Silk weaving and the Mekong River

11.10.2008

This morning, we are scheduled for a tour of a remote silk-making village. Everyone here makes silk, and it is of the finest quality. They are famous for producing garments for major politicians, even the king and queen. You could pay thousands of baht for one scarf that took a whole month to weave.

We wander around the village, watching the women dye delicate silk thread bright indigo. Others are working at a loom that requires three women to operate it. The wooden apparatus clangs against the frame of the loom, everytime the weaver sweeps her needle across the textile.

Alan randomly walks straight into an errant pice of wood sticking out of a jungle hut. The chunk of errantly placed structure gets him right in the eye. His glasses lens pops out, falls to the floor, and we assume through a crack into the swamp below. We search for the translucent piece of plastic, and predictably, no one can find it. He gives up and then we wander around the village, watching women feed silkworms and boil their coccoons to make fine thread. I buy a few things for my people, and get back on the bus, leaving the small village behind. I feel incredibly uncomfortable hopping on and off this air conditioned bus, parading around a village where people cook and eat over open fires, their faces are happy, but I'm skeptical about them. I want to know if they are envious or resentful of Western-style life. They are stuck here in their village, making silk day after day, many of them do not have the means to travel and see other places, to escape the redundancy of everyday life. Do they watch us and wish that someone would smuggle them onto their tourbus and take them away? Or are they simply happy to sell us their textiles, scarves and purses made out of homespun material (at least that's what I'm assuming).

On the way back home, I sleep some more. The bus stops at the side of the road to take some pictures with water buffalo. I don't even notice, but Alan lets me keep his pictures.

We stop at a local Otop store. These are run by the government. Local villagers sell their crafts to Otop, and then they can sell more than usual to tourists, since Otop operates stores in popular areas, the airport included. I buy some more stuff for people, and a "Yellow Monday" shirt that says "Long Live the King" underneath a Playboy bunny on one side and the king's official emblem on the other. I am in love with the juxtaposition of the two images, so I don't question my fashion instincts today.

I also get some decorations for the new office that I promised. They are the cheesiest ever, I'm not going to ruin it and tell you what it is, you'll just have to find out later I guess. Trust me that they are awesome.

We get home in time for our last dinner together. I've got about 45 minutes to enjoy time in the luxurious pool. I swim around for a bit and then decide to go for a little stroll down the path near the river. There are bushes in between me and the water and on my way to the edge of the property, I notice a man squatting and sort of hiding. OK, that's weird. I get to the end of the little path, and turn back towards my room. The same man is now standing, a little to the left of where he was squatting before. This time though, he's got something dark and metal in his right hand. Slowly, deliberately, he raises his hand to his shoulder. I feel the adrenalin kick in, and my eyes sharpen the image of the tool in the man's hand. There is a distinct glint off of the low light coming from the solar lights on the pathway. Laos is just across the river, I briefly imagine that he is a desperate refugee, or some kind of violent gang leader, coming to take white people hostages. Everything in my consciousness is focusing on the object in the man's hand. My subconscious brain decides that it's a gun. My reflexes instruct my hands over my head, I blurt out "What are you doing!?" with an urgency that transcends language. The man smiles, slowly and turns on... a flashlight. It's just a security guard. My heart is pounding out of control and I laugh, in spite of myself. I want him to know that I'm not scared, I keep laughing and tell him he scared me. I walk, in a way that appears calm, straight to my room, and get dressed for supper, traumatized for life.

Dinner is an exquisite mix of various Thai dishes, including Pad Thai (finally...we'd been asking for it since we got here and still, never got it). The pad Thai is the best I've ever had in my life. Yui tops it all off with some deep fried ice cream which is also delicious. Kayla and Megan buy us all drinks, I order a special martini, like a regular one mixed with white wine. It's also delicious. The wine takes the dryness out of the martini making it extremely more palatable than usual. Who would've thought of adding wine to a martini? Anyway, doesn't matter, yum.

Some of us stick around for more drinks that night. I order a big bucket of ice and have some of that pineapple wine I bought earlier. Karen wants to learn more about social networking and web 2.0 stuff, so I teach her the basics. She hangs out with me and Alan the rest of the night and we go to bed extremely late.

At 3 a.m., we hear drums coming from across the river. We had been talking about war, violence and the connections we make through the "sense of place". To me, these drums were not friendly. I'm totally freaked out, and immediately want to go hide in my hotel room, thinking that any minute now, an armada of militants will come paddling across the water, angry and ready to capture us as bounty. I find out later that they are part of a nation-wide festival, and absolutely harmless. I don't know what the significance of pounding drums at 3 a.m. is, but whatever, no harm was done.

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