~ Text and Images By Torie Olson
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Contd...
These false faces are not strangers to me. I have the privilege of sleeping in the altar room of a house belonging to Bhutan’s newspaper editor where my futon is flanked by demon masks, each crowned with five skulls. On the other side of my pillow stands a wooden shrine, painted with ferocious-faced tigers, snow lions, garudas, and dragons. I wonder if they will disturb my dreams, but each night, I sleep especially well; apparently, they are my protectors.
Another day, I watch other fabulously costumed monk/deities as they subdue evil in mirrored black hats while orange-robed monks chant in low, gargley voices. Two hours east, I see lamas in red cardinal-like hats performing another age-old ritual. Further west in a sparsely populated valley, I attend a country tsechu. Here, I have an unencumbered view of sword-bearing stags, red-masked jesters, and gold crowned noblemen. Back in Thimpu Dzong, tiger-skirted Ging strike me (and other lucky ones) on the head with drumsticks. It hurts, but hey, no pain, no gain; they are chasing the impurity from my body.
On the way to and from dzongs and temples dedicated to Guru Rimpoche and the Treasure Revealer, I see women on porches and balconies and under bamboo canopies in the fields, working on next year’s kiras and ghos. As I travel the country, I notice some regional differences in the weaving process. Most Bhutanese use a backstrap loom, although some prefer the Tibetan pedal loom introduced in the 1930’s. They work with a variety of fiber - silk from the east, yak hair from the north, fine cotton from the south, and wool from the central valleys.
In one such valley, I visit Karma’s ancestral village where his cousin, also named Karma, shows me her loom with a view. Sliding open the wooden panels which stand in for windows, she reveals a million dollar vista of red rice fields, wild fig and persimmon trees. Under new corn drying in the rafters, she works on a woolen panel of yathra cloth for which her district is known. Its vegetable-dyed, geometric patterns are strikingly similar to the diagrammatic prayers I saw painted on the walls of the Punakha Dzong. This twilled fabric is used for blankets, cushion covers, and jackets popular with tourists, and Karma’s beautiful mother makes me a gift of some. She also shows me a kawley, an all wool, all black garment known for its healing properties.
Nearby in Chume, I visit an outlet for 240 weavers from thirteen villages who walk up to a day to trade their textiles for groceries and money for their children’s school uniforms. It is here that I meet Sonam Llamo who also uses wool from the indigenous Jakar sheep (often crossed for softness with Australia’s comeback breed). An expert dyer, Sonam is talked into giving me a demonstration, although I don’t come away with near enough information to replicate her jewel tones.
Color is so highly valued here that dyeing is regulated by strict taboos. Recipes are passed from mother to daughter. Dyeing is done at first light, behind closed doors. No one outside the family is allowed to witness this process, especially pregnant women whose unborn children might “steal the colors and spoil the dye baths.”1
Nonetheless, Sonam shares a few of her secrets with me. Overdyeing is the reason she gets such intense colors. Her wool goes into two or more dye baths and is fixed with hardwood ash or buckwheat husks. For a range of blues, she grows “Bhutanese indigo” in a kitchen garden. Aided by yeast, it ferments in a newspaper-lined tin kept warm in a pile of manure. Today, skeins simmer in a pot full of horse sugar leaves. For a deep gold, they will be overdyed with tumeric. Some of Sonam’s reds come from madder. With a handful of twigs, she produces shades ranging from orange to maroon which is worn only by nuns and monks. The reddest reds come from lac. This gets translated as “bug sh_ _ ,” although others in the room claim it’s worm blood. At the National Textile Museum, I learn that it’s a resin secreted by a parasitic insect called Laccifer lacca. Collecting it from the branches of host trees can cause some insects to die, so many Buddhist dyers will not use it.
In another workshop, I am disappointed to see a talented young woman weaving with synthetic threads that have been colored with chemicals. We strike up a conversation, and I happen to mention that Glenn Close is staying at my hotel. “Ah, Fatal Attraction,” she says without missing a beat. Since Bhutan opened its doors to the world, Hollywood movies and low grade raw materials and finished products have come in, too. I can only guess how images of a knife-wielding woman in a jealous rage are perceived by the Bhutanese, but it’s obvious how manufactured synthetics are simplifying designs and changing the palette and texture of their treasured textile tradition.
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