Fabric: it's such a universal human creation. I'm realizing on this trip how much I enjoy discovering the fabric tradition of each culture that we encounter. In Guatemala, I loved the Mayan weavings in bright cotton and was always slowed by the displays, like a kid passing a candy shop. Here in Thailand and Laos, I have acquired a new appreciation for silk. Not so much the formal, rather stiff fabrics but the natural-looking textile with the incredible subtle sheen when the light catches it just right. Almost magical!
One day in Luang Prabang I set out by myself to find a small, nearby craft village specializing in silk production. Bruce was not interested. I was pretty sure that it was within walking distance and that I could find it alone. Since this is the dry season in Southeast Asia, the earth is parched and the air is HOT and dusty. I began walking, map in hand and water bottle by my side, trying to find just the right pace to get there without being too sweaty and worn out on arrival.
This was definitely the non-touristy side of the Nam Khan River. The road was pretty deserted, save for the occasional dog passed out in the heat alongside the road or a motorscooter zipping by.
A hot dog lazing around a dusty village road.
I passed a couple of quiet wats (Buddhist temple compounds) and was tempted to explore but decided to wait and see if there was time on my return. Eventually, after a sharp turn in the road where the Nam Khan joins the Mekong, I heard the sound of a loom and a "sabai dee" called out. I responded but kept going. The next establishment looked more like a shop and no one was calling to me. It seemed safer to take a peek. As soon as I took a few tentative steps into the packed store, a smartly dressed woman in a pale salmon silk shirt and a traditional silk skirt came from the back and beckoned me in. After my walk in the heat, the sweat was pouring liberally off my body. Not too attractive. She, by contrast, appeared quite businesslike and cool as a cucumber. Of course, she began showing me scarves. As usual, nothing was priced. She tried to reach up to put them around me, but I resisted in my "damp" condition.
Please come in and browse!
I wasn't seeing anything that I liked particularly, until a pink silk was spotted. At this point, I asked a price. She quoted me 130, 000 kip. It sounds like an astounding figure, and I tried to quickly translate into dollars. (Do I divide by 30 or by 8000? I was getting my bahts and kips all mixed up.) Noting my slowness with mathematics, she quickly punched some numbers into a calculator and came up with $16. Without even a feeble attempt at bargaining, I agreed to her price, since I had seen a scarf for the same price at a fair trade shop. At that, she took my money and began flying around the shop, slapping the wad of cash onto her products in what seemed to be a ritual of thanks to the spirits. She was excited!
When she tried to interest me in some of her sa paper products, I asked about the process of making the paper. She then led me out the back door of the shop and onto an open deck area where her silk weaving loom was located and then into her home beyond it to see the wooden frames in which the paper is made. Sa paper is handmade from the bark of the mulberry tree. I knew that much from having seen - and loved it - in Chiang Mai. In a flurry of Lao language, the handcrafter instructed her young grandson to bring out a frame to show me. However, little could be communicated about the process, since we didn't speak each other's language. I moved on, with her grateful thanks.
The village was beginning to take shape from the grassy and woodsy area that I had walked past initially. More home shops were appearing along the rutted dirt road, with fabrics and bags hanging off rafters and on tables in the open, where they could attract passers-by, like me. A couple of establishments were rather high end places offering classes in weaving and natural dyeing, but in a lovely rustic venue. Samples of hand-dyed scarves hung in a rainbow of colors.
Further down the road I could see a couple of buses and discovered that a group of "older" French tourists had arrived. (Since Laos had been colonized by the French, we encountered many more French tourists here than anywhere else.) I threaded my way among them as I watched a couple of young Thai women making sa paper outdoors and leaving it to dry in the sunshine. The paper has a very uneven, somewhat rough, handmade feel and often has flower petals or leaves dried into the final product. I can't say that I really know how it's made, but it turns out beautifully.
Rose petals and ferns embedded in the sa paper.
Putting leaves into the sa paper slur.
Sa paper drying in wooden frames in the sun.
It was a fascinating little village to spend time watching and absorbing the work processes.
One day in Luang Prabang I set out by myself to find a small, nearby craft village specializing in silk production. Bruce was not interested. I was pretty sure that it was within walking distance and that I could find it alone. Since this is the dry season in Southeast Asia, the earth is parched and the air is HOT and dusty. I began walking, map in hand and water bottle by my side, trying to find just the right pace to get there without being too sweaty and worn out on arrival.
This was definitely the non-touristy side of the Nam Khan River. The road was pretty deserted, save for the occasional dog passed out in the heat alongside the road or a motorscooter zipping by.
A hot dog lazing around a dusty village road.
I passed a couple of quiet wats (Buddhist temple compounds) and was tempted to explore but decided to wait and see if there was time on my return. Eventually, after a sharp turn in the road where the Nam Khan joins the Mekong, I heard the sound of a loom and a "sabai dee" called out. I responded but kept going. The next establishment looked more like a shop and no one was calling to me. It seemed safer to take a peek. As soon as I took a few tentative steps into the packed store, a smartly dressed woman in a pale salmon silk shirt and a traditional silk skirt came from the back and beckoned me in. After my walk in the heat, the sweat was pouring liberally off my body. Not too attractive. She, by contrast, appeared quite businesslike and cool as a cucumber. Of course, she began showing me scarves. As usual, nothing was priced. She tried to reach up to put them around me, but I resisted in my "damp" condition.
Please come in and browse!
I wasn't seeing anything that I liked particularly, until a pink silk was spotted. At this point, I asked a price. She quoted me 130, 000 kip. It sounds like an astounding figure, and I tried to quickly translate into dollars. (Do I divide by 30 or by 8000? I was getting my bahts and kips all mixed up.) Noting my slowness with mathematics, she quickly punched some numbers into a calculator and came up with $16. Without even a feeble attempt at bargaining, I agreed to her price, since I had seen a scarf for the same price at a fair trade shop. At that, she took my money and began flying around the shop, slapping the wad of cash onto her products in what seemed to be a ritual of thanks to the spirits. She was excited!
When she tried to interest me in some of her sa paper products, I asked about the process of making the paper. She then led me out the back door of the shop and onto an open deck area where her silk weaving loom was located and then into her home beyond it to see the wooden frames in which the paper is made. Sa paper is handmade from the bark of the mulberry tree. I knew that much from having seen - and loved it - in Chiang Mai. In a flurry of Lao language, the handcrafter instructed her young grandson to bring out a frame to show me. However, little could be communicated about the process, since we didn't speak each other's language. I moved on, with her grateful thanks.
The village was beginning to take shape from the grassy and woodsy area that I had walked past initially. More home shops were appearing along the rutted dirt road, with fabrics and bags hanging off rafters and on tables in the open, where they could attract passers-by, like me. A couple of establishments were rather high end places offering classes in weaving and natural dyeing, but in a lovely rustic venue. Samples of hand-dyed scarves hung in a rainbow of colors.
Further down the road I could see a couple of buses and discovered that a group of "older" French tourists had arrived. (Since Laos had been colonized by the French, we encountered many more French tourists here than anywhere else.) I threaded my way among them as I watched a couple of young Thai women making sa paper outdoors and leaving it to dry in the sunshine. The paper has a very uneven, somewhat rough, handmade feel and often has flower petals or leaves dried into the final product. I can't say that I really know how it's made, but it turns out beautifully.
Putting leaves into the sa paper slur.
Sa paper drying in wooden frames in the sun.
It was a fascinating little village to spend time watching and absorbing the work processes.
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