Each winter trip to Laos and Vietnam takes my brother and me out of school for several weeks. This sounds like every kids’ fantasy, but in addition to day-long bus trips, uncomfortable beds, and controversial cuisine, completing required school work has been challenging.
Since I entered South Eugene High School, the workload has grown exponentially and simply not doing the work is not a possibility. So I have had to actually communicate with my teachers to find suitable alternatives to being in the classroom. Inevitably, my teachers require that I do all missed homework and projects while I am traveling, and that I make up any missed exams upon return.
Homework time at a homestay in Vietnam.
Often, while sitting on what might be a 10-hour bus ride, I would try to do my assigned reading. The buses there are not like the buses that you see tooling around town in Eugene. They are disproportionately large for the road, extremely rickety, have no shocks and a bumpy terrain to follow, and have more puking people on them than anyone wishes to imagine. I guess I’m fortunate in that I do not get queasy when reading in a vehicle, but it is difficult to concentrate on To Kill a Mockingbird when the woman sitting next to me discretely vomits – for the fourth time – into a plastic bag and then leans over me to toss the bag out the window onto the shoulder. And while they call some of the roads “sealed,” the endlessly windy routes have potholes that effectively, and repeatedly, jar my butt a foot off the seat. By force of will I have learned to narrowly concentrate on text and blank out the chaos around me.
A local bus.
If I had a favorite time to do homework, it would be during a homestay. On the first night of a two-night trek near Sapa, Vietnam, we found ourselves in a dusty local home that was filled with more smoke than air and one of the kindest families that I have ever not been able to talk with. I sat down at their unlit, uneven wooden table, next to the family’s ten-year-old son, and began to chug away at my geometry. I hated proofs, so the assignment was taking a long time. However, the line drawings and English text of the photocopied text delighted the schoolboy who leaned closely over my shoulder slurping a 7-Up (such an odd combination of “primitive” and “modern”). Never again will I see someone so excited about geometry! He later showed me the reading and writing homework he had copied into his thin, stapled notebook. The burden of homework was our common bond.
Ari and his geometry buddy at a homestay near Sapa, Vietnam.
Though the work was sometimes tedious and the conditions were… well… not horribly accommodating, I have always been able to finish and submit it all upon return (not that mom and dad leave me any choice). My teachers may have been pleased I completed my work while away, but they have had no idea, until now, of what it really took.
We shared a little of what we trust is our mutual pride the other day as we sent off a “decent-sized” check to Mines Advisory Group (MAG) representing our 3% of sales from the Thanksgiving Weekend sale, as well as some direct donations from generous Eugenians. The essential and humane task of clearing unexploded ordnance (UXOs) continues at a pace matched only by the world’s donations and the Lao government’s dedicated, but under-funded, effort to free its people of the leftover horrors of war.
Over 35 years after the bombing has stopped, some innocent Lao person – perhaps a farmer with a plow, or a child discovering a shiny round metal ball – is still killed every other day by old ordnance. Cluster bombs are the worse culprit, as some 30% of the 100,000,000 bomblets the US dropped on this nation still lie, live, in the fields and jungle that is their backyard.
There is only one way to make this land safe. Wherever people live, the soil must be screened by metal detectors and then the explosives carefully exposed and safely detonated. The UXOs are not only a direct threat to life and limb, but also hinders Laos’ ability to carve a new road, dig a village site for a new schoolhouse, or develop infrastructure for tourism or business, keeping these talented and capable people in continuous poverty.
Now, long after the political crisis has dissipated, we must make amends and help clear the land of our dangerous detritus. Your donation, whether directly through MAG (www.maginternational.org) or through Above the Fray, helps Laos recover from its present crisis. And thank you, Oregon Senators Wyden and Merkley, for supporting the bill to eliminate cluster bomb munitions
Healing cloths, or in Lao “phaa sabai,” are – and here I quote from www.hilltribeart.com – “used by both shaman and ordinary people, and use a combination of color and design for their powerful healing protection. These hand-woven, naturally-dyed silk shawls, usually woven with a bright-red background, have complex supplemental weft details woven on either end of the cloth, with a center area of a single, undecorated color… Healing cloths are used in healing ceremonies, and are also used in ceremony to foster a healthy future for the village or crops. They may be worn by the healer, or the ill person, or even laid in the garden depending on the unique traditions of that village and the type of healing that is being sought. Each ethnic group, sub-group, valley, and even individual villages often have unique styles of weaving and ritual to express their spiritual lives and needs; even individual weavers have input as to a healing cloths’ design elements and color.”
Weaver modeling her recently woven Phaa Sabai.
Phaa sabai take up to two months to weave, not including the time spent raising, harvesting, processing and dying the locally-grown silk. Additional photos (in color!) of phaa sabai and some of the weavers of Ban N—– can be found on our website gallery.
Nope. We won’t give you the precise location of the “X” on our treasure map; advertising remote, precious enclaves of talent and beauty eventually tears the “Shangri-” away from the “La.”
Weaver wearing her large shaman cloth.
A day’s visit of this village begins in the Houaphon Province’s provincial capital, Xam Neua (population 35,000) where we rent a vehicle, driver, and for both purposes of business and pleasure, a translator. After a chatty hour on the twisty, paved one-lane “highway,” we veer onto a dirt path, splash through a shallow river and then drive for another hour or more. The single-track dirt lane follows a windy creek up a narrow, sparsely populated valley. Finally the narrow valley opens up to a wider set of verdant rice fields and this 50-house village.
We are fortunate that our 18-year-old translator’s parents live in Ban N—— – his status as a translator and “tourist guide” grant him a certain standing in the community, and his personal knowledge and contacts open a window that is unique for westerners. Good travelers aren’t bashful and we swing that window open, taking full advantage of his personal connections.
Weaver cutting a scarf off her loom for us.
We take the first half-hour of our visit to wander through the muddy village, greeting the women, children, and a few older men (the young men were in the rice fields). Maren had remembered to bring photos of the weavers holding their artwork taken from our previous visit, and we suddenly get caught in the center of a flurry of women and children trying to see each photo as we connect the face in the photo with the face in the crowd. We also offer photos to the weavers of some Eugene-locals who had purchased their individual pieces. Every photo seems particularly entertaining, and everyone laughs and chats. Needless to say, we have no difficulty getting them to pose with their healing cloths on this visit, and I trust that they are looking forward to our return next month, new photos in hand.
Street scene in Ban N—— upon our arrival.
Ban N—– looks similar to other Tai Daeng villages. Houses sit on wood posts 4-5 feet above ground; the walls are made of woven bamboo slats and wooden boards and the house’s interior are often divided by a curtain or flimsy bamboo panel into 2 or 3 rooms, allowing some privacy for sleeping. Each home has a pad of rock built into the floor, upon which the hearth is stoked and hot meals are prepared; if it is early morning or evening, smoke fills the upper rafters and finds its proper vent. Under each home, in the cooler shade, sits at least one bed-sized loom, often next to a wooden ox-cart, a builders’ stash of bamboo, or racks of drying corn. A woman more than likely sits on a wood bench flicking the loom’s shuttle back and forth and tying off colors of silk threads as she creates a traditional healing cloth. A packed dirt track, about 20 feet wide, runs down the center of the village.
Weaver working on a new skirt with supplemental warp designs.
We admire the half-woven shawls set on the looms under the houses, share a drink or two with the family and friends of our translator, and, after paying respect to his parents, are led to a community room – the village’s one building that is made of cement and not bamboo and wood. About two dozen weavers sit in a semi-circle in front of us, and in the center of the room are perhaps 60 healing cloths and other local textiles of all colors – from light lavender and peach pastels to dark red and rich golds. In Laos, individual villages often focus on developing a certain talent and status regarding that talent. We have visited villages that specialize in knife-making, basket-weaving, or shaman-cloth weaving (see Newsletter #2 about our visit to a weaving village, Muang V—, that specialized in shaman cloths). Ban N—–, for generations, has specialized in healing cloths, and their beautiful and near-flawless work, a stack of which sits before us, is renown in Laos.
Farmer returning home with his tools.
Choosing the best for Above the Fray is never an easy task, especially given the wide variety of designs and colors. If there were no rules we would buy most everything – not only for the beauty of the art, but also for the smiles and hearts of the artists in the room. However, business and budgets interfere, and we embark on our routine of deliberate inspection. Some textiles, indeed, are more “flaw-free” than others, and some have more sophisticated and thoughtful color and design-play. Some have cruder edges; a common flaw is too-tight a pull on one side of the warp that produces, when ceremoniously displayed as wall-art, a decidedly banana-shaped textile (making it, perhaps, a beautiful shawl, but cattywampus wall art…).
Weavers displaying their cloths for purchase. Maren has some tough choices to make.
We are looking expressly for the woven silks that have an inner “glow” – the cloths that hold all the elements together to create one precious unique expression that took generations to hone. From what we have seen as we visit other weaving villages and the major city markets in Luang Prabang and Vientiane, Laos’ capital, (where the majority of the village-made cloths eventually end up through a chain of distributors), no village weaves more profound, precise, and “glowing” healing cloths than Ban N——. After two hours of comparing, selecting, gently bargaining, photographing (thank you, Zall!), laughing, and completing our business, we pick up our armload of purchases, say goodbye for the umpteenth time, and, under a now-threatening sky, clamber back in the vehicle.
Young weaver displaying the woman side of her “man/woman” healing cloth.
We discovered in Ban N—– that one of their finest young weavers, of whom we had a picture from the previous year, had just married and had moved to an unmapped village a few kilometers up the track. A half-hour later we found ourselves under a tin roof, during a sudden downpour, sharing photos and chatting with the beautiful, now-married young weaver and her proud husband. This village did not do as much weaving, but did they have some baskets! Another “X” on the map….
We still juggle in our minds the juxtaposition of what appears to be a poor, humble mountain village creating, under each home like a foundation, the most jaw-droppingly complex and color-savvy woven silk art. The heart of these fine people is not in their assets or their access to goods and services. The heart is rather tied to culture and tradition, their beliefs and their families, the providence of a tough land and the talents created from their minds and fingers.
Weaver shyly displaying her “man/woman” healing cloth.
Way up in northwest Laos, our family decided to go off the tourist track to a tiny town called Muang Long, only accessible on a single-lane dirt road. When we got off the ramshackle bus, we found the only place to stay in town and went to a little restaurant fifty feet away, where we ate a late lunch of fried rice and vegetables. Soon after our meal, a gentleman came by the restaurant and said he worked for the local “tourism office” and he wondered what we might like to do. We decided it was a good time to do a trek, so the guy in charge set us up with a local man named Tui, who spoke pretty-good English and knew the area well. We told Tui we wanted a three-day two-night trek to some outlying villages that had no roads. Tui said he would be ready early the next morning and that he would meet us at our guesthouse. He met us with a small backpack at 7:00 the next morning. All we had to bring were changes of clothing, our med kit, and a jacket for the cool evenings.
Tui, Zall, Tui’s friend, and Ari eating lunch by the side of the trail on a tablecloth of banana leaves.
Heading through the morning market area and between two stilted houses was a tiny trail snaking up a mountain. I looked at the beautiful scenery in awe. Dozens of steep, rolling green hills blanketed the vast landscape. The steep trail wove through banana trees, strange ferns, dry-farmed rice fields, and bamboo forests. Much of the forest had been cut down in previous years due to local “slash-and-burn” practices. Down the trail, a small river ran through the foliage, and over the river was a rickety, bamboo bridge that would carry us to the other side. Tui continued walking without paying any notice to the structure. I hesitated, and then gingerly tiptoed across the wobbly bridge and heaved a huge sigh when I got to the other side. Along the way, Tui told us about the uses of the plants; this large-leafed plant was cut into strips for baskets; the root of this tall plant was used to cure headaches. He carved a spinning toy for me using a potato-like root he dug up and carved into a disk and some hemp twine he carried. He also showed us some cool big bugs. After about three hours of hiking up and down mountains, we stopped for lunch. Tui had a tiny backpack in which he carried our lunch. I was skeptical that he had enough food, but Tui kept pulling things out of his small pack: vegetables cooked with clear noodles, banana-flower and meat in a spicy sauce, globs of sticky rice. I couldn’t believe how much food he pulled out of his pack! We ate until we were stuffed.
We started down a long steep hill, and then met up with a wet jungle area. I looked down and spotted a small worm. When I asked Tui what it was, he said very calmly, “Oh, leech, hurry, let’s run.” At the time, I was freaked out about leeches and sprinted as fast as I could. It seemed like forever until we got out of the dank tropical region and back onto the dryer hillside. A minute later I heard Ari, my older brother, scream at the top of his lungs. I hurried forward and saw that a leech had suctioned to his lower leg. Tui very easily pulled it off and sarcastically stated that it was only a small one. Ari needed a quick band-aid to stop the bit of bleeding and protect the puncture wound.
School let out in this Akha village to greet a novel visiting group – us!
We passed through a couple of small Akha villages on the way to our destination. At every village, we would walk through the spirit gate that protected the village from the jungle spirits. Once in town, all the people would gather around to watch us. In one place, the entire school of maybe 50 kids were let out to come down and stare at the four white people stomping through their village. We’d wave and say hello, and they would act shy or just plain stare at us. Every time the whole town would follow us to the edge of the village where we would walk again through a spirit gate. We would all wave goodbye.
Finally at around 5 PM we arrived at our first destination, a Kwi village. As we entered the town (no spirit gates are needed in a Kwi village) a crowd of about 100 people – the entire town – swarmed around us and guided us to the chief’s hut. Tui told us that Ari and I were the first white children this village had ever seen, and the first “farang” faces seen at all in many months. We were directed up a bamboo ladder to a bamboo platform – the chief’s front “deck” – and told to take off our shoes. Ari accidentally put his foot through deck, breaking one of the bamboo slats. The villagers all laughed very loudly and Ari blushed and smiled sheepishly. For two hours we sat on the deck while dozens of people crowded around us in a semi-circle. Mostly we all stared at each other.
Zall, Tui, and Ari in front of an Akha village spirit gate.
Tui cooked an excellent dinner of stir-fried meat, vegetables, and sticky (glutinous) rice which the village provided (Tui had sent word earlier we would be there that night). The “stove” was a fire-pit right in the middle of the two-room bamboo hut, set on large flat stones. It turns out Tui is an excellent cook as well as guide! As soon as the sun set we went to bed. The chief offered us quarter-inch thick bamboo mats as hard as a rock and thick slightly mildewy quilts to keep us warm. He made sure we tucked our mosquito nets in at the corners to avoid getting bit at night and possible getting malaria or dengue fever. That night I slept like a baby, at least until the roosters starting crowing at about 4:30.
We got up before the sun, put on our jackets to fend off the cool morning fog, and had a breakfast of Mekong seaweed (an algae that grows in the river and really is quite delicious) wrapped around sticky rice. Another day’s adventure awaited us as we set off into the jungle enroute to a village of the Katu people.
Americans generally see dogs as being man’s best friend and house pet, but many Vietnamese have a slightly different idea of canine possibilities. We accidentally stumbled upon this discovery when looking for dinner in the town of Tam Duong. It was late for eating (7:00 is considered late there) and we could not find a place to eat. We were getting desperate for dinner when we saw a light shining out from between two closed shops – YES, it was a restaurant. We sat down at a table and were, relatively quickly, brought our meat plate. We thought that we were served pork, so we instantly began to grub. After chewing the spiced, porkish meat for a few minutes we realized that it did not taste quite like any pork that we had ever eaten before – Dad thought maybe the pork had been sitting out too long. The only other customer at the restaurant happened to speak a little English so we asked him if what we were eating was pork. He replied that it was not, because he had ordered the pork and his serving looked different. “What is this” we asked him, holding up a chunk of our meat with chopsticks, and he pointed towards a dog that was picking at scraps around the tables.
Dogs are also well-loved, well trained motorcycle partners!
This was our first of two surprising dog moments during our travels. The other took place while we were sitting on the side of a Laos road, dust flying in our faces, waiting for a vehicle to pass by that could take us to our next destination. Several full cars passed us and time seemed to be crawling by at a snails pace. Then, an immense truck that looked like it should have been carrying timber rumbled by. As this monstrosity passed, we noticed that the truck was weighted down with (instead of logs) hundreds of cages occupied by yapping dogs. After our initial thought of “look at all the cute dogs!”, the light dawned. We slowly turned to each other and, after confirming what we had all just seen, turned back to the road to see the truck disappear over a small hill on the way to Vietnam. Once the initial shock had worn off a little bit we recognized that the dogs were being taken away to be used in the place of beef. The end of the month, the traditional time for eating dog, was about to arrive and we were witnessing the preparations.
Sho: Our Spirited Black Hmong Guide, Friend, and Confidante
Sho in her trademark cowboy hat.
Our family was most fortunate on our first trip to Vietnam in 2005 to be teamed up through a guesthouse with Sho Lythi as our guide for our first trek. It had been pouring rain for days, and the trails through the rugged steep hills around Sapa in Lao Cai Province were like pudding – thick and slippery. We considered canceling the day-long walk due to the weather, but Sho quickly arranged a batch of 50-cent disposable plastic rain jackets and bamboo walking sticks, and, with a smile larger than her umbrella, cheered us on our way out into the foggy wet.
Starting on Sapa’s ridge-top location, the route for the first half hour was almost straight down – hilltribe people don’t seem to believe in switch-backs! The kids traveled as though they had skis on their feet, slipping and sliding, using the bamboo pole as a balance, and hooted and hollered as they disappeared over the the lip of the hill. Maren and I, being both heavier and more fragile, carefully chose our steps. Sho, walking patiently with us, chatted cheerily and seemed to almost dance her 80 pound frame down the slope. We arrived at the bottom of the hill at her home, where we dried off, scraped the largest clumps of muck off our shoes, and were introduced to Sho’s parents and many sisters.
Maren and Sho slipping and sliding.
From the outside, Sho’s family’s house looks a bit ramshackle, with boards and shingles nailed at odd angles. Pigs, water buffalo, ducks and dogs amble on the front “yard” at the edge of the harvested rice fields. Inside, the floors are dirt; large baskets (triple-walled for rodent protection), both on the floor and up in the wood-planked loft, hold clothing and other textiles, as well as bags of processed rice and corn. Corn also hangs from the ceiling, drying in the smoky, wood-warmed cottage. On the one piece of wooden furniture, a large dresser, sits the color TV; the satellite dish is out back. Sho’s and her mom’s cell phones seem to ring every couple of minutes. An electric iron sits on the ironing board. The house has a single fluorescent light-bulb to illuminate everyone’s sewing and dyeing efforts.
Sho’s mom, sisters, Sho, and Josh in front of Sho’s mom’s house. Note the satellite dish!
It was dyeing season, and a huge vat of liquid indigo stewed on its own off of the main room. Sho proceeded to educate us all about how her ethnic group, the Black Hmong, dye, weave and sew their own outfits. Every woman makes a new outfit for each family member every year to be first worn on New Year’s, and the old clothing, now faded from wear, is dismantled and made into blankets and other necessities. Dad made tea to share on a second small hearth to help us stave off the damp chill.
Beyond her family’s home, Sho has led us on multiple home-stay treks in Lao Cai Province, and she has helped us acquire some of our treasures at the colorful weekend markets in Bac Ha, Long Phinn and Sapa. Once, quite by accident, we ran into her in Hanoi where she was investing in some English writing classes for a few months. She has a wonderful radiating energy that makes her fun to be with.
The family and Sho, on the first trip when we met in December, 2005.
Sho, age 18 when we met, is fluent in English, Vietnamese, and Hmong, and boasts a spattering of French and German. She learned English on her own from the western visitors who often hire her as a guide. She is chatty, eager to learn about the world, and obviously very intelligent. When she is in her home province, she dresses in traditional Black Hmong clothing – indigo-dyed knee-length jacket with dyed leggings. Her outfit has bright green embroidered bands around her upper arms and on her collar. Like most Hmong women, she adorns herself with several large necklaces and earrings. When we have met her elsewhere, in Hanoi or in Bac Ha, she wears a western t-shirt, blue jeans, tennis shoes, and her trademark cowboy hat (and we did bring her a true Stetson this last summer). Did I mention she is knock-out beautiful and cute as can be? Ari can barely keep his eyeballs in his head when she’s around! The unique lilt in her accent only adds to her charm.
Sho’s family has also become friends. Sho’s mother, at out first meeting, pulled Maren out of a mucky rice patty with a strong arm and a huge smile. She also taught Maren how to turn twists of hemp into strong continuous rope. Sho’s sister’s husband makes traditional metal Hmong jewelry, and Sho’s sisters all sew handbags and other textiles from their year-old clothing (which we in turn have available at Above the Fray).
Sho’s mom twisting hemp strands into one long string.
In addition to her knowledge about dyeing and weaving, her delicious cooking when we have trekked, and her chatty knowledge about the cultures of the area, Sho is also, we discovered, a shrewd shopper. She has helped us bargain for better deals (where her Vietnamese and Hmong language skills come in handy), and she has a great eye for color, quality, and authenticity. She is eager to learn about western culture and tastes, and her efforts to understand what Above the Fray is looking for spurs both her curiosity and her acumen at assisting us.
What we also love about Sho is her willingness to tell us her opinion. So often the guides and translators we hire want to tell us only what they believe we want to hear. Sho, on the other hand, will openly comment on what she thinks, likes, and dislikes. She maintains a calm and overt confidence that both reveals who she is as a person and facilitates our goal of finding the best hilltribe art in Lao Cai Province. Once, in a small shop that had a collection of used Hmong knives, Sho unhesitatingly picked up each knife and whacked them repeatedly against a hard bamboo stick. After castigating the owner for having some knives with softer, and now slightly blemished, metals, she demanded he only show us the better-quality metal knives – the “real Hmong knives” – and then proceeded to negotiate a better price for the better quality items. Sho has no pretense; she lets people know exactly what she thinks.
Sho has become a trusted friend, someone we can count on to follow through and give us honest opinion and perspective. She knows her culture well, and unhesitatingly wants us to represent the very best of her people.
