{"id":661,"date":"2015-05-17T16:45:12","date_gmt":"2015-05-17T21:45:12","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/hilltribeart.com\/wordpress\/?p=661"},"modified":"2015-05-17T16:45:12","modified_gmt":"2015-05-17T21:45:12","slug":"the-basket-weaver","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/hilltribeart.com\/wordpress\/?p=661","title":{"rendered":"The Basket Weaver"},"content":{"rendered":"

The Basket Weaver<\/strong><\/p>\n

The elderly gentleman sat on the corner of the second-story outdoor deck that led to his home\u2019s entrance, his eyes focused on the bamboo basket that sat half-finished in his lap. Like all the village\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n

\"The<\/a>

The basket weaver.<\/p><\/div>\n

“Sabaidee,\u201d 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. \u201cSabaidee,\u201d 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.<\/p>\n

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 \u2013 perhaps a weaver at the loom, or someone fixing a fishing net or running a billows. There is no such thing as\u00a0trespassing – 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.\u00a0 This moment brought us a basket-weaver.<\/p>\n

\"The<\/a>

The basket weaver’s village in Meung Kuan district of Houaphon Province, Laos<\/p><\/div>\n

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\u00a0smiled 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 \u2013 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.<\/p>\n

\u201cHal-lo,\u201d said a disembodied voice, and then a younger man came out from the home\u2019s second-floor entry. \u201cSabaidee,\u201d 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.”<\/p>\n

\"Josh<\/a>

Josh visits with the basket weaver.<\/p><\/div>\n

The elder watched his son and nodded, smiling, and then began: \u201cAs a young man I was a soldier in The War,\u201d the elder said directly to us in a loud voice. \u201cBut 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..\u201d He looked away from us. \u201cI saw a doctor in Vietnam, and another in China. But no one can fix it.\u201d<\/p>\n

The son\u2019s wife appeared from inside the house with a plastic tray holding four rinsed glasses and a plastic\u00a0pitcher of water.\u00a0\u00a0 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.]<\/p>\n

\"A<\/a>

A clutch of stunning old Lao Loum\u00a0storage baskets woven of rattan, bamboo, and wood, and about 50 years old.<\/p><\/div>\n

The elder returned his gaze toward us and smiled again: \u201cI 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.\u201d<\/p>\n

We nodded at each other and Maren, in stilted but surprisingly adept Lao, told him \u2013 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.<\/p>\n

\"The<\/a>

The basket weaver’s daughter-in-law shows off their crop of maturing silkworms being raised under the house.<\/p><\/div>\n

Maren and I refocused our attention on the basket that sat in the elder\u2019s lap and asked,\u00a0 \u201cHow did you learn to weave baskets?\u201d 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. \u201cNow that I am old, like my father was, farming the rice fields is more difficult, and so I spend time on these small tasks.\u201c<\/p>\n

He looked away again, but continued to talk to us through his son: \u201cI am sorry I cannot hear you well. But even the doctor in China could not fix me.\u201d He looked back and we nodded at each other, and he looked away again. \u201cThe 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.\u201d He paused.<\/p>\n

We all paused. In the still heat, we listened to the buzz of a nearby cicada. \u201cI did not know even if I still had my arms and legs attached. I could not tell. I was covered in dirt.\u201d<\/p>\n

He gaze shifted back to us: \u201cI was very lucky.\u201d His smile returned. \u201cI still had both of my arms, and both of my legs.\u00a0 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.\u201d More nods.<\/p>\n

Mai and the family exchanged a few sentences left untranslated, and we then excused ourselves to let the family get back to their tasks.<\/p>\n

\"Maren<\/a>

Maren checks out the crop for the upcoming silk-weaving season.<\/p><\/div>\n

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 \u2013 several hundred per basket which looked to be happily chewing on mulberry leaves \u2013 were just a few days from when they would begin to spin their precious thread.\u00a0 The Spring crop’s strands will be harvested – then spun, dyed, and woven –\u00a0 starting in just a few weeks.<\/p>\n

We thanked our hosts, who in turn thanked us, and then we all thanked each other again. We wave a quick \u201csabaidee\u201d with the hands towards the old man on the deck, who nods but keeps his own hands busy with the bamboo.<\/p>\n

Then we turned and continued our afternoon\u2019s walk in the village.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Basket Weaver The elderly gentleman sat on the corner of the second-story outdoor deck that led to his home\u2019s entrance, his eyes focused on the bamboo basket that sat half-finished in his lap. Like all the village\u2019s older homes, … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[17,2],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/hilltribeart.com\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/661"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/hilltribeart.com\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/hilltribeart.com\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/hilltribeart.com\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/hilltribeart.com\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=661"}],"version-history":[{"count":9,"href":"https:\/\/hilltribeart.com\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/661\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":677,"href":"https:\/\/hilltribeart.com\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/661\/revisions\/677"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/hilltribeart.com\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=661"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/hilltribeart.com\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=661"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/hilltribeart.com\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=661"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}