Early morning on the Changthang plateau. I wake up to the sound of hooves on the dry ground and unzip my tent to see a herd of yaks make their way leisurely down to the river. Despite being the warmest summer month, the air is crisp and smoke rises from the rebos dotting the stream in the valley below. I hear voices drift down from above and look to the stone structure next to my tent, to see two women on the roof, chatting and making cheese. By squeezing the clotted milk through their fingers they are creating long clusters which are then dried in the heat of the sun. It is one of the numerous ways of transforming the yak milk, which serves as a primary form of nourishment in this otherwise unfertile landscape.  Without means of electricity or the ability to keep things cool, drying cheese and meat is an essential strategy.

Each day, before the first light peers over the mountain, the community is awake. The shepherds are the first to rise, taking turns gathering their flocks and heading up into the mountains. Each family has approximately 400-700 animals, who are tended to by a single herder. Watching them gracefully control such a multitude of animals is astounding. With a couple perfectly aimed rocks, they are able to direct the herd’s movements, moving them in synchronicity across the rocky landscape. 

The yaks, sheep and goats provide the foundation to the way of life of the Changpa. The goats are their primary source of income, as this community is the most known for raising a rare breed of goats, which produces a fine grade of cashmere called pashmina. The sheep and yaks are kept for their personal survival - essential for everything from the food they eat, to the tents they live in, to the clothing that keeps them warm. It is the yak and sheep wool that I am there with we are Kal to purchase, and that they will then transfrom into yarn, knit items and beautifully woven carpets (more on this in the next entry).

The harmony with which the lives of humans and animals are intertwined and the ingenuity of their interrelation, is impressive. An especially clever construction are the yak hair tents, that are both waterproof and still able to let in air. These tents last many generations and are passed from down parents to children, only needing certain panels to be repaired approximately every 20-50 years. The tents are called rebos and are held up by only a couple wooden poles in the center. In the middle of the rebo is a fire that is fed by dried animal dung that is gathered and stacked outside. This both reduces waste around the camp and eliminates the need to search for (nearly impossible to find) wood. Another important task in daily life is carrying water up from the river. Much of the washing is done at the river to save the trip, but even in the heat of August, the water is ice-cold. 

While the way of life on the plateau is still very connected with the traditional lifestyle, each year brings more influence from the outside world. Now, several members of the community own a vehicle, and the men often travel to nearby towns for work or various other ventures. Children are also sent away to school, some already with the young age of three. While there is a strong sense of cultural pride among the remaining members of the community, there is also the desire to enable the younger generation access to another way of life. 

On the last evening I spent in Karnak, we were invited to dinner by Topdan and his daughter Lamo.  She is married and has three small children, but they are going to school and living with her husband four hours away in Leh, the main city of Ladakh. Lamo wore kindness and sadness woven together and I felt a deep melancholy as I imagined the weight of her sacrifice. Her choice to remain in Karnak was not up to her alone, but was closely linked with the familial and communal responsibility of keeping their way of life alive. Her siblings had all gone off to work and study and her mother had passed, leaving her as the only one that was left to tend to her father and maintain their home. 

Her children will grow up in a different reality. Under 200km away in distance but a world of difference apart. A world with white painted walls and tennis shoes and running water. They will have access to basic comforts and a more mainstream society but they will not know the warm embrace of their mother or the vastness and intimate knowledge of the land. Their life will be filled with convenience and financial gratification, but they will not grow up in connection with their culture. They won’t experience, through daily life practice, the wisdom of how to live in balance and move with the seasons. 

This is not to glorify one way and criticize another, as it is undeniable that this life is incredibly hard. Yet it also holds invaluable aspects and extremely necessary teachings. Neither in rejecting tradition or single-mindedly embracing modernity, lies the best path forward. How do we move between? Preserve some parts and shift others, slowly and mindfully adopting transitions that improve the lives of children while continuing the respect and recognition of our older generations...

~ 
photo to the left of Tsering Yudon getting wool from her shed. August 17, 2023. 

 Woven into the threads that make up the garments we wear is a rich story. Typically, we do not have the privilege of knowing who made our clothing. But what if we did? What would they tell us, and how would our interaction with that piece impact their life? 

The little town of San Juan la Laguna is nestled on the shores of Lake Atitlan in the heart of the Mayan region and present day Guatemala. A main pull to this part of the world was to experience firsthand the rich textile culture that is still vibrant today. Towns abound with brilliantly coloured, hand-woven fabrics, and many Guatemalan women still wear their traditional dress. San Juan, in particular, is filled with artisans and collectives. Also a common tourist destination, the streets are lined with signs inviting visitors inside for demonstrations on weaving and natural dyeing. One such studio I visited was Casa Flor Ixaco, where I had the pleasure of experiencing a presentation by Daphne, a local Mayan woman and a key member of the cooperative. Daphne walked us through the process of creation. They begin with locally and organically grown cotton - carefully cultivated over thousands of years and in four native colours - which is then harvested, carded, spun, and naturally dyed; using seeds, leaves, flowers, tree bark, and more and is then fixed to the fiber using ground bark from the banana tree. As Daphne demonstrated the dyeing process before us, it was astounding to see the brilliance of the hue, as well as its colour-fastness - achieved with so few and so organic of ingredients. The weaving process was also a wonder to witness, which is still all completed on the backstrap loom.

Daphne shared the story of the cooperatives founding, as well as the difficulties that the women and their communities have conquered and struggled with. Working in this cooperative has not only provided the women with a source of income from which they are able to nourish and support their families, it has also enabled them to continue creating in the traditional manor. By collectivizing their efforts, they are able to create more efficiently, for example by dyeing twice a year in large quantities, rather than repeating the same process multiple times in smaller batches. These women are doing the entire process by hand, and the fact that they are competing with multinational companies and highly mechanized factories makes such adjustments extremely vital. As Daphne was demonstrating the weaving process before us on the backstrap loom, a visitor from the group asked why they choose not to used mechanized looms, as these would be much faster. She responded simply, 




Preserving this tradition goes beyond the physical beauty and exquisite detail of the textiles. This process of creation carries stories and significance which are impossible to grasp or even to imagine. Women have been weaving in this way for hundreds of years, weaving their sorrow and their joy, their love and their heartbreak into pieces of clothing and blankets that have warmed friend and foe alike. 

Whether woven by a woman like Daphne working within an empowered cooperative of women in Guatemala, or a young Bangladeshi girl working in a people-packed factory in the slums of a nearby city, each textile holds the imprints of those who brought it into existence. Here in the ‘developed’ world, where much of this process is obscured from our view, the clothes still carry these stories.

As holders and wearers of these pieces, we are in a special position to respect all that has gone into their creation and to continue their story forward. To honor those that have held the cloth before us and to preserve the materials that surround us, doing all in our power to lengthen their lifespan and conserve their value.