The Lao Weavers Visit America

Phout, Maren, Malaithong and Souksakone enjoy a late evening barbecue on our porch in Eugene, OR.

It was a decade old dream come true. Rather than Maren and I visiting our wonderful Lao weaving friends in their village in Laos, we finally “got even” by having them visit us on their first ever trip to America; for weavers Souk and Phout, it was their first time outside of SE Asia. They were able to bring childhood friend Malaithong with them for her translation services and to help facilitate the business and adventure opportunity.

These are three precious friends of ours who we met a decade ago in Xam Tai, Laos when we first started Above the Fray, and their work has been central to the finest quality silks that we offer our customers.

Souksokone, Malaithong, photographer Joe Coca, Maren and Phout at the Santa Fe Folk-Art Market.

The first week was spent in Santa Fe, where they were welcomed as special guests of the exquisite and selective Santa Fe Folk Art Festival and Market. For two days the jet-lagged weavers attended workshops that introduced them to American business and marketing, and then they sold some phenomenal textiles in the marketplace. Maren and I flew down to assist with the sales and cheer them on. The crowd was dense and receptive, and they did well with sales. Many attendees complemented those Lao weavers, dyers and designers as the highlight of the 150 or more represented artists.

Phout and Souksakone’s first visit to a Whole Foods Supermarket. So many things!

They then spent a week with us here in Eugene – and the weather was perfect. What a blast seeing our world through another’s eyes. A few highlights:

• Watching them take photos in the produce section of Whole Foods – what a selection of greens! The wine department was overwhelming, and just how many kinds of cheese are there?
• Getting to throw a first snowball ever, while enjoying the views at Crater Lake.
• Watching forests glide by the car window for hours. They agree that our life-style here is very tomasat – that is, based on the goodness of being natural. And the roads are so smooth and fast!
  

  Enjoying snow for the first time at the rim of Crater Lake.

• Souksakone asking several times where the rice is grown. (“Why so much grass?”).
• Setting up a full-size Lao loom in our studio, and celebrating its completion with a quick Lao Basi ceremony and a bottle of champagne.
  

  Setting up the new loom.

• Finding large, juicy deer walking unabashedly around our Crest Drive neighborhood. Nobody is eating them??
• Eating more meat in a week than they eat in a season – the T-bone with a baked potato was well-received. They agreed they all liked American food – as long as its fresh and home-cooked!
  

  Malaithong, Souksakne Josh and Phout enjoying the natural outdoors.

• Roasting the hottest of jalapenos on our bbq grill to gain a bit of “flavor” for the rice.
• Hearing them being impressed with how clean things are – so little litter! (And that is a boastful ethic of ours in this corner of the world!)
• Phout getting her first elevator ride – to the 73^rd floor of Seattle’s Columbia Center! Not sure she’ll do that again…
  

  Phout at the ground level of the Columbia Center. Better place to be!

We laughed so much, and we are so grateful for Malaithong’s translation efforts.

On one evening late in the week, as we shared a bottle of wine, Maren mentioned how we felt like we truly had family in Lao.  How was it possible for people so far apart to find such a heart-bound friendship?

Malaithong explained that the Lao have a specific word – Seo – to refer to a friend with who you share a deeper connection. And that yes, we were all seo, bonded by our trust and affection.

Malaithong continued.  “Here is what I think happened. In the beginning we were of the same family, and then, when all the people were being put onto the Earth, at that moment there was a ver-ry big storm, and a great wind,” and here Malaithong waved her hands in front of her face and made a “whoo-oo-oosh” sound. “Myself, and Souk and Phout blew about and landed in Laos, and you and Josh blew about and landed in America. But we are still of the same family, and now we have found each other.” We laughed and Malaithong shrugged: “That must be what happened.”

Sharing another wonderful meal – hamburgers! Joining us is our son, Ari.

To read more stories and learn about the silk craftwork of these women (and we dedicate a chapter each to both Souk and Phout) and many others, we lure to our new publication: Silk Weavers of Hill Tribe Laos: Textiles, Tradition, and Well-Being (Thrums Book, 2017) by Joshua Hirschstein and Maren Beck, with photos by Joe Coca.  You may order an autographed copy at www.hilltribeart.com, or order through Amazon or your favorite bookstore.

They’ve arrived!

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

The Akha-Puli spinner.

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

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

The Akha-Puli woman winds her spindle

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

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

Maren takes her turn.

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

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

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

The Akha-Puli woman spins her “thread.”

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

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

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

“Harder than it looks.”

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

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

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

The Basket Weaver

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

The basket weaver.

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

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

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

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

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

Josh visits with the basket weaver.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our Xam Tai Family

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

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

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

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

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

Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phout of Houaphon Province, NE Laos

Our good friend, Phout, wearing one of her healing cloths (phaa phi mon).

We are in Houaphan Province in NE Laos, getting ready for a dinner with our weaving and dyeing friends.  A dozen or so people are already at Souk’s house, the women chatting quietly while chopping garlic and ginger for dinner’s preparation, and the men sharing another bottle of Beer Lao.  Then a motorcycle revs into the front, carrying Phout (pronounced “put” with a little bit of an “h” after the “p”) and her husband.  Phout charges in, wrestles her too-small helmet off her tied-up hair, and, eyes glowing and teeth exposed, says something in a loud voice that ends with a high-pitched “ooo-eee”; everyone laughs, including us.  Phout grabs Maren’s shoulders and gives a quick hug, then offers her outstretched hand to Josh and the boys for a firm deliberate handshake.  She continues to talk quickly and loudly and again the room erupts in laughter.

Mai, who grew up with Phout and Souk (rhymes with “book”) but later learned English, offers us a quick translation for Phout’s paragraphs of gushing and animated energy.  “She says” Mai manages through her laughter, “she says she is so glad to see all of you, and she wishes you to celebrate with us that we are together again.”  There is a moment of quiet when the English is spoken.  A dozen smiling heads bob as if hearing a toast.  The room catches a breath and Phout reaches for a short glass of Beer Lao offered from her smiling husband.  She raises the glass slightly in both hands, does a quick, honorable dip to acknowledge the celebration, and drains the glass quickly so, as tradition holds, it can be refilled and passed to the next person.  She shakes her hand at the men pouring the beer and says something spiritedly – the tone alone meant “Get this glass moving.  This party has officially begun.”  And we all laugh again.

Sharing a meal at Souk’s home. From left to right: Ari, Maren, Josh’s mom Joy, Zall, Sukavit (expert weaver and village elder), Phout, Mai (our translator, friend and a childhood friend of Phout and Souk), and master-dyer Souk.

Phout is an expert dyer and weaver.  As is often the tradition in this region, the dyer is at the ‘’hub” of the weaving process.  She obtains the raw silk, dyes it using only traditional natural dyes, and then distributes the prepared silk and pattern-templates to the area’s best weavers.  A single piece may take a weaver several months to create. These weavers then return the completed textiles to, in this case, Phout, who will be responsible for getting them to a market.  Phout is renown for her rich purples and vibrant color-play. She is also a savvy business-woman, ensuring that everyone from silk-raiser to weaver is fairly compensated.  She is also eager to connect the regional talent and her silk products to a world market.

Maren and Phout have become, for lack of a better word, “sisters.”  We all met in 2006 quite by accident as we were touring the region as a family.   We fell in love with the area, and the textiles, and … well, the people as well, like Phout and Souk.  Their honesty, warmth, and open friendship has enriched us so much. These women are also central to many of the highest quality silk weavings that Above the Fray – or anyone in the world for that matter – can offer.

Maren’s recent (as in two weeks ago!) trip to Bangkok and Vientiane brought Phout and her together again, this time in the urban setting of Vientiane, Laos’ capital, and here is her “friendship report.”  [Maren promises more on the Textile Symposium itself soon!]

Maren’s Report from Laos, November, 2013: Celebrating with Phout in the City

During my recently-completed trip to Bangkok for the Queen Sirikit Museum of Textiles Symposium 2013:  Weaving Royal Traditions Through Time, I took a side trip to Vientiane, Laos, where Phout met me for a few days of laughter, textiles, and local life.

Maren and Phout in Vientiane early this month – dressed for an event!

What a kick!  Phout’s daughter, 4 months pregnant with her first child, and her husband, Nan, kept us company the whole time.  Nan, who works for the Laos PDR Ministry of Labor and Social Welfare, took a day off from work and he and his wife spent two additional evenings off from their lives to translate for Phout and me.  We spent a day having lunch that Phout cooked – lovely plain boiled chicken, greens, sticky rice, and jhao – spicy dip – with all four of us at Nan and Phout’s daughter’s house.  Then several hours of looking at some new textiles from Phout – how could I resist!  I even bought a very fancy skirt from Phout of her recent design – ask to see it at our events!  I got a few more healing cloths and love tokens from her also that I couldn’t resist…

Phout’s mom also accompanied her to Vientiane for some dental work.  Her mom wanted to sell me her blanket that she wove at age 12 (she’s maybe 70 now?) in silk with natural dyes and handspun cotton border and backing.  Having a treasure such as this, that survived the Vietnam war and the bombing of Laos for 9 years, is the curse of the business side of Above the Fray.  No – I could never sell it.  Such rarities really belong in museums.  I even have a photo of Phout’s mom, also named Mai, wearing the blanket to complete the textile’s documentation.

Phout’s mom, Mai, wearing the cloth she wove over 50 years ago.

Phout’s daughter’s husband’s father’s neighbor’s daughter was getting married on one of the days I was with Phout.  They asked if I could attend, and the answer, of course was “Yes!”  I was the only “falang” (foreigner) invited to the 300+ person wedding at a fancy hotel – sit-down dinner with Johnny Walker Black and soda served to all with a live band and traditional Laos dancing – I was dragged onto the dance floor by Phout’s son-in-law, his dad, and by Phout herself – what fun!

The next night we went to the main temple in Vientiane where an annual ceremony was centered for two days later – the one where people make boats out of banana leaves and float them down the river with a candle lit in them to send wishes to the ancestor world – as depicted by the “wax naga boats” on many Laos textiles.  Boy was it a wild party!  In addition to monks accepting donations in return for the tying on of “basi strings” for good health and good fortune (I got two!), there were multiple (six plus stages) full of music and dancers, loud sellers of Chinese clothing, cars, motorcycles, ferris wheels, kids rides, and copious volumes of sustenance, including quail eggs, chestnuts, fried dough, barbequed dried squid, and other delicacies.  Phout and I held hands the whole time.  So sweet!  I am honored to be considered a good friend of such a talented designer, dyer, and weaver.

Dancers from the Lawae culture dance at the celebration in Vientiane.

Sho, Our Black Hmong Guide and Friend, Gets Married!

A beaming Antoine and glowing Sho enter their “white dress wedding.”

Those of you who have been following our newsletters for a few years know of our friend Sho, a beautiful, intelligent, vivacious Black Hmong woman with an acute business sense who was our first guide in the Sapa, Vietnam region, and who has continued being a special friend (see Newsletter #6 for an introduction).  This summer, the timing worked out just right for Ari, Zall and Maren to attend her two weddings in Vietnam to her French husband, Antoine, who works as a hotel manager in Sapa; the first wedding was a Black Hmong event held at her parent’s house, and the second, a “white-dress” wedding at a nearby eco-lodge.

Antoine (in his Black Hmong clothing) and his dad admire beautiful baby Alice.

I need to preface with the comment that all of us have been “in love” with Sho since we first met her – she holds a special place in all of our “boy’s” hearts.  I have called her “my daughter”, and have jokingly bemoaned the fact that Ari is 5 years younger and not old enough to marry her.  As such, when the three of use first saw Sho and her daughter (born 2 months before the wedding!), huge hugs went all around.  Just then, a man came out from a nearby coffee shop, and Sho introduced us – he was Antoine’s father.  I put my arm around Sho and told him she is my daughter.  He put his arm around her and said, beaming with pride, “No, Sho is MY daughter!”  A better introduction could not be had.  Having a father-in-law so pleased and happy with her relieved any of our anxieties about her acceptance into her new family.

Sho in a rare contemplative moment during her Hmong wedding.

In reality, Sho and Antoine were already married.  They had had the formal paperwork wedding in early April, before their daughter Alice was born.  We were invited to attend the fun Vietnam weddings; a fourth wedding was later held in France with all of Antoine’s extended family and European friends.

Food and drink abound at a Hmong wedding party!

The Hmong wedding held at Sho’s parent’s house with a group of about 100, included Sho’s closest friends and family, Antoine’s closest local friends, and Antoine’s dad and brother who had flown in for the event.  Many of the Hmong, as well as Antoine, were dressed in traditional Black Hmong clothing including a handspun, indigo-dyed cotton jacket – the women’s jackets had silk-embroidered sleeves – and a handwoven, indigo-dyed hemp vest with a silk-embroidered collar.  The traditional Hmong wedding includes eating vast quantities of delicious local food, drinking non-stop, and hoisting uncounted toasts to the family of the bride and to the bride and groom.  Had Antoine been a traditional local Hmong man, he would have knelt in front of the bride’s father; this step did not happen as Antoine had been accepted as family for some time.

Sho and Ti – our guiding sisters and friends!

It was hot, hot, hot.  Even high-elevation Sapa is hot in June.  Everyone who could shed their hot local clothing, but Sho said she couldn’t, as it was required of the bride.  Throughout the meal and party, Sho nursed Alice, and handed her off to friends and family to hold.  Even I got to hold her for a few minutes!  As we would expect, Sho conducted the whole event – center of it all, in charge, and having a ball!  Everyone toddled off in a happy state, including the three of us, who had to hire motorcycles to get us back to our hotel – the boys loved it!

Sho’s parent’s house, site of the Hmong wedding, surrounded to the porch edge with rice fields.

The next day was the “white-dress wedding” – more of a reception – at an upscale eco-lodge an hour drive from Sapa that offered a stunning hilltop setting overlooking a lush, terraced valley full of sun and flowers.  Sho was resplendent in her western wedding dress, with constant photos opportunities.  She would yell “Zall – hey Zall – take a picture!” and he would go running to take more photos – over 1,000 that day alone!  There were many more people at this event, about 300 total, including Hmong and Westerners, and a fabulous barbeque meal was shared.

The eco-lodge – setting for the “white dress wedding”.

Even though the Hmong and westerners knew each other, it was clear, watching their faces, that the Hmong were not used to the western ways of marriage, watching the celebrations from a slight distance and with questioning looks, not knowing quite what to expect next.  Most of the Hmong wore their traditional clothes, except for the young lady friends of Sho’s who wore shimmery outfits in silk, cut to western styles.  Sho danced with Antoine, her father-in-law, and Ari – the only ones so privileged!  We knew many of the local people, having met them in the market or because of our “Above the Fray” interests; of course, we know many of Sho’s friends and family from our years of visiting.

Posing under the flower-studded entry arch with silk-clad friends surrounding and “village Hmong” hanging back on the hill.

One of the young Hmong men, dressed in western garb, talked with me a bit, calling me “ma”.  I asked him why everyone had been calling me “ma” (yes, it means mom, just like it looks), and he said that it was what Sho always calls me – her second mom.  Boy did that make me feel special!   It is true, I was the only western woman present at either wedding (her mother- and sister-in-law were at home preparing the wedding in France).  All of the western men living in Sapa had Hmong girlfriends or wives, and there are no western women, it appears, who have made Sapa their homes.

Ari, Sho, Maren, and Zall.

Ari had to leave this wedding early to travel, for the first time alone, on to Vientiane, Laos, to start his internship with MAG (see his article in this newsletter).  Zall and I stayed on and Ti, Sho’s sister, became our guide for a 5-day exploration of some new parts of NW Vietnam, including Son La Province.  Ti’s husband Trang, the maker of the beautiful traditional Hmong jewelry we sell, came with us – his first time ever riding in a car!  What a treat to be able to take him with us and share our trip!  Sho, despite being on a honeymoon of sorts, called Ti daily to make sure everything was well – she obviously didn’t like the idea of relinquishing her shopping and guiding relationship with us!  Needless to say, Ti was fabulous, and we discovered an array of new treasures we will share at our fall events (along with some new earring styles from Trang).

Sho and Antoine with an array of Hmong friends and family.

Sho, Our Black Hmong Guide and Friend, Gets Married!

A beaming Antoine and glowing Sho enter their “white dress wedding.”

Those of you who have been following our newsletters for a few years know of our friend Sho, a beautiful, intelligent, vivacious Black Hmong woman with an acute business sense who was our first guide in the Sapa, Vietnam region, and who has continued being a special friend (see Newsletter #6 for an introduction).  This summer, the timing worked out just right for Ari, Zall and Maren to attend her two weddings in Vietnam to her French husband, Antoine, who works as a hotel manager in Sapa; the first wedding was a Black Hmong event held at her parent’s house, and the second, a “white-dress” wedding at a nearby eco-lodge.

Ari, Sho, Maren and Zall get a quick moment together for a pose.

I need to preface with the comment that all of us have been “in love” with Sho since we first met her – she holds a special place in all of our “boy’s” hearts.  I have called her “my daughter”, and have jokingly bemoaned the fact that Ari is 5 years younger and not old enough to marry her.  As such, when the three of use first saw Sho and her daughter (born 2 months before the wedding!), huge hugs went all around.  Just then, a man came out from a nearby coffee shop, and Sho introduced us – he was Antoine’s father.  I put my arm around Sho and told him she is my daughter.  He put his arm around her and said, beaming with pride, “No, Sho is MY daughter!”  A better introduction could not be had.  Having a father-in-law so pleased and happy with her relieved any of our anxieties about her acceptance into her new family.

Sho (left) and her sister, Thi. Both are excellent guides and translators.

In reality, Sho and Antoine were already married.  They had had the formal paperwork wedding in early April, before their daughter Alice was born.  We were invited to attend the fun Vietnam weddings; a fourth wedding was later held in France with all of Antoine’s extended family and European friends.

The Hmong wedding held at Sho’s parent’s house with a group of about 100, included Sho’s closest friends and family, Antoine’s closest local friends, and Antoine’s dad and brother who had flown in for the event.  Many of the Hmong, as well as Antoine, were dressed in traditional Black Hmong clothing including a handspun, indigo-dyed cotton jacket – the women’s jackets had silk-embroidered sleeves – and a handwoven, indigo-dyed hemp vest with a silk-embroidered collar.  The traditional Hmong wedding includes eating vast quantities of delicious local food, drinking non-stop, and hoisting uncounted toasts to the family of the bride and to the bride and groom.  Had Antoine been a traditional local Hmong man, he would have knelt in front of the bride’s father; this step did not happen as Antoine had been accepted as family for some time.

Sho and her large, extended Black Hmong family.

It was hot, hot, hot.  Even high-elevation Sapa is hot in June.  Everyone who could shed their hot local clothing, but Sho said she couldn’t, as it was required of the bride.  Throughout the meal and party, Sho nursed Alice, and handed her off to friends and family to hold.  Even I got to hold her for a few minutes!  As we would expect, Sho conducted the whole event – center of it all, in charge, and having a ball!  Everyone toddled off in a happy state, including the three of us, who had to hire motorcycles to get us back to our hotel – the boys loved it!

The next day was the “white-dress wedding” – more of a reception – at an upscale eco-lodge an hour drive from Sapa that offered a stunning hilltop setting overlooking a lush, terraced valley full of sun and flowers.  Sho was resplendent in her western wedding dress, with constant photos opportunities.  She would yell “Zall – hey Zall – take a picture!” and he would go running to take more photos – over 1,000 that day alone!  There were many more people at this event, about 300 total, including Hmong and Westerners, and a fabulous barbeque meal was shared.

Even though the Hmong and westerners knew each other, it was clear, watching their faces, that the Hmong were not used to the western ways of marriage, watching the celebrations from a slight distance and with questioning looks, not knowing quite what to expect next.  Most of the Hmong wore their traditional clothes, except for the young lady friends of Sho’s who wore shimmery outfits in silk, cut to western styles.  Sho danced with Antoine, her father-in-law, and Ari – the only ones so privileged!  We knew many of the local people, having met them in the market or because of our “Above the Fray” interests; of course, we know many of Sho’s friends and family from our years of visiting.

A beautiful setting for a formal wedding, high in the north Vietnamese hills. The French developed the area as an escape from the lowland’s heat.

One of the young Hmong men, dressed in western garb, talked with me a bit, calling me “ma”.  I asked him why everyone had been calling me “ma” (yes, it means mom, just like it looks), and he said that it was what Sho always calls me – her second mom.  Boy did that make me feel special!   It is true, I was the only western woman present at either wedding (her mother- and sister-in-law were at home preparing the wedding in France).  All of the western men living in Sapa had Hmong girlfriends or wives, and there are no western women, it appears, who have made Sapa their homes.

Ari had to leave this wedding early to travel, for the first time alone, on to Vientiane, Laos, to start his internship with MAG (see his article in this newsletter).  Zall and I stayed on and Ti, Sho’s sister, became our guide for a 5-day exploration of some new parts of NW Vietnam, including Son La Province.  Ti’s husband Trang, the maker of the beautiful traditional Hmong jewelry we sell, came with us – his first time ever riding in a car!  What a treat to be able to take him with us and share our trip!  Sho, despite being on a honeymoon of sorts, called Ti daily to make sure everything was well – she obviously didn’t like the idea of relinquishing her shopping and guiding relationship with us!  Needless to say, Ti was fabulous, and we discovered an array of new treasures we will share at our fall events (along with some new earring styles from Trang).