slightly larger town has a market, and in every market are the counters where local women are selling fresh meat, waving sticks with plastic bags tied at the end to shoo away the ever-present swarms of flies.
Zall, with his camera and MAG shirt, on assignment in a tuk-tuk in Laos.
Entering the meat section, the smell of raw meat and flies floats around us like a heavy fog. The rows of stands seem to go on until they dip below the horizon. All along these stalls, piled up like mountains, is every type of fresh, dripping meat that you could ever imagine; rats, bats, cats, chicken fats, and little scraps. Everything is posed in a way to make the pieces look a little more attractive. They make the prepared dogs look like they are smiling by placing their heads towards the buyers, and then (and I don’t know how they do this), they make the bald-headed dog grimace, exposing it’s teeth and then curling the lips up. Next to the dog heads is a stack of bald forelegs, still with their paws. They burn the hair off, apparently. Their red roasts and internal organs are neatly piled to one side. Needless to say, it doesn’t look too appetizing to this westerner.
Fresh meat vendors in Laos.
The pigs faces look like they’re the happiest creatures alive. Really – you can buy a pig face in the market! They do this by skinning the entire pig face – chin, cheeks, ears, eyebrows and all – and then shape them to look happy. You can buy every other part of a pig as well – and I mean every part – kidneys, intestines, livers, hooves, tails. And some parts I still don’t know what they are. They’re all piled tidily on the plain wood counter. I’ve never seen so many different shades of red. You can even buy a pie-shaped slice of coagulated blood.
Happy pig face in Laos.
Occasionally, the butchers come up to you and offer some smelly, gray, shriveled, barbecued rats. These rats are “crucified” on thin bamboo sticks and then smoked over a fire. Their bones look to be jabbing through their hides and any meat seems to have shrunk away. Although we have been offered these many times (they seem to be especially treasured as bus snacks by the locals), when the hordes of flies jump off the rodents, leaving god-knows-what all over the “meat,” our stomachs twist and we decide it’s better to wait for fresh ones. Which we will usually try to avoid as well. Rat meat is really strong tasting, somewhere between dog and bat.
Water buffalo forelegs for sale in Xam Neua, Laos.
There are field rats cut open to show off how fresh they are, live frogs with their feet tied together, hunks of dried water buffalo skin, and rows upon rows of strange brown spices. We’ve seen piles of small black bats, fish sliced open with their hearts still pumping, and huge water buffalo legs. Sometimes there are trays of white, thumb-sized grubs or black beetles with their wings pulled off.
Fresh, Laos rats with juicy guts exposed.
To someone who had never traveled to the out-back of Asia, this would be something amazing, but to me, this is now a familiar market. So when I sit down and write these stories, I have to put myself in someone else’s shoes. I have to imagine it as if I had never seen kids chewing chunks of barbecued goodness-knows-what-on-a-stick. It also makes me wonder what in our “normal” world here in Eugene might look weird to some kid from a small Ta-Oi village in Laos or Vietnam
Our older son, Ari, is spending the summer in Sovie, Ghana, a remote town of 2000 people, volunteering with a service organization; now his days are filled with constructing a latrine at an elementary school (a 10-seater!), helping the 4th grade English teacher (who apparently knows little English), and studying international social justice issues with a small group of other fortunate young adults. Like Laos, Ghana is under-developed and struggles to provide for its citizens. One of the toughest challenges for both these countries is to ensure that its most vulnerable citizens are treated fairly, safely and with dignity. Throughout Laos (at least in the parts tourists tend to visit) are signs in English stating that child-sex crimes are illegal and that if anyone hears about or witnesses such a crime, to alert the authorities. Sadly, such heinous crimes are not unusual in Laos, Ghana, and many other under-developed nations. Ari managed to get a few minutes at an internet café and sent us a report on a vital program fighting child-slavery in Ghana:
Ari dancing with Katu villagers during their New Year’s celebration (no pix yet from Ghana!).
Today, our group visited a program called Challenging Heights. Challenging Heights was started and is currently run by an ex-child-slave named James Kofi Anan (nope, not related to the previous UN President). This program “rescues” child slaves from the communities where they were enslaved and returns them to their families. To ensure that the ex-child-slaves are getting an education that is appropriate for them and that they are welcomed back to their community, Mr. Kofi Anan has established schools that they can go to. We visited one his schools located in a town that has one of the highest rates of children who are sold into slavery in the world. The school was mostly made of cement and had random English words on the walls. Inside, the rooms were separated by simple walls of cardboard. Despite the limited funding and difficult learning atmosphere, the children were almost all literate in English (even at the first and second grade levels) and were studying math, science, government. This school seemed to do an incredible job.
After visiting the school, we shared a lunch with Mr. Kofi Anan. He described in great detail many of the abuses that he had to suffer. These abuses were physical, sexual, emotional, verbal… His speech brought me near tears and made me really think about the situation that so many children are being forced to live with in Ghana and elsewhere. He also told us that many of the child-slaves whom he rescues are in the same area as Sovie. This brought to mind images of all of the children who I have taught and worked beside being whipped and sexually assaulted before they go out to labor endless hours on Lake Volta fishing. It’s hard to say all that I want to with a simple email. Words are insufficient when it comes to describing feelings like the ones that I experienced while working with Mr. Kofi Anan. The best image that I can conjure is of a boy I saw sitting at the school. When I asked why the boy was not playing with everyone else he said, “My head is spinning.” This was a result of the abuse that he suffered. This boy is now unable to be a full participant in games, even in a school that was specially designed for children who have suffered like he has.
By virtue of being at the right place at the right time, Above the Fray is privileged to have acquired a huge, museum-quality, window-rumbling, Jarai Rong House drum. Over each end of this drum stretches a taut, thick water buffalo hide – one side is from the hide of a male, the other a female. The hide was originally tacked on using only bamboo pegs, although a few nails were applied some years (generations?) back to hold one section of hide tightly to the frame. Under the hides and hidden from view – save a 2 inch wide strip in the middle from which the drum hung – is an ancient hollowed tree trunk giving the meter-wide drum its frame, and echo.
Josh wakes the neighbors on the Jarai Rong House drum.
The 200 lb. drum (carefully shipped home in a custom-made, 1.5 m3 padded wooden crate) is thought to be 150 or more years old. We were told it was obtained when two villages merged, and the extra drum was sold to help develop the newly expanded village. We continue to search for any knowledgeable articles and research on Rong Houses, and specifically Rong House drums.
A close-up of the center of the drum, where the decades of wear on the wood have brought out the grain, and the holes in the water buffalo hide, some pegged by bamboo “nails,” are visible.
Our translator, Mr. Vinh, smiles proudly as we arrived at his small village an hour outside the city of Kontum in Vietnam’s Central Highlands. The Bahnar village is nestled in a lush copse near the river; large leaved trees protect us from the harsh, hot sun. The ground is packed dirt, and the dogs, pigs and children wander freely between the small homes that alternate thatched and corrugated metal roofing.
Mr. Vinh with his daughter at the loom.
First we visit Mr. Vinh’s adopted daughter, a talented weaver who has a physical disability. She sits under a shaded porch at her loom, a beautiful long cotton shawl half-created in front of her. Mr. Vinh points out the modifications of the loom that allows his daughter to fold her awkward legs under but positions her to fully operate the loom’s complexities. “She has such talent,” he beams. “I had a special loom made so she can work even if her legs won’t.”
“Now you must see our village’s Rong House.” I must have misheard him – “We’re going to the wrong house?” “Our communal house,” he clarifies. “The place where our village gathers and celebrates.”
Maren in front of the Bahnar Rong house in Mr. Vinh’s village.
The immense thatched-roof structure in the village’s center couldn’t be missed. Rong houses are shaped like thick axe blades, with steep-sloped sides and a long sharp ridgeline up to 50 feet off the ground that is decorated with buffalo horns or other ornaments. The building is rooted to the ground with nine thick hardwood logs that lift the 30’ x 15’ bamboo floor about five feet off the ground. A five-step ladder carved from a tree trunk invites us up to the entrance. Some Rong houses have a low railing and open sides to let the warm jungle breeze flow right through; this Bahnar Rong house has tight-fitting bamboo walls fully enclosing the open space, leaving the interior dark and, by afternoon, pretty steamy.
Men in a Katu community house during their New Year’s celebration in Laos – see the gongs?
Both in and outside some Rong houses (and other community houses in Laos), village artists have carved wooden animal figures both into of the wooden structure’s frame or as stand-alone decorations – sculptures of birds, monkeys, eight-pointed stars, the sun and humans. The carvings symbolize myths of ancient deeds and spirits as well as daily village and farm life. Some of the figures are brightly painted. A large two-sided drum hangs from an animal-hide strap ready to call the villagers to an event or meeting. Tucked into a back corner are brass gongs, crossbows, ceremonial shields, clay flasks of wine, and other ritual wares awaiting their next use. A large flat-stoned fire-pit, used for ritual cooking as well as lighting up the town’s faces as an evening story is told, dominates the middle of the room. The house itself contains no metal. Joins are cut very carefully and the bamboo scaffolding and thatched grass for the roof are tied with strips of rattan.
Inside the community house in Attapeu Province in Laos – note the fire pit on the bamboo floor!
Mr. Vinh points to a painted line that goes down the length of the interior. He waved his hands to the right: “The unmarried men and boys are on this side,” he announces, and with a wave to the left, “the unmarried women and girls on this side.” Then he squints his eyes a little and lowers his voice. “Sometimes a girl goes over to be with a boy on the boys’ side, but the boys can never go to the girls’ side.” I swear I catch him winking at me. Mr. Vinh suddenly straightens up: “We have a big Rong house, because our village has good land and many people. The taller the Rong house, the more powerful the men of the village, and the easier it is to find the village when hunting or farming away from town, as the tall roof can be seen from some distance. Some villages have small Rong houses. But no matter – every Rong house is the heart of a village – the place where the seasons, and births, and marriages, and even death is celebrated.”
A Bahnar Rong House in Kon Tum, Vietnam.
In our visits to several ethnic groups in the Central Highlands – Bahnar, Sedang, Jarai and others – we find Rong houses of similar design and pride. Some groups build two community houses – one for the men, another for women. Regardless, the Rong house embodies the blood, sweat, tears, pride and past of the village members and their ageless ancestors; it is the physical center for a village’s heritage, power, and future. Tradition holds that a human soul only becomes whole when it joins the village soul, and the Rong house is where the members of a village and the spirits of the ancestors and nature come to respect and negotiate a proper balance.
As always happens when establishing business relationship and friendships in Laos, you get invited to a meal. This was the case with Mr. Vilay and his wife. We had offered them a ride from Luang Prabang to Xam Neua, a 10-hour van ride or a 13 to 20 hour bus ride (depending on whether the bus breaks down or not). So, since we were hauling so much stuff with us for the business, and it is extremely hard to fit in a bus, we decided to rent a van from for the drive. We had two more seats and offered them to the couple. Of course, when we arrived in Xam Tai, they immediately invited us for a meal at their house.
Anticipating my first bite of hairy water buffalo tripe!
The next morning, we got up early and headed down to the Vilays’ house. While we admired his wife’s shop of textiles, Mr. Vilay spent over an hour laboring over a big pot cooking outside above a fire. After a long and hungry wait, we were led into the house and plopped down in front of a traditional ankle-high table. After a couple minutes of waiting, two big steaming bowls of a clear-brown soup came in and were put on the table, followed by dishes of chilies and cilantro, which my father loves, but everyone else has troubles with.
Water buffalo parts in all their glory!
Then the last dishes came out, big piles of juicy… well, two different kinds of buffalo stomach (one was hairy, one looked like a brain), buffalo liver, and small amounts of fatty meat. I was handed a large piece of the hairy stomach first, which looked like a curled up giant white worm. Since Ms. Vilay presented it to me with her chopsticks, I of course had to eat it. I gave our hosts a big smile and bit half of the worm. It didn’t come apart with my first bite, so I continued to bite it – again, and again, and again. It was the slipperiest, chewiest, most rubbery thing I’d ever eaten (and that’s saying something). I managed to cut in half after the tenth bite and chew it up until it was in about four pieces. I could feel the little hairs against my tongue, and I knew I either had to swallow it or throw up. My brain made the decision for me and I managed to choke it down. I could feel the relief spread to my face. I gave Ms. Vilay a smile and a nod and went directly for the sticky rice.
“I know,” I thought, “I’ll try the soup.” Usually I expect soups to have vegetables – we have been treated to many soups in Laos made from spinach and other greens. It smelled a bit funky, but I scooped my spoon into the shared bowl. It tasted like – uh … intestines. Which made sense since it had been made, my dad said afterwards, by squeezing the inner lining of the intestines into boiling water. My dad looked at me and squiggled his eyebrows. I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or not. I restrained myself, swallowed quickly, and delved back into the basket of sticky rice.
My parents, Mr. and Mrs. Vilay, and our translator Ngot around the fancy, new, metal table.
Upon looking up from the rice, here comes Ms. Vilay again with her chopsticks, and a big thumb-sized piece of boiled liver. The lining from the saggy liver draped across the gut like an old plastic bag. I took a polite bite of the soft meat, and again put on my best smile. My stomach rushed up to my throat, and I put the remaining morsel on the side of my plate. I just got the mouthful down thanks to another handful of rice. I couldn’t manage to eat much more; my stomach was now quite completely upside down. Instead we moved onto the beverages.
Our hosts brought a bottle of lao-lao – traditional, and powerful, rice whisky. Let me remind you that this was at about 8:30 in the morning. Mr. Vilay poured himself a shot of lao-lao and raised his glass and thanked us in Lao (“Ngoc!”) for coming to his home and hoped that our friendship can continue for many years to come (at least that seemed to be the gist of his toast). The shot glass went all around the room (once for me, three times for everyone else). Next, instead of something like orange juice, he brought out 2 big bottles of Beer Lao (tastes like regular beer) and he poured everyone, including me, a big cup. Everyone was expected to empty their cupful immediately and hand it back to be refilled for the next person. Around the cup went – once, twice… Needless to say, after a while, we had to politely tell him that we couldn’t drink a lot (more) in the morning.
After lunch with Sukavit (right) and her niece, Phut.
After several goodbyes, smiles and handshakes, we departed to visit our next hosts.
We headed next to Sukavit’s (a long-time business partner and friend) house for more shopping and lunch. My stomach rumbled dramatically for a couple of hours as my parents looked at and bought many of her things. Then came another traditional Lao meal. A narrow tarp was rolled out across the floor, and out came bowls heaped with plain boiled chicken, sticky rice, spicy chili sauces, fresh vegetable soup, and plates of steamed unseasoned greens. I could have bowed down to Sukavit. She had remembered our desire for bland food, and, full of pride, she even remembered that we prefer “bo peng neua, bo ghena” – no monosodium glutamate, no salt (do they love their salt!). I wolfed down a teenager’s worth of lunch, gaining the smiles of Sukavit and her family, and breathed a big, full sigh of relief.
I realize now that my teen-age tastebuds are pretty well set in their ways. It’s a challenge to open up my mind (and throat) to new flavors and textures, and sometimes just the thought of a new food sets me up for not having an open mind. For example, the buffalo stomach didn’t really taste bad at all – it was the rubbery texture and the thought of it that was most challenging. Sometimes I wish my mind wouldn’t override my stomach!
The Mun people, a sub-group of the Yao living primarily in northern Vietnam and southern China, are one of the few SE Asian tribal peoples who use masks in their ceremonies. The masks are worn only by the Shi Gong priests in ceremonies designed to protect hunters and people going on long trips (including going into the afterlife) and are often decorated with animal hair and colored paper strips for each ceremony.
Mask still covered by the paper from its previous ceremony.
According to Jess Pouret in The Yao (Art Media Resources, Chicago, 2002), very little research has been done on the pre-Taoist millennia-old traditions from which these masks were born, and he bemoans the fact that their usage is being abandoned as this part of the world modernizes.
Mun mask with Buddha spike, goat fur facial hair and aluminum foil eyes.
“Above the Fray” is fortunate to have collected a unique sample of mid-20th century Mun Masks; several are still decorated with animal hair and/or colored paper from their last ceremonial use. They are powerful and haunting reminders of the need for spiritual protection in this complex and desultory world.
Our families’ March exploration of southern Laos and our return to the now familiar northeast proved a contrast in adventure and learning. We began in the south by flying into Pleiku, Vietnam, and a cursory research of the tribal art in Vietnam’s Central Highlands. A rickety day-long bus brought us cross-border to Laos, where we spent a week exploring Attapeu and Sekong Provinces. The south of Laos proved a challenge to our expectations and patience.
Cows grazing in front of a Soviet ground to air missile used in the Vietnam/American war and behind a fence made in part from bomb casings.
Southern Laos is one of the poorest regions of the world – it is a land still haunted by the atrocities of unexploded ordnance and agent orange from the Vietnam War. Many of its jungle inhabitants, such as the Lavae people, practice slash-and-burn agriculture, which is proving itself unsustainable in the clash of modern technologies and traditional practices. The forests are diminishing, and in an effort to protect the environment and elevate people’s living conditions, the government of Laos is relocating some ethnic groups. The plus side has these people being introduced to sustainable farming techniques, schools, western medical care and the world through television. The negative is that people’s deep cultural roots and traditional arts are being upended, and sometimes forgotten.
A Katu coffin in Laos made in the shape of a Naga (mythical river serpent) is stored under a rice storage shed until needed.
Katu weaver displaying her beaded scarf.
A few large trucks rumble by, hauling rock and sand to a newly dug irrigation canal. Our hired translator, Mr. Si, takes us to several local weavers’ homes. The simple, authentic Alak designs are beautiful, and these textiles are sold in the town’s market and in Laos’ capital, Vientiane, providing Pa’am with needed cash. But the people no longer raise their own cotton; the art of spinning and dying cotton for their traditional clothing is now forgotten. The benefits of Chinese poly-cotton – bright, enduring, washable – have supplanted the ways of previous generations. One has to look back 2-3 generations in the south to consistently find the traditional handspun, naturally-dyed cottons. When something is gained, something is always lost.
Travel in southern Laos is so slow it seems silly. Buses creep along, stopping at every outstretched arm, and average perhaps 20-25 km/hr. What looks on a map to be an hour’s drive inevitably manages to take an entire afternoon. And getting frustrated just makes it hotter. The saying is that the eager Chinese sell the rice seed, the industrious Vietnamese plant it, and the patient Laotians watch it grow. It’s true. However, the Lao pace both has the ability to hypnotize us into a delicious, patient trance as well as toss a brick into our western desire for some sort of business efficiency. Again, something gained, something lost.
A Ta-Oy woman carving a protective mask in her village in Laos.
We did have some successes in the south. In a Katu village in Sekong Province we had the fortune to find some loin cloths and other textiles with tiny glass beads woven (not embroidered) onto the weft threads to form unique and striking designs. Attapeu had some exquisite aged baskets, and an old man in an unsigned shop in Sekong had some superb Katu and Nghe true cottons and old J’rai rock-bead necklaces. We also discovered a tiny, off-the-track Ta-oy village in Champasak Province where we watched a couple of talented wood-carvers shape protective spirit masks. A woman in that village also brought out a small collection of older boar-tooth adorned protective amulets. We were reminded, once again, that when you slow down, you gain a deeper opportunity to appreciate the skills and talents of the locals and share their time and stories.
Katu couple in Kadok model a locally-made ceremonial beaded skirt and blouse, loincloth, and shoulder cloth (over a t-shirt).
…And The Calm of the North
The north of Laos weaves a different story. Houaphon, Luang Prabang, and Xieng Khuang Provinces are home to very different people, primarily Tai Daeng, Tai Dam, and Hmong. These ethnic groups, although they also endured the cruelties of the late 20th century, have maintained and even strengthened their cultural art forms. Here we find silk raising, natural-dyes and silk weaving the predominate textile forms, and the millennia-old silk weaving traditions are revered by both the locals and by the “weaving geeks” of the world. In addition, both handspun hemp and cottons can still be found. Perhaps these peoples have maintained their traditional arts because they settled into agricultural ways earlier and developed a tradition of trade with Chinese, Vietnamese, and other Lao neighbors. Markets (and thus market savvy) for their wares and skills have reached beyond their own insulated tribal group for generations.
A young girl in Muang Vaen displaying the cotton shawl she wove.
In the north, poly-cotton thread is readily available and used for some types of textiles (such as high use door-curtains and many skirt borders) but the intricate healing and shaman cloths, and most of the scarves and shawls, are 100% locally-raised, naturally-dyed, hand-woven silk. In weaving villages, young girls are introduced to the intricacies of the loom as they learn to walk. More complex weaving design-work, such as ikat and supplemental warp and weft weaving, are common (and amazing!).
A woman reacts to receiving photos of herself from our last visit.
On our 6th visit to our most favorite village, Xam Tai in Houaphon Provice (a Tai Daeng village), we are greeted by master-dyer Souk who pridefully demonstrates the art of creating a broad rainbow of vibrant colors from the jungle’s natural materials and refusing to allow chemical dyes, despite their ease of use, into her work. She continues to hone her dyeing skills, showing off to us on this trip some new subtle color variations she has recently developed. She also beams when she shows us some unique and striking new design-elements she recently created. The textile artists in this region are steeped in tradition, but are also unafraid to develop and enhance the art form. At “Above the Fray” we are most proud of showcasing Souk’s magical masterworks; her textile arts are unmatched.
Rice fields awaiting the monsoon rains.
We were warmly greeted in Ban N—— (showcased in Winter, 2010); the village women crowd around with gleeful smiles and laughs as we handed out copies of the photos we had taken of them and their art on our previous visit. Unfortunately, being March, there are only a handful of healing cloths available. The residents are busily preparing for the rice planting season which will commence with the first rains; once planted, the women will return to their looms to wait out the wet season. “Be sure to call next time,” one village elder says to us. “We will keep things here until you arrive.” The incongruity of their thatched-roofed huts and their modern telecommunications still surprise us. The elders also show off the village’s new cement irrigation and mini-hydro system afforded in part (if not fully) from the cash that the talented weavers bring to the village. Markets for their talent and wares, they’ve discovered, exist well outside their narrow valley.
A beautiful scarf modeled by its weaver.
We also found that Muang Vaen (showcased in Spring, 2008) has grown over the last two years. A dozen larger new homes have sprouted up, and the 30 kilometer dirt road to this outpost was recently re-graded. Motorcycles (110 cc models are the preferred transport for all up and coming families in Laos) zip about, and the small local stores seem top-heavy with Pepsi, shampoos, and television sets. While we in the West may shudder at the advent of such choices, it is an indication of a more stable economy and a more educated, healthier population. They too want their children to thrive in a rapidly modernizing world.
The First (and Last) Time I Try Bat (by Zall – age 13)
Our family rule is that if you ever are offered a strange food, you have to try it once. You don’t have to eat it ever again, but you have to try it once. To complete this, you must chew and swallow the “food” (sometimes it’s hardly food) without puking. As you can imagine sometimes this leads to some pretty gnarly things…
It was in Xam Tai, a small town, and four hours from the city of Xam Neua when the opportunity presented itself. Mai, our translator and friend, looked up at us with a raised eyebrow and three small, dead fruit bats in her hands. “Are you sure?” she questioned with an edge of curiosity in her voice. The rules could not be broken, so we nodded slowly. You can never pass up a chance like this. If you didn’t eat it, thirty years from now you may regret passing up the only occasion to try bat. Mai turned and shrugged her shoulders. “I will prepare this for dinner.”
Zall pops his first, and last, bite of bat into his mouth – see the batburger?
At five-thirty we walked to Mai’s family’s house. After an hour or so of playing Frisbee with her son, it was time for dinner. Two steaming plates came out from under the fire pit; one was a laap (a delicious traditional Laos dish of minced pork, banana leaf, lime, and spices), and the other was steamed, fresh greens. Then the third dish came out from the flames. No steam rose from this one. Mai put the dish on the table and my stomach turned upside down. On the plate was a heaping patty of bat: meat, fur, bones, innards, and all. It looked like someone had put the animals in a giant blender. I welcome you to the reality of locally-prepared cooked bat.
I could tell my whole family had the same thoughts because the color drained from their faces. Mai took a fingerful of sticky rice and casually put a big hunk of the dead wad in her mouth, not noticing our obvious distrust of the pile in front of us. I had no choice. I’d be breaking our family code. I grabbed the biggest chunk of sticky rice I could and loaded some of the furry lump into the hole I’d created in the rice. To top it off, I put a pinch of ginger on top to cover the flavor. My plan worked… kind of.
Mai’s son enjoying his favorite chicken parts – the eyeballs and tongue.
I dropped the ball of ingredients into my mouth. I took a deep breath and bit down. My face distorted as I broke through god knows what part of the bat. The ginger covered up the flavor very well at first. Then the bat flavor kicked in. I could feel my face go white. The flavor was fetid – a strong, rancid gray flavor that overpowered my mouth, my nose, my brain. It swept through my body like a repulsive, vomitous perfume. My gag reflex triggered but I held in the “food.” I took one long shuddering breath and swallowed, choking on a rib bone. A wave of relief flooded my body. I quickly shoved more rice into my mouth and looked up at my parents and said with my eyes, “That’s definitely the last time I try bat.”
