The Island of Weaving (for Vandy)

On the Tuesday following Canadian Thanksgiving we head off to an island in the Mekong where almost every household has a loom and makes their livelihood weaving bolts of fabric for sale at various markets. Local sales are also encouraged. We are pursued across the island by a small group of women on motos with bundles of cloth and kramas for sale at increasingly reduced prices.

We are Carl, Anna-Marie, Dara, Sandra (the British yoga teacher who has joined our household this month) and Thera, a friend of Dara’s who has moved into our house to share Dara’s duties now that Dara is back in school and who, until the move, lived with her family on the island. Tsang, our faithful and always available truck tuk driver, has brought us about 40 minutes north of the centre of Phnom Penh to a ferry terminal. The terminal consists of a small mud side road running right down into the river. That’s it. Three houses at the end of the street have taken advantage of the traffic by opening small convenience and concession stands. About five km off-shore is the island.

There is no schedule, no sign of a ferry coming, but Thera assures it will come. While waiting we explore the area, have cups of high-octane coffee, watch a father and daughter bath and play with sharp knives, the usual ferry terminal stuff. And suddenly the ferry arrives; much more impressive than the ones taken in Kampong Cham, this one was built to carry a half dozen cars or small trucks. Though, like the Kampong Cham ferries, this one appears to be built from the salvaged material of half-decayed ancestors.

During the five minute drive to Thera’s family home, we pass dozens of elevated wood houses each with a loom or two or three beneath with dazzling warps in scarlet, mustard, indigo. (Thera’s family does not weave but their neighbours do and we will visit them after breakfast.) Back in Waterloo it is 8 or 9 in the evening of Thanksgiving Monday but the food spread before us here is so plentiful and sumptuous we feel we are having our annual (not usual) feast: rice, fried eggs, grilled tofu, sweet and sour dipping sauce, sweet mini bananas, and sweet rice and bananas steamed in banana leaves. Enough food that by the end we push back our chairs and groan. The eggs are probably the freshest we’ve ever eaten, and taste it. These eggs were fresh out of the chicken.

Thera’s neighbour is busy at work passing shuttles of purple, blue, and orange back and forth, ear buds in place. We crowd around asking questions, taking pictures, looking through thread selections. Because my family had a very active loom and my older sister still has several in operation, plus dyes and spins some of her own threads, I include here several pictures of the mechanisms. These looms are huge compared to modern Canadian standards; 5 – 8 metres long compared with one. After much thought, Anna-Marie buys the fabric on the loom shown here. In a week Thera will deliver 6 metres that will be transformed into a coat back home; what Anna-Marie has come to call her Cambodian hug.

We are off now for a tour of parts of the island, trailed by a pack of moto ladies and their woven wares. We come upon a temple where two notable events are about to take place. A senior monk has died and a raft is being constructed which will carry a stepped pyramid (it looks like a tiered cake, large enough for someone to leap out of) down the river. His body lies encased in an ornately carved coffin that rises three metres above the floor. It will remain in this coffin until it has mummified.

The other event is a group of monks, within minutes of our arrival, will be emerging from three months of solitude. A feast is being prepared for them by local women, and both men and women will observe as they break their communal fast. A double shock for the monks, I’m sure, surrounded by watching eyes and faced with an over-indulgence of dishes to sample.

Behind the temple we wander the grounds until the re-emergence begins. Here we find a bucolic meadow with cows and a pond, some beautiful butterflies, and an enormous tree. A single monster among modest scrub trees; where the other trees are a foot in diameter, this one is two metres.

Bells ring out and we return as the monks begin to emerge. They are seated in front of a remarkable feast, in order of seniority, and amid casual chit chat with each other and the locals. One of the senior monks, seeing us sitting by with the other observers speaks to us in good English. From him we learn they have been withdrawn for 3 months. He would like to talk more, he shrugs, but is obliged by the proceedings to give his full attention over to the food.

There is more island to see, and we take our leave.

The island is large enough that we pass several more temples. We also pass the Institute of Weaving Arts, a kind of community meeting place for the island weavers. On the far side of the island we find a market on the banks of the Mekong. From here, looking out across another 4-5 km expanse of the Mekong, Dara tells me I am looking at another island, as large as this one, with another 4-5 km of river beyond it! That puts the width of the river here at about 12-15 km plus the span of the two islands, which are each a few kilometres wide.

Back on the Phnom Penh side of the island, we wait for the ferry with a few of the monks who have just emerged from seclusion. They board the ferry with us, leaping into the deep end of the sensory pool of Cambodia.