{"id":831,"date":"2018-06-25T17:54:23","date_gmt":"2018-06-25T22:54:23","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/hilltribeart.com\/wordpress\/?p=831"},"modified":"2018-06-25T17:54:23","modified_gmt":"2018-06-25T22:54:23","slug":"welcome-to-xam-tai-chapter-1","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/hilltribeart.com\/wordpress\/?p=831","title":{"rendered":"Welcome to Xam Tai (Chapter 1)"},"content":{"rendered":"

from Silk Weavers of Hill Tribe Laos: Textiles, Tradition and Well-Being,<\/span> \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0<\/em><\/strong>by Joshua Hirschstein and\u00a0<\/em><\/strong>Maren Beck (Thrums Books, 2017<\/u>)<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n

We each weave a life, don\u2019t we?\u00a0 <\/i><\/h6>\n
\u00a0<\/em>I sit on the worn bench; <\/em><\/h6>\n
the shuttle passes left, then right, like a pendulum. \u00a0<\/em><\/h6>\n
I weave the tasks I did not know I had chosen.\u00a0<\/em><\/h6>\n
\u00a0<\/em>How many of us weave from cradle to grave, <\/em><\/h6>\n
never mindful of the growing cloth?<\/em><\/h6>\n

 <\/p>\n

Chapter 1: Welcome to Xam Tai<\/strong><\/p>\n

Two small boys, one naked and one wearing only a t-shirt, ran blindly towards us laughing. \u00a0They each held a stick and they were taking turns whapping a bicycle tire frame to continue it on its bumpy path.\u00a0 Looking up from their game, they saw us four falang<\/em>– Maren, myself and our 12 and 9 year-old sons, Ari and Zall \u2013 and they both stopped mid-stride.\u00a0 The tire itself rolled forward another 20 feet, directly into Maren\u2019s outstretched hand.\u00a0She smiled: \u201cSabaidee,\u201d she greeted.\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

The two little boys stood still for a moment, and then one turned and fled back to safety.\u00a0 The other stood wide-eyed, frozen.\u00a0 An older boy, dressed for school in a white shirt and dark pants, now saw us as well and shouted something that thawed the toddler.\u00a0 The little boy looked back at the shouter, then at us, then turned and ran in the direction of his original playmate<\/p>\n

The older boy, wearing a broad smile, trotted towards us; before he had reached our side, he blurted ou,t as one long word:\u00a0 \u201cHellowhatisyourname?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMy name is Maren,\u201d enunciated Maren slowly. \u201cWhat is your name?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMa-ren,\u201d he repeated, then:\u00a0 \u201cMynameisBoun. Gladtomeetyou.\u201c\u00a0 He turned to Ari, extended a hand, and repeated: \u201cHellowhatisyourname?\u201d<\/p>\n

Before Ari could answer, another boy came running up shouting \u201dHellowhatisyourname?\u201d\u00a0Ari pronounced his name for both, and then each boy asked Zall his name. Zall\u2019s \u201cz\u201d sound proved a challenge and the boys smiled as they tried to turn a buzzing \u201czhhhh\u201d into a delicate \u201czzzz.\u201d\u00a0We all laughed at the bee-hive sounds.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Typical site under a home.<\/p><\/div>\n

Two more children joined.\u00a0 Everyone wanted a turn with \u201cHello what is your name?\u201d and we were finally rescued from the lengthy introductions when a woman emerged from the nearest home tightening her sinh<\/em>around her waist.<\/p>\n

“Sabaidee,” Maren nodded towards the woman, pressing her hands quickly together under her chin in the traditional greeting.<\/p>\n

“Sabaidee,” the women returned with a bright smile and a casual bow and hand-press.\u00a0 She pointed to our two blond boys and says something that made the gathered children laugh.<\/p>\n

Our guide and translator, Kaiphet, quickly stepped up from behind us, introduced us, and inquired as to whether there were any weavers in the village.\u00a0 We had read in travel books about the traditional silk and cotton weaving of Laos’ Houaphon Province, and we had seen samples of the quality weaving in the Laos\u2019 major hub, Luang Prabang.\u00a0 We had also seen outlines of looms under many homes as we had approached Xam Tai on the bus.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Our guide, Kaiphet.<\/p><\/div>\n

The woman nodded and pointed to a bench in the shade under her home. With a wave of her hand, she invited us to sit on the smooth-worn benches under the home; we waited patiently as Kaiphet and the woman exchanged what we assumed were pleasantries. To our left sat a dusty wooden plow and a stack of aged cracked hardwood boards.\u00a0 On the right were several wide, handwoven baskets, each covered with a section of decaying brown tarp.<\/p>\n

We had arrived in Xam Tai, in the southern section of Houaphon Province in NE Laos, at 3 PM after a 7-hour bus ride from Xam Neua over the twisty jungle mountains. We had deposited our packs in a cement box of room in the town\u2019s sole guesthouse, and – \u00a0what else to do? – walked the half hour beyond the central market and the bus station, past where the paved lane ended.\u00a0 The rutted dirt road, far more suited for the motorcycle than the rare four-wheel-drive vehicle, tumbled over a hillock and brought us to old Xam Tai\u2019s several dozen homes, the older residential area.\u00a0 One main road cut down the neighborhood\u2019s center; raised-stilt homes, a few with thatched roofs but most with metal, lined both sides. More homes straddled a thin, rutted lane behind the front row of\u00a0 houses.<\/p>\n

Surrounding us were dusty browns and tans, from the house’s aged wooden posts to the unfinished crude boards of the houses’ siding to the thick dry roof thatch.\u00a0A band of the close-by forest’s deep jungle green edged the periphery.\u00a0 The sky was hazy blue.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

The Xam Tai Valley<\/p><\/div>\n

The woman stood up, re-tightened her faded cotton sinh<\/em>, and beckoned us to join her around behind the stack of lumber to what looked like a four-post canopy bed; she shoed a couple chickens off a worn stained sheet that covered a structure that looked like something that might hold a narrow mattress; she pulled off the dust-cover.<\/p>\n

The complex four-posted loom apparatus was strung with a dizzying, seemingly chaotic array of brown string, pink plastic ties and smooth-worn sticks.\u00a0 The extended warp, which wrapped across, up and over the loom, glowed with rich red.\u00a0 A glimmer of supplemental color – a bit of purple and yellow – danced a hint of expression on the front bar of the loom; the rest of the completed textile was hidden, as it had been rolled tightly during the weaving process with the bottom-side up onto the loom’s rolling front bar.<\/p>\n

The woman disconnected the front bar and delicately unrolled the completed 3-foot section, making sure not to create excess tension on the still connected warp threads.\u00a0 With a smile she backed up so we could see the textile she had in progress.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em>The silk shimmered like a jewel – a burst of opulence and intricacy and precision in reds and yellows and purples that reached deep and sure.\u00a0 The bold Escher-esque geometric design – Was this an elephant? Was this a man standing? Was this the rice awaiting harvest?\u00a0 – defied the “simple-ness” of our surroundings.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em>We look closer.\u00a0 A thousand – no, a hundred-thousand – threads of spirited color has been cajoled and tamed into a woven dance of the exquisite and refined.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

A weaver models her newly-woven shaman’s shawl. The silk is locally-raised and naturally-dyed.<\/p><\/div>\n

\u201cPlease, show us how?\u201d Maren asked in English.\u00a0 No translation was needed.<\/p>\n

The woman sat down on the worn bench, re-rolled the textile onto the bar, adjusted a plastic tie attached to the comb, lifted a wide set of threads with a wooden weaver\u2019s sword, and passed her hand-smoothed shuttle between the threads, adding another line of red weft.\u00a0 We sat mesmerized for several minutes, watching her pass the shuttle across the warp, and then hand-pick a selection of bright silk threads across each weft row.<\/p>\n

Two more women who must have heard Maren\u2019s \u201cooo\u2019s and ahhh\u2019s\u201d appeared on the porch above and leaned over the narrow wooden railing.\u00a0 We looked up and smiled.\u00a0 \u201cSabaidee.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cSabaidee-ee<\/em>,\u201d they smiled back, also holding the last long-e tone an extra beat.\u00a0 One of them said something and the weaver broke into a bright grin.\u00a0 The weaver didn\u2019t miss a beat, continuing to work her hands, methodically picking the discontinuous supplemental color-threads into the textile\u2019s exposed backside. Three young, bottom-naked children appeared from the home and clung to the two women\u2019s knees, staring down at us from the overhead porch.<\/p>\n

Ari, our 14 year-old son, offered them a wide grin; the three little boys stared.\u00a0 One pointed and said\u00a0 \u201cFalang<\/em>.\u201d The other little boys quickly repeated: \u201cFalang, falang<\/em>!\u201d\u00a0 Ari nodded at their welcome, which literally means \u201cFrench,\u201d but today refers to any westerner.\u00a0 Zall, our 11 year-old, raised his ever-present Nikon and snapped a shot of the boys clinging to their mothers\u2019 legs.<\/p>\n

Maren leaned down close to the woman\u2019s loom to study its intricacies.\u00a0The weaver kept working, knowing she was being studied.\u00a0 Two more children, perhaps 9 or 10 years olds in grubby t-shirts, sagging shorts and flip-flops, ran over to join the growing crowd, bringing with them a dog and a whirl of dust. A chicken with a fleet of chicks scurried by our feet and ran out of the cool of the home\u2019s shade.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

The Xam Tai district is gorgeous!<\/p><\/div>\n

\u201cWhat is she weaving?\u201d we ask Kaiphet.\u00a0 Kaiphet translated the sentence into Lao and received a 3 sentence reply, and then turned to us.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe say it is for a…uh\u2026 ceremony,\u201d translated Kaiphet. His brow crinkled as he searched for the best words. \u201cIt is phaa sabai<\/em>, but, uh, I do not know how to say in English \u2013it is \u00a0a clothing for a\u2026a\u2026a \u2018getting better.\u2019\u201d\u00a0 He paused. \u00a0\u00a0\u201cShe says this style in her tradition is to … uh … how to say … to fix a balance that is inside\u201d – and here Kaiphet put a hand on his heart.\u00a0 He paused again.\u00a0\u00a0\u201cShe\u2026 uh\u2026 says she has been weaving this piece since the end of rice harvest – about 2 months.”\u201d<\/p>\n

The woman continued to weave on the large floor-loom, sending her worn wooden shuttle back and forth on the silk warp threads.\u00a0 Another older woman appeared from a home behind the first; in her left hand she held a few folded textiles.\u00a0 She said something quick and sharp to the two boys, and one dashed off towards where the elder had come from.\u00a0 An older girl brought out a plastic pitcher of water and three glasses, and we all shared a turn refreshing ourselves.<\/p>\n

Two more people arrived \u2013 a toothless bent man wearing black-framed glasses and a young woman with an empty a backpack basket who appeared art least 9-months pregnant.\u00a0 They stood off to the side, joining the now-dozen children, and watched intently.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Souksakone, Xam Tai’s leading master-dyer, template designer, and weaver.<\/p><\/div>\n

Maren had a flood of questions, and Kaiphet did his best:<\/p>\n

The silk? – “Raised here in the baskets woven by her father, under these tarps.\u00a0Here, take a look….”<\/p>\n

The threads? – “Hand-reeled by her aunt, who lives over there….”<\/p>\n

The colors? “All made from the forest – the dyer lives by the bus station\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

The pattern? – “This one was shaped by her grandmother and has been woven many times…”<\/p>\n

The weaver? – “Her mother, this woman over here, taught her to weave when she was 7 years old… \u201c<\/p>\n

Other women and children gathered to watch and listen, and a couple older men, and another pitcher of water appeared. They smiled between themselves as they listen to our strange words, then our translator’s struggling enunciation, and finally the weaver’s concise answer.<\/p>\n

A stack of silk textiles appeared, and another woman unfolded a creation and held it up to her chest so we could see the full dance of her phaa sabai.\u00a0 <\/em>A bevvy of sharp-angled two-headed serpents dove through each other, purple over gold, in a sea of shimmering green and maroon.\u00a0 Maren and I laughed at the beauty and movement.<\/p>\n

Maren asked a few more questions through Kaiphet, but the more detailed information Maren sought about the source of the silk and the meaning of the pattern proved the limit of Kaiphet\u2019s English.\u00a0 Kaiphet looked a bit embarrassed.\u00a0 \u201cNo problem,\u201d Maren said to him, \u201cBo penyang<\/em>.\u201d Kaiphet smiled at the Lao expression.<\/p>\n

\u201cDoes she have any textiles for sale?\u201d asked Maren, eyebrows raised.\u00a0Kaiphet translated and the weaver nodded and turned her head upward toward the two women on the porch.\u00a0 She rattled off a paragraph of information.\u00a0One dashed inside, we presumed to get whatever she might have for sale.\u00a0 The boy who had earlier dashed into the home brought out two cheap blue plastic chairs and nodded for Maren and me to sit down.<\/p>\n

Our boys, sensing another hour at this home, sighed, and looked around at the 15 or so kids who surrounded them. Ari dug into his daypack and pulled out a frisbee.\u00a0 \u201cCome on, Zall.\u201d\u00a0 The two dashed out onto the main track.\u00a0 The local boys watched Ari and Zall toss the frisbee three times, and then the fourth time Ari zipped the frisbee to the boy who brought us a chair.\u00a0 The boy ducked and laughed, then ran after the crashed frisbee and attempted his first ever frisbee toss.\u00a0 Everyone laughed and ran to where the frisbee had landed. Maren and I knew that every boy 14 and under would be entertained for at least half an hour.<\/p>\n

Two more women arrived along with several more children who looked anywhere between 3 and 12 years old.\u00a0 The boys ran to join the new-found game; the girls gathered around their moms’ legs and the loom.\u00a0 A moment later three more women came scurrying around from the road.\u00a0 There must now have been 20 people crowded around, not counting the dozen boys playing frisbee out in the road.<\/p>\n

Then a bustling, weathered woman charged in shouting what sounded like instructions to all of us.\u00a0 Slung across her shoulders was an old worn purse so large that she almost could have fit into it herself; stuffed into the bag was a jumble of hastily folded rich-colored textiles.\u00a0 I think I actually heard\u00a0<\/em>Maren smile.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

A woman in Xam Tai poses with her baby and handwoven healing cloth.<\/p><\/div>\n

The short pugilist of a woman grabbed a silk from her purse and shook it at Maren.\u00a0 She shouted a few sentences \u2013 two women looked down sheepishly, and another laughed behind her hand.\u00a0 The original weaver returned, carefully clutching several neatly folded shimmering silks.\u00a0 She presented the stack to Maren with two hands and\u00a0 a little bow, and then stepped back, glancing at the elder.<\/p>\n

The older woman scowled and spat out another couple sentences.\u00a0The second woman laughed again under her breath, which inspired the sour-looking elder to throw out a few more quick lines. Kaiphet chose not to translate her words; we chose not to ask.<\/p>\n

Maren picked up one of the original weaver\u2019s silks and unfurled the opulent body-height tapestry.\u00a0 Rich gold threads, highlighted with sparks of deep green and blue, detailed the popular siho<\/em>(mythical elephant-lion) motif.\u00a0Ancestor figures, each riding the siho\u2019s back, shimmered in the\u00a0 sun.\u00a0Maren took her time to admire the piece with her eyes and hands, chortling subtle \u201coooohs\u201d and other under-the-breath accolades at the complex artistry.<\/p>\n

The elder, eyes blinking rapidly, waited perhaps 5 seconds, and she shook out one of her textiles and pushed it into Maren\u2019s hands.\u00a0She spoke in a rushed high tone.\u00a0No translator was needed to tell us what she wanted.<\/p>\n

Maren politely directed the elder\u2019s textile to the side, all the while nodding and smiling. As politely as possible, Maren ignored the elder\u2019s interuption and addressed the original weaver:\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cSii tomasat<\/em>?\u00a0 Sii chemi<\/em>?\u201d\u00a0 (\u201cNatural color? Chemical color?\u201d)<\/p>\n

\u201cSii tomasat!\u201d<\/em>the woman grins, surprised at Maren\u2019s Lao.\u00a0 The elder threw out another couple quick lines \u2013 one of the words was tomasat<\/em>\u2013 and then she burst out laughing.\u00a0 The other woman all smiled.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

The cover of our publication, available (autographed!) at www.hilltribeart.com or your favorite bookstore.<\/p><\/div>\n

\u201cMai Lao? Mai Viet?\u201d<\/em>Maren continues (Lao silk? Vietnam silk?).\u00a0 The elder pushed a second textile at Maren, and Maren continued to ignore her, directing her full attention on the original weaver.<\/p>\n

\u201cMai Lao,\u201d<\/em>the woman answered proudly.\u00a0 She then rattled a sentence off to Maren, who turned to Kaiphet.<\/p>\n

\u201cSorry,\u201d said Kaiphet, who was watching the frisbee game.\u00a0 And he turned to the woman and asked her to repeat.\u00a0He laughed. \u201cShe says you speak good Lao.”<\/p>\n

The elder grabbed a third textile from her purse and held it directly in Maren\u2019s vision.\u00a0 Maren turned toward the scowling woman and explained in English, and a flurry of hand signals, that while she would get a turn, but that we were currently talking with this other woman.\u00a0 Kaiphet didn\u2019t translate Maren’s words, but he does say something short that gets everyone, save the elder, to crack a smile.\u00a0 The elder, unperturbed, yanked now a fourth textile from her purse and held it up to Maren.\u00a0 Maren and she locked eyes.<\/p>\n

The elder squinted, and pushed up her lower lip to form a deep frown.\u00a0She held her grim, sour mouth in a deep frown firmly for a moment, as if daring Maren.\u00a0 And then, finally with Maren’s full attention, she erupted into a wide smile.<\/p>\n

Grinning there in front of all the other women and Maren on that first day, Sukkhavit – for that is the elder\u2019s name \u2013 held that clutched textile up for Maren to see.\u00a0 The women all paused, waiting to see how the stand-off would end. Maren raised her eyebrows at Sukkhavit, and then she too joined the wide grin.\u00a0 Sukkhavit chortled as if a great secret had been shared – and maybe it had.\u00a0 She reached up and shook Maren by the shoulder, as if waking her up.\u00a0 Then they laughed together.<\/p>\n

Sukkhavit didn’t let go of Maren\u2019s shoulder.<\/p>\n

Through Kaiphet, Maren patiently assured Sukkhavit that her silks would be also admired and, possibly, purchased.\u00a0 Since she had arrived after the others, we explained, it would only be appropriate that she receive our focused attention after the others.\u00a0Sukkhavit scowled as she watched young Kaiphet struggle to explain and, long before he could finish, she charged off on another quick sentence.\u00a0 The entire group of locals tried to suppress a laugh.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Young weaver picking the supplemental weft color patterns from the back side of the silk cloth.<\/p><\/div>\n

Sukkhavit grimaced and coughed and threw out one-liners throughout the forty-five minutes that we examined the textiles of the others.\u00a0 We purchased several, and rejected several, and, because no one shared a poorly made textile, we made sure to purchase at least one piece from each woman. With everyone’s presentation came a sharp comment from Sukkhavit, most of which elicited a suppressed laugh from at least one person.<\/p>\n

By now it was obvious that this elder was the center of village politics.\u00a0 She had a reputation – perhaps, indeed, a dominance – that needed to be re-stated and learned given the new social venue of having us in town.\u00a0 Now she was firmly in the center, in control, making untranslated comments on every piece as we unfolded it.<\/p>\n

Finally, it was Sukkhavit\u2019s turn.<\/p>\n

It turned out that Sukkhavit did have some of the most flawless and dynamic silks of anyone.\u00a0 Every piece she presented seemed rich and deep; each carried a special lustre.\u00a0They were, quite frankly, the finest we had seen yet in the region \u2013 or anywhere else for that matter.<\/p>\n

We could tell she knew that, as well.<\/p>\n

Sukkhavit cackled with each piece of hers we set aside to purchase.\u00a0She rattled off paragraphs of talk, rarely stopping for Kaiphet to stumble through a basic decoding.<\/p>\n

And suddenly Sukkhavit was treating Maren as if they were old friends.<\/p>\n

Indeed, both Sukkhavit and Maren seemed to have seen that each other\u2019s take-charge exterior masked an inner soft spot.\u00a0 And both had much to gain with a good relationship.<\/p>\n

In ten minutes, we had bought nearly every silk she had in her purse.\u00a0(The few we rejected were presented to us by Sukkhavit again the next day, deep in a stack of new things. If nothing else, Sukkhavit is determined.)<\/p>\n

Ten minutes after that, all four of us, along with Kaiphet, were sitting on pillows on the deliciously cool floor of Sukkhavit\u2019s home, a pitcher of filtered water and a bunch of tree-ripened bananas and tamarind pods in front of us.<\/p>\n

Sukkhavit\u2019s home is built of well-rubbed teak wood and sits on stilts 7 feet above the hard-pack dirt; steep steps lead up to the low-slung doorway.\u00a0Wooden shutters from the windows are tied back to bring in day\u2019s light and a bit of breeze.\u00a0 An electric fan swung slowly back and forth slowly sharing it\u2019s breath.\u00a0 Like most Xam Tai homes, the room is void of furniture, save a chest where a TV and radio sit.\u00a0 Thin interior walls, also of wood, are covered with Lao Beer advertising posters and \u201cbeautiful young women\u201d calendars from the last decade.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Sukkhavit’s home.<\/p><\/div>\n

We chatted through Kaiphet for perhaps half an hour, with Sukkhavit leading the conversation.\u00a0 She spoke in sharp, short direct sentences \u2013 not angry, but what to me sounded terse and impatient.\u00a0 Her face was animated, smiling big with one response, frowning deeply with the next.\u00a0She took a keen interest in our two boys and seemed extra pleased when they reached for their third banana (a young, silent niece restocking the bowl long before it was empty).\u00a0 She was also very interested in what we were looking for as a business, and we explained that we sought both traditional textiles and traditional craft-work, such as baskets and tools.\u00a0 She nodded and cut another quick line to Kaiphet.<\/p>\n

This acerbic-sounding delivery turned out to be an invitation for all of us to join her and her family for dinner the next day with her family and other guests \u2013 come at 5 PM.\u00a0 It\u2019s the moment travellers always hope for \u2013 an invitation to participate on the inside \u2013 and we cheerfully agreed.<\/p>\n

Poor Kaiphet.\u00a0 At that next day’s dinner and extended evening, I have never seen someone work so hard to keep up.\u00a0 The event started with Sukkhavit luring us with a few more choice textiles, and we selected what made sense for our budget. Like most Lao business people we have worked with over the years, she set a firm and reasonable price for each piece; we bargained a little, and she gave just enough so we could all feel successful, but no one forgot who was truly in charge of the dealing. She then turned to a pile of other goods stacked in the corner.<\/p>\n

Sukkhavit, always the business-woman, apparently had scurried around town all day seeking possible items for us to buy for our business.\u00a0Each item she obtained came with a presentation \u2013 no, a skit – where she demonstrated its usage. And with each skit the audience, that is everyone in the room, laughed appreciatively.\u00a0 Here was Sukkhavit as a H\u2019mong farmer, picking greens and tossing them into her richly-patina\u2019d backpack basket.\u00a0 Here was Sukkhavit as as a Tai Daeng fisherman, stirring her small triangle net in the stream and placing the small caught fish into the creel tied onto her waist.\u00a0 And now here was Sukkhavit the healing shaman, dancing a hop-step and shaking her bamboo \u201cspirit-sticks\u201d as if in a trance (and she actually had obtained traditional scarf with bamboo \u201chealing-sticks\u201d attached from a local shaman).<\/p>\n

Thankfully for Kaiphet, little translation was necessary during the presentation; laughter is understood everywhere.\u00a0 Sukkhavit\u2019s husband, a kind man whose smile grows in proportion to the number of textiles purchased, passed me a shot glass of lao-lao, local rice whiskey, and he flicked his wrist in front of me to indicate I should toss it down in one gulp.\u00a0 I returned the empty glass and it is refilled and passed to the person next to me, and so on around the circle twice, and then again twice, everyone sharing the glass.\u00a0Our boys, getting a nod from Maren and me, join the toast.<\/p>\n

Out of the corner of my eye I caught Sukkhavit luring 11-year-old Zall over to a wooden crossbow – what kid doesn’t like a handmade weapon!\u00a0 We had seen many boys in the area use such tools to catch catch rodents and small birds for dinner. Sukkhavit carefully showed Zall how to hold the crossbow and then drew an 18″ arrow from a woven bamboo sheath.\u00a0 She pointed to a corner of the room – perhaps to where the bamboo rat was to be – and helped Zall pull the string to a tight locked position and then load the lethal weapon.\u00a0 Zall aimed and Sukkhavit leaned over his shoulder like an umpire behind a catcher – her eyes, as were Zall’s, trained on the target.\u00a0 “P-shewwww,” Sukkhavit whistled as if the arrow had been launched (and here for a moment I thought she would actually let him launch the thing).\u00a0 She laughed and clapped Zall on the back, and then leaned over and gave him a quick grandma-like hug.\u00a0 Not a word had been translated; not a meaning had been missed.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Sukkhavit and Zall playing with the crossbow on our first visit to Xam Tai in 2007.<\/p><\/div>\n

\u201cA-li,\u201d Sukkhavit says to Ari from across the room, and she shuffled over to him.\u00a0 With her hands she motioned for him to stand up.\u00a0 Ari got up slowly from his cross-legged position, and, as he maneuvered his feet under himself, Sukkhavit leaned back in mock amazement at his rising frame \u2013 at 14-years-old he was a full head taller than she was.<\/p>\n

She flapped her hand ceremoniously several times as if preparing to perform a magic trick, and then she reached up and grabbed Ari\u2019s shoulder in a firm clutch. The room turned quiet as everyone watched.<\/p>\n

There was a moment of profound silence.\u00a0 She stared up at him with a faux-serious face and with her chin jutted out and cleared her throat. \u00a0She ran her eyes over him from top to bottom, bottom to top, as if inspecting a soldier, or a side of beef.<\/p>\n

She rattled off a quick couple sentences, and I can only catch the words for “son” (luk sai<\/em>).\u00a0 The room burst into laughter, and she continued her inspection. Ari smirked, and looked a little embarrassed.\u00a0 A woman sitting on the floor tossed a quick line, and then more laughter, and then another said something in an undertone and everyone laughed again.\u00a0 Sukkhavit\u2019s firm face finally bursts into a wide grin.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe says\u2026\u201d Kaiphet smiled, and then he hesitated a moment, gathering his words. \u201cSukkavit says Ari is strong and handsome\u2026 and would make good husband.\u00a0 She asks if maybe you leave him here, and he can find a Lao wife \u2013 one who can weave well.\u201d<\/p>\n

Everyone watched us intently, smiling and eager, while Kaiphet translated for us, and then we all laughed together on the shared joke.<\/p>\n

Suddenly everyone stood \u2013 \u201ckinh, kinh\u201d<\/em>(eat, eat) ordered Sukkhavit – \u00a0and the stacks of textiles and back pillows are pushed to the edges of the room. A young woman, one of Sukkhavit\u2019s many nieces, rolled a blue fiberglass tarp about two feet wide and ten feet long onto the floor \u2013 the tablecloth.\u00a0Pillows were re-distributed, Maren and me each getting two – perhaps as marks of honor, or perhaps because we bear bigger bottoms.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Sukkhavit and Maren in 2009.<\/p><\/div>\n

Out from the back-room kitchen came steaming bowlfuls of laap (minced pork with banana flower, garlic, ginger and chilli), boiled chicken (we are honored with the chicken\u2019s head and Maren does her best with it), chicken broth with onion and garlic greens, bowls of fresh, sweet spinach-like greens, plates of steamed bamboo shoots, and several woven basketfuls of glutinous \u201csticky\u201d rice.\u00a0 We sat cross-legged on the floor, and Sukkhavit and her family made sure that the bowls of shared food at our end of the table were refilled long before they approached empty.<\/p>\n

Here\u2019s a cultural tip for Laos: Don\u2019t finish your portion.\u00a0Because you can\u2019t.\u00a0 An empty guest plate is the sign of a neglected guest, and you will be served food until you leave food untouched in front of yourself.\u00a0Others will even politely do without to make sure you, as a guest, have too much.\u00a0 And don\u2019t keep nibbling at the food once you\u2019re full.\u00a0 Everyone is compelled to continue eating if a guest is still eating.\u00a0 Finish eating, leave leftovers, and be done. So everyone else can be done, too.<\/p>\n

On that first evening I\u2019m sure Sukkhavit shared about her family, but we kept no notes and we were all gabbing and striving for basic understandings \u2026.\u00a0 and all relying on our dear poor 22-year-old translator Kaiphet for anything that couldn\u2019t be mimed.<\/p>\n

So many people were introduced – even ten years later we get faces and names mixed up, and often can’t remember who is related to whom.<\/p>\n

After dinner we shared songs back and forth from our cultures \u2013 their beautiful and haunting Lao songs of love and friendship oddly balanced with our choice of nursery rhymes (although, in truth, singing a round of \u201cRow, Row, Row, your Boat\u201d went over quite well).<\/p>\n

Heads were drooping by 9 PM \u2013 dawn arrives early every day.\u00a0With a dozen good-byes and well-wishes, we don our headlamps and weave our way back, smiling, to our simple guesthouse.\u00a0 Kaiphet walks with us, finally able to be silent.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think we\u2019ve been adopted,\u201d Maren laughed quietly to everyone.<\/p>\n

I could feel the smiles around.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Zall, Sukkhavit, and Ari.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

from Silk Weavers of Hill Tribe Laos: Textiles, Tradition and Well-Being, \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0by Joshua Hirschstein and\u00a0Maren Beck (Thrums Books, 2017) We each weave a life, don\u2019t we?\u00a0 \u00a0I sit on the worn bench; the … 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":[2,1],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/hilltribeart.com\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/831"}],"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=831"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/hilltribeart.com\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/831\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":845,"href":"https:\/\/hilltribeart.com\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/831\/revisions\/845"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/hilltribeart.com\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=831"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/hilltribeart.com\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=831"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/hilltribeart.com\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=831"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}