2016 Annual Issue

w ild Fibers

Vol. 13 Issue 1 $14.95

Dedicated to the world of wool

Looking for Shepherds and Spaceships in Kalmykia Bijou Basin's Brain Trust Down and Dirty by The Dead Sea A Micro Yarn Mill Tinged with Exotica Diggin' it in Alaska

ANCIENT FUTURES Pangong's New Cashmere Center Signals a Brighter Future

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

6 Chasing a Dream From their first meeting on a chilly afternoon in Central Asia, to eight years of traveling the Himalayas together, Konchok Stobgais and Linda Cortright celebrate their remarkable friendship with the opening of the Cashmere Center.

28 Got Yak? After successful careers rooted in science and technology, Carl and Eileen Koop take their high brow talent and go soft — with yaks!

40 Bani Hamida Jordan’s sprawling desert is home to Bani Hamida, formerly a Bedouin tribe whose members are now keeping their weaving traditions alive.

54 A Life in Threads Tucked away in an impoverished neighborhood in Amman, Jordan, the Al Karma Center helps women piece their lives together again.

62 Looking for Shepherds and Spaceships in Kalmykia Russia’s only Buddhist republic boasts a remarkable history of raising Merinos, and an even more unusual record of alien abduction!

88 “One of the last Great Places” Block Island is a favored east coast summer getaway with miles of surf and sand. It also has a micro yarn mill, surrounded by just a touch of exotica.

104 Food and Fiber in a Frozen Paradise Situated on the fringes of Fairbanks, Alaska, with sensational views of the mountains and equally sensational cold, Susan Willsrud and Tom Zimmer have created a heartfelt blend of food and fiber.

114 Dyeing for Rwanda Nancy Zeller has embraced the fabric of Rwandan culture, developing new opportunities with locally sourced dyes and a community of talented women.

26 Trumped by a Pinniped Parade 80 Not My Job 82 Every Move You Make ...

128 Broomstick Air?

Cover image: Two young children from Pangong Village, India. This page: a Bedouin weaver in Makawir.

wILD FIBERS 2016

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wILD FIBERS Publisher and Editor Linda N. Cortright

Contributing Editors Leslie Petrovski, Nancy Zeller

Copyeditor Kim Lincoln, Holly Menino

Advertising Sales Linda N. Cortright

Circulation and Proofreader Suzanne Lacasse

Subscription rates are $14.95/yr. in the U.S. and its possessions, $18.95/yr. Canada, $22.95/yr. International. Please send payment to: Wild Fibers Magazine, P.O. Box 1752, Rockland, ME 04841. (207) 594-9455 or online: www.wildfibersmagazine.com. Contributions: Address all editorial communications to Editor, Wild Fibers Magazine, P.O. Box 1752, Rockland, ME 04841. We consider contributions in the form of manuscripts, drawings, and photographs.

All material must be identified with the sender’s name and address. Material returned only if accompanied by sufficient return postage. Care is taken with contributions, but we are not responsible for damage or loss. All contents of this issue of Wild Fibers are copyrighted by Grumble Goat Productions, 2016. All rights reserved. Projects and information in this issue are for inspiration and personal use only. Exact reproduction for commercial purposes is prohibited and violates copyright law. Wild Fibers is published by Linda Cortright at 574 Davis Rd., Union, ME 04862 (Issue 13, Volume 1). Periodical postage paid at Rockland, ME and other mailing locations. Postmaster send change of address to Wild Fibers Magazine, P.O. Box 1752, Rockland, ME 04841.

Fantasy Fibers

CUSTOM CARDING, DEHAIRING & SPINNING

Janell Casey

Canby, OR 97013 â—† 503-263-4902 www.fantasyfibers.com ffibers@wed-ster.com 6

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Is That a Magazine or a Mattress Your Carrying?

For many years I had a sticky note attached to my computer screen that read, “Small is the new Big.” It was a popular business axiom that has gone from novel, to normal. And yet, it makes me feel stupid … again. This issue of Wild Fibers is not small. It’s huge! It feels like the California King of magazines — not mattresses. And oddly, there is even a real king or two mentioned herein. But in truth, Wild Fibers is still quite small.

Last fall I made a decision to change from publishing four magazines a year, to just one.

It was not an easy decision. I do, however, have increasing health issues, which simply can’t sustain the rigors of a quarterly publication. I am not one who easily follows directions, but when my doctor (who is a subscriber!) started wagging her finger at me and using that tone which eerily resembles my mother’s warnings, I sat up.

“If you don’t do something now,” she began, “the decision will be made for you.”

Roger.

So there you have it.

The unburdening of three issues has meant that I am able to devote more time to the development of the Cashmere Center and leading tours, which, in fact, leads me to something very big!

Last December I visited the Cashmere Center to begin implementing the necessary systems for running a small handcraft operation (note: small!). But the Cashmere Center is actually quite large relative to most structures in the High Himalayas, causing Stobgais and I to begin pondering what purpose it could serve during the summer months when the majority of the women need to be working in their fields.

Although it is still in its infancy, we hope to use the Cashmere Center as a facility for student internships, enabling young adults to learn about the environment, farming, nomadic life and, in turn, helping the women and their families with the endless tasks too few hands are able to complete.

I am formally appealing to you, my readers, who have children and grandchildren, undoubtedly full of aspiration and adventure, to think about being part of the first student internship in Ladakh in June 2018, incorporating lessons about nature, culture, and the tools to go forward. As you will understand after reading “Chasing a Dream,” my own experience in Ladakh has been life changing (which is not the same as “change of life”).

Speaking of getting older, it is always curious to see how certain themes develop in each issue, and in this issue “Got Yak” and “Living in One of the Last Great Places” both feature couples who have turned to fiber in retirement or, more precisely, as a second career. Little did I know that my own fiber career would not only lead me around the world, but also take me to a place with kangaroos and a one-eyed zedonk.

Now, that’s wild!

There is something else unusual about this issue beyond its size — it is about the style. I have chosen to write this issue in a tone that might typically be more reflective of a book. In some — not all — of the articles I have chosen to share some intimate moments, which have made the experience so much richer for me, and I hope, for you as well.

Unfortunately, although this issue is double in size, it still means only one back page. I know from our highly scientific surveys, everyone likes the back page and so I have interspersed four back page-style stories throughout the issue. I suspect I will never run out of humorous anecdotes to share, which brings me to my other appeal, or should I say invitation.

Arriving at the airport in Kalmykia, I have decided to bring back our popmy hat and bag finally match! ular New York Dinner (October 14th), held during the weekend of the New York Sheep and Wool Festival. This year we will be hosting it at the prestigious Beekman Arms Inn in downtown Rhinebeck. The cash bar will open early for those who need a little libation after a day of shopping, followed by dinner and a presentation filled with stories and pictures from around the world.

Unlike our previous New York dinners, which were big, this will be small.

In my heart, Wild Fibers will always feel small, I guess it’s because it will always feel like family.

Thank you for being part of mine.

Linda Cortright Publisher and Editor w i l df ib e rsmag az ine.com

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Chasing a Dream Konchok Stobgais is not your average nomad. Growing up in a small nomadic village in India’s High Himalayas, he has become a front runner for change, carefully blending the old with the new with an unwavering spirit of generosity. story and photos

by l i n da co rt r i g h t

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The opening of the first Cashmere Center in India’s High Himalayas was the result of a red pick-up truck in western Maine and a chance meeting on a cold afternoon in Central Asia.

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remember the day a red pick-up truck carrying four cashmere goats pulled into my farm in western Maine. There were two black goats and two white goats, and if they had had ten little fingers and ten little toes, I would have counted each one as a proud mother inspects her newborn.

More than 20 years have passed since that afternoon in early November marking the beginning of a new life chapter, trading the insatiable quest for professional success in exchange for a pasture of happy kids. Occasionally, I sit back in quiet amazement recalling those four endearing goats, Daisy, Echo, Elf, and Esprit, who were not only responsible for changing my life, but also led me to help change the lives of nearly 80 women halfway around the world.

It is too crazy not to be true.

In 2007, I attended a conference in Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan, a country with an impossibly difficult name to pronounce and a vague location somewhere south of Russia. I had little knowledge of Kyrgyzstan or its neighboring “stans,” Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan and Tajikistan. But, Bishkek had been chosen as the site of the first international cashmere producer’s conference focused on bringing awareness (and revenue) to indigenously sourced cashmere. More than 40 cashmere professionals, including buyers, processors, farmers, and me — a farmer turned magazine editor — were assembled, and though we could not stop China’s checkbook from completely consuming the global cashmere supply, we could at least try.

Bishkek is not on most people’s bucket list and I suspect it will take more than a 5-star hotel with promises of exotic spa treatments and vanilla candles to earn a “thumbs up” on Trip Advisor. In fact, January’s cold, overcast skies do little to enhance decades of sterile, cement-colored Sovietstyle architecture circumscribed with sidewalks entombed with ice. But tucked inside a small, second-floor conference room, where the conversation was 24/7 cashmere, the unwelcoming outdoors was of little note, even the flashing red neon restaurant sign advertising “Texas Barbecue” across the street eventually faded from our view. It did, however, suc10

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ceed in luring us for dinner one night, at the conclusion of which it was unanimously agreed that a second visit would not be necessary.

I sat across the table from a pair of cashmere buyers from Tajikistan, an Iranian scientist specializing in cashmere fibers, an Afghani businessman from the Aga Khan Foundation who was keen on promoting Afghan cashmere and even keener on finding a Kyrgyz girlfriend — at least for the duration of the conference — and a thoroughly charming Indian man in charge of researching sheep and goat husbandry in Northern India. But the person I took note of the most was seated quietly at the end of the table, his name was Konchok Stobgais, and as we went around the table that first day giving introductions, Stobgais (pronounced Stub-gus) said he was a nomad — a nomad from Ladakh. A second nomad was also seated at the table, a man whose name I have now forgotten, but I remember he spent two days traveling just from his village in Nepal to catch the flight from Kathmandu, and then on to Delhi, to Moscow, and finally, Bishkek. He had never been on a plane before traveling more than 30 hours to attend the conference, and his wife had given birth to their first child while he was in transit.

In hindsight, if I thought a truck full of goats signified a new chapter in my life, meeting Stobgais would ultimately signify a new chapter in the lives of many.

Cashmere is sourced from semi-nomadic people, like Stobgais, living in prime cashmere growing regions. The goats typically graze in high altitude pastures (above 12,000 to 14,000 feet) in Mongolia, China, India, and Afghanistan, although lesser quantities, and often of inferior quality, is available from surrounding countries, including Nepal, Pakistan and Iran. Following a dramatic change in international export regulations, China began to commandeer the cashmere market in the 1990s and now “pre-treats” (scours and de-hairs) 93% of the global cashmere supply.

It is crazy to think a farmer from Maine and a nomad from India could change the system. Then again, no one ever said Margaret Mead was crazy when she said, “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can

change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.”

At the conclusion of the conference, most of us piled into a small bus for the hour and a half journey to a small cashmere producer outside of Bishkek. We trudged about the frozen pasture, inspecting goats, plucking small samples off their midsections, and by late afternoon when the winter sun dropped behind the Pamir Mountain Range turning the temperature from brisk, to brutal, it was time to head inside for beshbarmak, or “five-finger feast,” Kyrgyzstan’s national dish consisting of boiled meat and “other” parts. Beshbarmak derives its name from the fact that it is eaten with one hand, although it only takes two fingers, not all five, to eat the eyeballs.

Aside from meeting Stobgais and the fivefinger feast, the other lingering memory was when the president of Eros Cashmere, Mongolia’s largest cashmere manufacturer, opened a suitcase filled with sweaters, shawls, and scarves, and offered them to the group for pennies on the dollar. A near rumpus broke out as the cardigans went flying! Those who had previously seemed calm and in control revealed their true colors — myself included.

We all exchanged emails before leaving for the airport, and Stobgais came over to me and said, “Please come to Ladakh, I will show you real cashmere goats!” And though I had little doubt his goats would be far finer than my modest truckload, it was more than the goats who captivated me on that first trip to Ladakh in the heart of India’s High Himalayas. It was the people, beginning with those who tended to me at the hospital.

Unfailingly, every time traveling to India is mentioned, someone, typically a Westerner, will raise an eyebrow, wag a finger, and say, “Be careful of Delhi belly” as if everyone who has ever visited this land of 1.2 billion has spent more time in the bathroom than haggling over the price of a pashmina. My problem was not Delhi belly. In fact, I can say that after 14 visits to India, I have yet to succumb. I was, however, stricken by altitude sickness within hours of landing in Leh, (Ladakh’s capital), and, in truth, I have no one but myself to blame. I have trav-

Top: Konchok Stobgais visiting a cashmere farmer in Kyrgyzstan during the first annual Cashmere Producers Conference in Bishkek. Below: Dr. Phunchok (center) examining cashmere in the field surrounded by a Mongolian from Mercy Corps (left), and a nomad from Nepal (right). Bottom: Beshbarmak!

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eled to other high altitude regions both in the US and South America and only experienced mild headaches and shortness of breath. In my arrogance, I decided a dose of Diamox, a prescription drug taken to avoid altitude sickness, wasn’t necessary. As I lay face down on the bathroom floor of my hotel room, with a pain in my head that was so severe it could only signify an aneurysm, or, at the very least, a fatal brain tumor, the only thing making me temporarily forget my headache was the projectile vomiting. It seemed as if my body was trying to eject a major organ, possibly all of them.

I will die ...

Not typically prone to hypochondria, but too weak to get off the floor, I realized after an hour of misery that I had come to India to die. Which, for those who have had severe altitude sickness know is the preferred outcome.

I did not die. I did, however, eventually make my way down a thin alley to the street where Dr. Phunchok, who had also attended the conference and was serving as my host, ushered me into a taxi to go to the hospital. Unfortunately, just as I sat down in the back seat I got right up again, stepped two paces onto the sidewalk and began vomiting again in that way which doesn’t need to be recaptured in print, but is both uncontrollable and horrific.

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Most taxi drivers would have sped off, or doubled my fare. Instead, this kind young man, who could not have been more than 20, came over to my side and as I crouched over the sidewalk in my swirl of bile, he began gently rubbing my back and saying, “It’s okay. You will be all right.” As soon as I could manage, he helped me back into the taxi and away we went to the hospital where a pick-up truck was parked outside the emergency entrance, which is also the main entrance and the delivery entrance, and, apparently, the hotspot for selling vegetables to the hospital employees.

Dr. Phunchok and the taxi driver helped me around boxes of cabbage and carrots and into a wheelchair, where I managed to locate a wastebasket before the next round of flotsam arrived.

I was given an injection of “something” and then wheeled toward a ward with no less than 60 beds. At the last minute, I was taken instead, to a small room with only four beds, one of which was occupied by a monk who looked to be in his nineties and likely to get to heaven before me, possibly before I even got into bed.

This little episode probably sounds ghastly to the average tourist, even worse than Delhi belly, but I wouldn’t trade a minute of it. It was during this, my first night in India, lying in a hospital bed with an ailing monk a few feet away that I

began to learn about the heart of Ladakh.

Owing to its mountainous post among the Himalayas, the streaming of monks in saffron and red, and the fact that many Ladakhis are of Tibetan ancestry, Ladakh is often referred to as “Little Tibet.” But I have been to Tibet and perhaps the undeniable influence of Chinese control has changed more than the political mindset, but I did not once think of it as “Big Ladakh.”

Ladakh has achieved that elusive balance between man and nature, according respect to all beings, treating them with remarkable tenderness, including me, a semi-conscious American with brazen manners and a softening heart. There was not a moment — not one — during my hospitalization that either Dr. Phunchok, his wife, his daughter, or his son-in-law, wasn’t A young nomadic woman sorting cashmere at the mill. at my bedside, sitting quietly, stroking my arm.

Every time I opened my eyes, they were waiting with a smile. To this day, I still look back on and a bottle of Diamox, I was taken the following day to see that night in sweet disbelief, trying to understand why these the only cashmere mill in the world owned and operated by people would stay up all night with a complete stranger. nomads. It had opened the year before (thanks to Dr. PhunIn the years since, I have repeatedly witnessed the depth chok’s enormous efforts) along with the help of the Indian of the Ladakhi’s heart, it is one of the reasons why I keep government, which negotiated the purchase of used scouring returning, and why the Cashmere Center in Pangong, which and de-hairing equipment from China. was built in Stobgais’s village through the support of Wild FiThe mill workers were mostly young men from nomadic bers readers and opened in August 2015, will be an everlastfamilies who maintained and fed the machines round the

I have repeatedly witnessed the depth of the Ladakhi’s heart, it is one of the reasons why I keep returning, and why the Cashmere Center in Pangong ... will be an everlasting “thank you.” ing “thank you.” Building a center, however, was the furthest thing from my mind as I lay in bed with an old-fashioned rubber oxygen mask the size of a dinner plate strapped to my face, watching the lights grow dim during a power failure, thus signaling a mouse to emerge from its abode and skitter across the floor, pausing at my boots, and then continue on in search of crumbs.

After I was discharged, it was decided that I should wait an extra day before traveling to Tanglang La at 17,480 feet, the pass I must cross in order to see the goats, or, should I say, the goats Stobgais wanted me to see. And so, within the relatively safe confines of Leh’s 12,000 feet above sea level

clock during the mill’s short few months of operation, along with several women, who sat on the floor hand-sorting cashmere according to color.

The process was intriguing and impressive. But what I had failed to realize is the critical role Stobgais played in the mill’s success. As the mill’s general secretary, Stobgais was responsible for not only collecting the cashmere from the nomadic villages, but in many cases, also responsible for convincing them to sell their cashmere to the mill’s cooperative for a lesser price than was offered by the Chinese traders, but with the promise of a higher long-term yield as a cooperative member. w i l df ib e rsmag az i ne.com

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The magnificent beauty of the Himalayas is nearly impossible to capture in a photograph.

It was a heavy burden for a young man still in his twenties.

By the following morning my blood/oxygen level was still holding at a safe level and Stobgais and I were off, tucking an oxygen tank in between our sleeping bags and camping gear, just in case…

Leh is at the head of the Leh-Manali Highway, a 298mile stretch of road open from June to October. The average altitude along the highway is 13,000 feet, and even under the best of circumstances, it takes two days to reach Manali (6,720 feet). The road bends and curves, crossing snowcapped mountains and glacial melts (without a bridge), and is under a continuous state of repair as large boulders tumble 14

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down or the entire roadway gets washed out. At one point Stobgais got out of the car and the car began filling in the “cracks” large enough to inhale our vehicle, or, at the very least send us hurtling over the mountain’s edge.

In truth, only one thought repeatedly went through my mind during our eight-hour journey to the nomadic camp: “This is great!”

My first cashmere goat sighting was in Upshi, a small village about an hour’s drive south of Leh. Upshi is the site of the government’s cashmere breeding program, which is dedicated to breeding top quality bucks for the nomads. The program not only serves to enhance the overall quality of Ladakh’s cashmere, but helps to ensure genetic diversity, a

task not easily achieved due to vast distances between nomadic camps.

In addition to the goats there are just 26 homes in Upshi. There is a Customs and Excise Office that checks the special permits that are required if you wish to turn off the highway and go east toward Tibet.

It is also the road that leads to Stobgais’s home and I clearly remember him telling me that his home was in the most beautiful part of Ladakh.

As a foreigner, I could not go there without special permission, which was tantamount to a papal blessing, only more involved. Stobgais’s village is next to Pangong Lake, now famous throughout all of India not only for its cerulean beauty, but following the Bollywood mega hit, The Three Idiots, which was filmed there.

I can’t imagine why anyone would favor Bollywood over cashmere!

The Internet is now rife with pictures of hair-raising scenes from India’s mountainous roadways, but at the time, it was all quite new to

me. Trucks painted in bright colors reminiscent of the peace-not-war hippie era, coming head to head on the single lane highway, providing inches on either side from certain death. One minute, the entire Himalayan range was unfolding before me and the next, we are traveling in a blizzard. It was August.

Stobgais and I talked the entire time. He had one story after another from his childhood. He talked about women taking herds of cashmere goats into the mountains where it was not uncommon for them to deliver a baby — unassisted — and then bring the newborn (along with the goats), back home in the evening.

He talked about the nomads crossing Pangong Lake during the early spring migration. The lake is 83 miles long with approximately 60% of it inside China’s border.

Traveling with thousands and thousands of goats, Stobgais explained that the journey must begin before sunrise in order to complete the crossing in one day. It is treacherous. Often, they must belly crawl along the frozen lake to keep from being knocked over by the voracious winds.

It is an arduous journey for man and animal and my admiration for Stobgais continued to grow.

There was never an undertone of boastfulness in the telling of these outlandish adventures, just a simple story about a “simple” way of life.

After hours of spellbinding travel in every way imaginable, we suddenly turned off the highway and began off-roading through the dusty plateau.

There was no street sign, or mailbox along the road, nothing whatsoever to indicate this was the place to turn. The shock absorbers screamed for a rest and under normal conditions so would I. But I could not feel anything but full-blown excitement as a large dust cloud began to emerge on the horizon. It was not the dust from another vehicle, it was the telltale dirty flurry of more than 10,000 cashmere goats returning home for the night, oblivious to the beauty of their surroundings and their fiber.

I could barely wait for the car to come to a complete stop before hopping out to join the goats for the last few hundred yards of the trip, and I no longer think you have to be a whacky goat lady to appreciate the ease at which the goats were herded. No dogs. No fences. And no one on w i l df ib e rsmag az i ne.com

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Top: A nomad washing her handspun wool in the stream.

horseback to keep them corralled. They simply shuffled on home together, and if one of them strayed, the herder would shout a few words of reprimand, occasionally tossing a small stone at the offender as a last resort.

I think of all the times I have smugly stood in my barn, having successfully captured all 20 goats, using copious amounts of molassescoated grain for enticement. I am both in awe and humbled by the nomads, and it was during this first encounter that I began to see the often-touted phrase “working in harmony with nature” actually prac-

ticed. So many of my American ways seemed forced and impatient, not to mention heavily dependent on treats. The nomads don’t rely on grain to manage their goats; they barely have enough grains to feed themselves. Yet, they are no worse for wear because of it. In fact, they are better off for it.

If I had thought my first night in the hospital was pivotal, my first night in the nomadic camp was epic. It is only in hindsight that I can appreciate how narrow my worldview had been. I had little more than lip service to offer, regarding people who lived year-round in a tent without running water, a toilet, or even a bed. I didn’t know how to keep warm by feeding dried yak dung into a stove, or churn butter by rolling a goat stomach across your knees. I didn’t know how thoroughly rewarding a simple life could be until I took a chance and followed a man I met in Central Asia into the heart of the Himalayas.

What to do?

When Stobgais dropped me off at the airport five days later, I felt inspired and yet helpless. I had no idea how to properly thank him. The trip had been too important not to do something and though a generous tip was not without benefit, it would hardly be life changing.

For the next few months I did little else but think, live, and dream Ladakh. I had already con-

A nomad bringing home his goats at dusk.

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The Ladakhis are remarkable in ways that seem almost otherworldly by comparison to modern life. Yet, their needs are changing as well. fessed to Stobgais that if faced with the possibility of living as a nomad, I wouldn’t last more than a week. My idea of a subsistence existence had a large helping of 21st century “back-up” factored in, and I still had my own herd of cashmere goats that needed tending. I promised Stobgais, however, that I would return.

East meets West Five months later I was lying in a hospital bed in Portland, Maine. Surrounded by a tangle of machines and monitors, and a feeding tube that seemed like a cure-all for dirty dishes, I was grateful for the benefits of Western medicine, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss my huddle of Ladakhis and the curious little mouse. For nearly three months I listened to the beeping and buzzing, and by chance, my doctor traveled to India during that time to give a lecture on his specialty. He made it quite clear to me that if I had fallen ill during my time in Ladakh I would not have survived. In return, I made it quite clear to him that I needed to get better so I could go back.

It was almost a year to the day that I returned to Ladakh, armed with a large bottle of Diamox and my doctor’s blessing. Not quite as virginal as I was the previous year, Stobgais and I, once again, set off together — the oxygen tank came too.

More mountains, more nomads, more stories, and on this trip, there was also much more snow. When I gave Stobgais (more) money as well, he decided the money would be of better use teaching the women in his village to spin cashmere, rather than benefit him directly.

“I will hold a cashmere spinning contest,” he said, and that was the seed that eventually led to the Cashmere Center, an idea far too fantastic, even for those who believe in Margaret Mead.

Historically, the nomads in Ladakh raise cashmere goats, selling only the fiber to Kashmiri traders, or Chinese businessmen (who are frequently armed with suitcases full of cash). However, with the opening of the mill in Leh offering ready access to clean, de-haired, and ready to spin cashmere, new opportunities were on the horizon. And so began the task of training the women to spin fine cashmere, versus the coarser sheep and yak wool they were accustomed to spinning.

At first, only a dozen or so women were interested. They couldn’t understand the benefits of learning to spin cashmere, particularly since the mill’s cooperative was becoming successful, earning them more money for their raw fiber than they had previously received. But Stobgais is persuasive, if not all but impossible to say no to, even for a fellow nomad. More and more women became interested until, eventually, there were 30 of them, carefully drafting fine cashmere onto their support spindles. When I returned yet again to Ladakh, I saw what the women were capable of producing and I suspected the American hand knitting market might just be interested. But spinning marketable amounts of handspun cashmere from a

A nomad weaves with sheep and yak wool on a loom constructed with simple materials.

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cold, dark tent, was both uncomfortable and unproductive.

If I had learned anything from my repeated trips to Ladakh it was certain my first impressions had been right.

The Ladakhis are remarkable in ways that seem almost otherworldly by comparison to modern life. Yet, their needs are changing as well. All of their children now attend school, many until college age. Use of vehicles to get into town (typically a five-hour drive, if not more), is becoming more common, and with these changes also comes a need for cash in a system long fueled by bartering and goodwill.

Could a Cashmere Center in Stobgais’s village be the key to helping these women earn a much-needed income? Could spinning cashmere become a viable alternative to working for the army along the roadside at 15,000 feet, crushing rocks into small stone? Could I, a daft farmer from Maine even fathom saying “no” to Stobgais?

Six years after my first visit to India, I committed to building a Cashmere Center in Stobgais’s village. More than 70 women were now trained to spin cashmere and I made a promise to them and to Stobgais that I would do whatever was necessary to provide a proper facility for them to not only spin in comfort, but where they could also bring their children for warmth and safety.

Just exactly how I would raise $50,000 was my problem.

I simply told Stobgais that when I had the money, the center would be built.

The Grand Opening of the Cashmere Center

Nowhere in the pessimistic corners of my mind did I think the response to the Cashmere Center would be so prompt or vigorous. And nowhere, in any part of me, did I think that less than nine months after the fundraising project was launched we would be breaking ground. It is only now that I can confess, that all of this was done without my ever having actually traveled to Stobgais’s village! I had been to Pangong Lake, which requires a special permit that must 20

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be presented to the guards in Upshi. But Phrobang, the actual village was off limits. We did, however, secure permission from the president of his village to build the center, and just as importantly, from Mr. Rigzin Spilbahr, Chief Executive Councillor of Jammu and Kashmir, who I had met on several occasions and who had assiduously followed the progress of our spinning program. I also met with the architect, the builder, and several elected village officials. The sum total of which assured me that the only mistake I could make at that point would have been to change my mind.

Could I, a daft farmer from Maine even fathom saying “no” to Stobgais?

On August 30th, 2015, I was joined by a dozen members of my Wild Fibers Tour for the grand opening of the Cashmere Center — the only cashmere spinning facility in the world solely dedicated to supporting nomadic women and their families. Rigzin made the five-hour drive from Leh to officiate at the opening and, though his speech was delivered in Ladakhi for the benefit of the nomads, he opened with the following in English for the benefit of myself, and my tour members.

Rigzin talked about the life of Ladakhi nomads, trying to survive in one of the harshest climates on earth. He talked about their dependence on raising cashmere goats, and on each other. He held up his index finger at one point, jabbing at the air to emphasize that despite the extreme surroundings, no Ladakhi has ever starved to death. It is imprinted on their nature to help one another. Words that resonated so strongly with me, I struggled not to stand up and shout “Amen!”

And then, in a surprising shift in tone, Rigzin told the group that “if money brought happiness, he should be looking at the richest people in the world,” gesturing toward my 12 “rich” Westerners. And by comparison to the nomads seated in front of us, we were in fact, “rich.” “However, we are here to learn from your mistakes.”

In the words of Lee Greenwood’s hit song, I am indeed, “Proud to be an American.” But I am not so proud as to think we have done everything right, nor, for that matter, have nothing to learn from these humble people who have let me into their lives. I may have indoor plumbing, a bed, and even a little dial on my wall that I turn in order to keep warm, but I know better than to think that I am rich, and I know the words Rigzin speaks are true. I do not take them as a criticism, perhaps a well-meaning wake up call.

I glanced over at my group, and even though most of them had spent less than a week among the Ladakhis, Rig-

Villagers performing a traditional dance at the Grand Opening of the Cashmere Center.

zin’s words clearly resonated.

Rigzin continued speaking, changing to Ladakhi, and I later grilled Stobgais about what he said. Apparently Rigzin told them, in brief, that the building now offered them a unique opportunity, an opportunity no other nomadic village had been given. He told them that they, too, must transition into the modern world, while still holding on to many of their ways they hold dear. In conclusion, Rigzin told them that I had worked hard to make this happen and they, in turn, must work even harder — not only so they can succeed but to make all of Ladakh proud.

Sitting on the front porch of the center, an area that would be encased in plastic during winter to create a greenhouse effect to heat the inside, the whole event seemed a bit surreal. Me, a farmer from Maine whose life began to change because of a truck full of goats, and a nomad from the Himalayas, who I met in Central Asia, and… one of the few who was willing to eat an eyeball during the five-finger feast.

Now, the two of us were sitting together at a center built

by you — the readers of Wild Fibers. The picture was perfect and complete, or so I thought.

At the conclusion of all the speeches, a group of men and women from the village performed a traditional dance. They held hands and sang, moving gently from side to side. The sun, which had been baking down on all of us, finally began to drift behind the mountains, and as I marveled at this idyllic setting in the High Himalayas, surrounded not only by my tour group, but now, by virtually all of Stobgais’s village, Rigzin leaned over and whispered, “If you really want to be part of this community, you will go and dance with them.”

And so I did, motioning my fellow tour members to join me as we all joined hands and began to dance. For just a moment I glanced over at Stobgais, his hands holding my people, and my hands holding his.

It was the perfect start to a new beginning.

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For more information about The Craft Center, please visit:

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Reflections on Ladakh

Photos by Linda Cortright

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A few moments from the Grand Opening of the Cashmere Center. Above: A woman singing during a traditional dance. Opposite page: Top: Following the opening ceremonies, the men of the village gathered for horse racing and games. Stobgais succumbed to the group’s urging, borrowed a horse, and took off like a pro. Bottom: (right) The day before the opening, the women in the village took turns spinning at the new treadle wheels. Left: (top) Stobgais joining hands with Mr. Rigzin Spilbahr (center), and Bryce Halonen (second from right) during the final dance. Bottom: The women all join hands together.

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Trumped by a Pinniped Parade A TOUR LEADER UNWITTINGLY MEETS HER WATERLOO.

story and photos

by l i n da co rt r i g h t A pair of King Penguins promenading down the shoreline.

M

y fantasies of eternal youth have evaporated in recent years. I would prefer to look at my reflection in nothing larger than one those little mirrors the dentist uses to examine my molars. I only need to periodically inspect my roots to make sure my hairdresser is winning the war against the gray. Otherwise, I have no desire to bear witness to the other unglamorous signs of “maturity” that are increasing from the neck down.

Still, there are those lingering lapses into denial when I attempt to recapture spryer times. I try on a pair of jeans that are so tight I am forced to buy them because I can’t pull them off in the dressing room. I think I can shovel my front walk in 20 minutes, and then forget I need to spend the next week choking down aspirins.

I know I’m not unique. I am just convinced my case is worse than everyone else’s.

This past January while leading a tour to The Falkland Islands, the group was given an impromptu invitation to visit the floating wool warehouse in Stanley. A wool warehouse may sound a little lackluster in comparison to an erupting volcano, or a four-mile beachfront rife with Rockhopper penguins, but as avowed fiber people, a floating warehouse still had some zip. The only challenge was fitting all nine bodies in two vehicles, plus the two drivers.

It really wasn’t so bad, one in the front, three in the middle, adding up to four in one car, and I quickly hopped into the very back of the other car — the very back actually being a rather posh Land Rover. The third seat was split, enabling one seat to be 28

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in the open position, which is where I sat, and the other one tucked down with a retractable awning over the whole thing like a brand new television, hidden from the burglar’s view!

Rodney Lee, director of The Falkland Islands Wool Co., and the owner of the Land Rover, could not have been more apologetic as I stretched one leg all the way under the awning, while somehow trying to flip the other one in place, giving the appearance that I was wrapping one leg behind my head, possibly both. It did take some stretching and tucking to enter the seat, and I’m sure I let out several gasps as my knees spat curses at me.

Rodney apologized for the difficulty in accessing the back seat, however, I didn’t want to admit to him that I couldn’t do it, and I certainly didn’t want the rest of my tour group seeing me struggle either. I kept muffling my little groans until I landed in the seat, and then smiled contentedly, if not victoriously.

The drive from our hotel to the warehouse was less than ten minutes. Rodney was keeping everyone engaged by telling the story about the cruise ship that recently caught fire in waters north of The Falklands, forcing everyone to abandon ship and get into lifeboats where some lay adrift upwards of seven hours.

The group was hanging on to Rodney’s every word and as we drove up to the warehouse, everyone got out of the car and swiftly followed him inside, pausing for just a moment as he unlatched the tall metal doors and pushed them open.

Everyone that is, but me.

I would like to believe that the group was so caught up in the excitement of the ocean rescue, the fact that their tour leader was left sitting in the back of the car like a dopey golden retriever, did little for my sense of worth.

I watched the passengers from both cars unload and walk into the building. Not a single one looked back. And if I am to be completely honest, I really did feel a bit like the family dog who had been left behind while the rest of the family went inside Chucky Cheese. And even though it was a Sunday morning and the town was deserted, I still looked around to see if anyone might notice I had been abandoned.

Surely, someone would realize I was missing. After all, I’m the tour leader!

And then the grim reality began to sink in. They didn’t miss me. No one was coming out to fetch me. I had to do the one thing I was fairly certain I couldn’t. I must try and pitch my entire body not just over the top of the second seat, but the space in between the top of the headrests and the roof. It’s about eight inches of clearance.

If I thought my body had been unnaturally contorted getting into my seat, it was about to get significantly worse

getting out.

I did search quite carefully for a handle inside the back door before committing to this unnatural act that lay ahead.

But clearly, unless I wanted to bang on the window and scream like I was suffocating to death on a hot summer day, the only way I could join my group was to go up and over.

And so, I did.

Somewhere during this insanely unladylike contortion, I had this flashback to the fantasies of my eternal youth where backseat acrobatics were a rite of passage — and one that I had successfully avoided until this very moment, feeling mightily queer that I was now doing this absurd contortion for the first time, (nearing the age of 60, not 16), and I was also doing it alone!

And then, an even odder sensation took hold. Part of me was grateful that no one was around to witness this inelegant feat, while the other part of me was prepared to emerge from the car and take a deep stage bow, flaunting the success of my extrication.

As it was, I did grab my right kneecap and momentarily gave it a quick jerk, urging it back into alignment.

I walked into the warehouse, an absolutely massive structure made of metal that the wind shook like an old screen door. The group was listening to Rodney explain how the wool bales are packed, marked, and shipped all over the world, when he looked up and saw me walking slowly across the floor. Poor man. It didn’t take him a heartbeat to figure out what had just happened and he immediately began apologizing for leaving me locked in the car.

I adore Rodney, and the very last thing I would ever want is for him to feel badly. And, in truth, I actually thought the whole thing was hilarious “Rodney, please don’t worry. Do you know how happy I am that you are so focused on keeping my tour members entertained, they don’t even know that I am missing? I couldn’t ask for better dedication.”

By this time, the rest of the group had also put the pieces together and began to look apologetic, even feigning genuine concern.

“I guess I know where your priorities are,” I announced.

“First comes wool, then comes the tour leader.” And so I would have remained in my second-place standing until the following day, our first day on Pebble Island where everyone in the group became enraptured by a parade of penguins — above all else.

By the end of the trip the line-up of priorities began with penguins in first place, wool bales were somewhere in the middle, and I, an aging, aching tour leader bringing up the rear. Literally.

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? k a oG t Y

Enticed by the wilderness, the West, and the sheer joy of leaving New Jersey behind, Carl and Eileen Koop reinvented themselves in their retirement as yak ranchers and fiber chefs.

story and photos

by l i n da co rt r i g h t

T

he feeling is inevitable. At one time or another everyone experiences that interminable mantle of awkwardness that is so pervasive it fills the cosmos. Sometimes the floundering can ease within moments. For others, these scenarios resemble the discomfort Carl Koop must have felt at his first yarn convention, a bit like Bruce Springsteen at a Tupperware party.

Carl and his wife, Eileen, are the founders of Bijou Basin, America’s premier retailer of yak yarn and other exotic fibers. They are fiber chefs, concocting beautiful flavors with imaginative ingredients, offering their creations to yarn connoisseurs from coast to coast. (Bijou actually participates in a local Knit Nosh: a food, wine, and yarn tasting event.) You might say Carl and Eileen are like the famed chef, Gordon Ramsey, except for one small detail — neither Carl nor Eileen can knit.

Before their fiber career, Carl and Eileen would have been labeled “nerds.” Nice nerds, mind you, but nerds nonetheless. Eileen is a chemist and can wax about polypeptides with enough passion to approach pornography. She is one of the chemical geniuses behind several well-known cleaning products, including Scott’s Liquid Gold, Orange Glo, and OxiClean (in fact, she holds several patents), but her real badge of honor from the lab bench is Alpha Hydrox, a simple acid from sugar cane now marketed by the cosmetic industry for its anti-aging properties.

“Eileen developed it, and Estée Lauder made it famous,” Carl says, in an undisputed moment of spousal pride.

Alternatively, Carl belongs to that squadron of computer geeks of yesteryear, eventually parlaying his talents into high-level security work for NASA and Boeing.

“I started working in the computer industry as a stock boy in the billing department for Sears and Roebuck, back when it was still referred to as ‘Sears and Roebuck’ and not just ‘Sears.’” A friend of my father’s had arranged an interview and I remember walking about a half mile from the bus stop to get there. It was pouring rain. I had hair halfway down my 30

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back. I was wearing an army jacket, and they said ‘Great! When can you start?’”

Carl worked late afternoons and evenings after school The Yak “Boss” - Carl Koop stocking computer punch cards (do not even begin to think modern day laptop), and as a young kid full of brains (and attitude) the learned “elders” — who were probably all of age 25 — were more than happy to teach Carl how to program computers so they could sit around, play poker, and look at girlie magazines.

Eventually, Carl made the transition from invoicing customers for three pairs of pantyhose and a lawn tractor on a punch card, to working for a Russian mathematician who created mindboggling equations for radar simulators (!) that Carl would convert into code.

“I just have a knack for that kind of stuff.

Don’t ask me why, I just do,” he says.

Now nearing an age when the Social Security checks will begin appearing in the mailbox, it is peculiar, at best, to note that Carl doesn’t hold a

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bachelor’s degree, much less one in computer science. “They didn’t have computer science degrees back then and by the time they did, I already had 20 years of experience.”

Standing six-feet, six inches, (still with a ponytail) and varying degrees of facial hair, Carl is not what most people imagine is behind the inner-workings of the world’s premiere space agency — much less an exotic yarn company.

And yet, Carl and Eileen are the perfect match, in spite of the fact that Carl’s mother repeatedly warned Eileen against marrying her son. They can still spat like alley cats, but both are quick to admit they would be lost without the other.

“Well, maybe not that lost,” Eileen adds after a perfectly dramatic pause.

In the early 1980s, Carl had the opportunity to move to Denver for his job. Both Carl and Eileen are avid outdoors people, preferring to spend their free time camping, fishing and hunting — not exactly the typical environs of their northern New Jersey. Carl’s eyes still gleam if not protrude slightly when he talks about moving to Colorado.

“Are you kidding? Moving here was like moving to Disneyland for us,” he says.

After years of working for big and small computer companies, Carl eventually started his own consulting business,

enabling he and Eileen to move farther and farther away from the Denver metro area, and neighbors!

“Everyday between 11 and one o’clock, we couldn’t answer the phone because that’s when the UPS truck would show up and the dogs would start going crazy,” Carl says. “You can make a company look really impressive on the outside when it’s really just a bunch of guys and empty pizza boxes sitting at home writing code.”

Call it a spoiler alert but when Carl and Eileen went from the world of high-tech to low-tech, they felt a little out of place. Gathered around the kitchen table at their ranch in Elbert, Colorado, with Seamus, the Irish wolfhound sprawled in the living room (commandeering at least 50 percent of the floor space), and Jane, the Old English sheepdog, (Seamus’s on-again, off-again girlfriend), Carl describes his first experience at Sock Summit, a three-day sock knitting conference in Portland, Oregon, hallmarked by estrogen bedlam.

“It was day one and I just finished setting up our booth in the convention hall and suddenly I am surrounded by thousands, but it felt like millions, of women all screaming about yarn. Even though I’m kind of a big guy I’m actually pretty shy in social situations. Talking to women is not something that comes easy to me and there they all were, clamoring

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for this yarn, with that twist, and some type of variegated something that I’d never heard of. I just stepped back and said, ‘Whoa… You’ve got two choices here: brown or white.’

Because back when we first started the company that’s all we had.”

Indeed, if it weren’t for acres of yaks now in their backyard, Carl and Eileen would never have become yak yarn peddlers. Actually, if it wasn’t for Judge Judy, they might not even have yaks at all.

Judge Judy, guilty as charged If Carl’s memory is to be trusted, it was a commercial for a veterinary tech school that he saw one afternoon while watching Judge Judy that altered his career path. As lifelong dog lovers, (their car of choice has always been the proverbial soccer van, so they could haul around their family of five (yes, five) Irish wolfhounds. Carl was tempted by the prospect of spending his “retirement” working with animals, and, initially, he thought he would work with companion animals and become a dog nurse. After two years of schooling and countless hours with a vet in the pick-up truck doing ranch visits, Carl realized he had an undeniable affinity for large animals.

“I like horses. I like being around them. But if you want to get rid of a whole lot of money in a hurry, buy a horse.

They don’t call them hay burners for nothing. Horses aren’t really good at making money, and if there’s one thing Eileen and I both like, right up there with breathing, it’s making money.”

One day while Carl was on a ranch call floating horses teeth, he saw two fluffy things come bounding out of the barn and thought, “I’m going to get a pair of those.” And that’s officially where it all started. They had already bought the 70-acre ranch in Elbert and were looking for something to raise.

Yaks, particularly the irresistible ones, were perfect at several levels. By keeping the property actively engaged in ranching, they would still benefit from the agricultural tax exemption. And yaks, unlike cattle, don’t have to be eaten to make money. (Although, they are tasty.) It is possible to make money as yak breeders, but after witnessing the politics of dog breeding, Carl and Eileen had no interest in exploring that option with yaks, and so the obvious choice became fiber.

“Eileen was on a business trip in China at the time, and most nights she would call home to make sure the house hadn’t burned down or I wasn’t in jail. I told her we were going into the yak business — see if you can’t bring some home with you. ”

Eventually, Carl made the transition from invoicing customers for three pairs of pantyhose and a lawn tractor on a punch card, to working for a Russian mathematician ...

Eileen recalls the episode slightly differently. “I came home from China and there were four yaks in the backyard.

Carl looks at me, shrugs his shoulders and says he has no idea how they got there. Can we keep them?”

And that’s how a pair of dog-lovers turned yak ranchers got into the yarn business.

The overwhelming majority of yarn vendors at a craft show are skilled artisans, often Indy dyers or designers who grab a skein of yarn and squeeze it in every direction with only slightly less pressure than the person performing a mammogram. Alternatively, Carl and Eileen squeeze a skein of yarn (yak yarn, initially) and their über analytical brains go to work calculating all the variables that contribute to the yarn’s tactile experience, which in the yarn industry commands about 90 percent of the vote.

According to Eileen, most knitters know what they like, but they won’t know exactly why they like it. They know alpaca feels softer than most wools, but they don’t know why.

They often mistake softness caused by slip, which is how much the fiber’s scales and crimp resist touch, versus, small micron (fiber diameter), which also feels soft to the touch Below: Bijou Basin roving: brown or white.

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“We don’t live in the middle of nowhere, but I can see it from my back door,” but in some fibers, lack scales or crimp.

“There’s a scientific reason why each fiber behaves uniquely, whether it’s how it holds dye, or how it blends with another fiber. We spent a lot of time and money in the beginning learning everything we could about the different fiber properties. A lot of what we learned actually came from our experience with Cecil Miskin, owner of Buffalo Gold,” Eileen says.

The luck of the buffalo When Carl and Eileen began exploring the fiber world, before they officially hung out the Bijou shingle, they traveled to the fiber festival in Taos, New Mexico. Armed with a shopping bag of short yak fiber, the spinning ladies told them to go see the buffalo man, he could tell them what to do with it. By chance, Eileen was wearing her jacket with the OxiClean logo that day, and by even greater chance, Cecil had seen a commercial for OxiClean at his hotel that morning and had made a mental note to contact them about working with buffalo fiber.

“We approached Cecil seeking his expertise, and I walked away with a job.” Eileen says, still laughing and still slightly amazed.

Working with Cecil taught Eileen and Carl two things: first, harvesting buffalo fiber (sloughing) was chemically more challenging than making a 60-year-old look 40. Second, making yarn wasn’t quite as low-tech as they had thought.

In the 10 years they have been hawking yarn, boasting a variety of yak place appropriate names such as Lhasa Wilderness, Tibetan Dream, Shangri-la, and Xanadu, Carl and Eileen have taken an uncommonly scientific approach to the industry. White is the Eileen Koop default color for any item that is to be dyed. It’s why the world is consumed by white cotton and has all but forgotten that cotton naturally grows in an array of colors from sandy brown, to moss green. Yak fiber, which, to be clear, is actually the down, or undercoat

of the yak, is overwhelmingly brown. It is possible to bleach the fiber before dying; however, bleaching involves bathing the fibers in caustic chemicals (Eileen is an expert in this), which unavoidably alter its hand or touch. Eileen and Carl didn’t want to use bleached fiber and so it took several years and lots of research to locate and develop a source of natural white fiber. Once they had a steady source of white fiber, they were able to introduce colors.

“In order to introduce variety into our yarn selection, we knew we were going to have to start blending the yak with other fibers. But you can’t take a short fiber like yak, and blend it with a long fiber, like alpaca, and expect to create a yarn that is going to hold-up over time. Nobody wants to spend the time and money that it takes to make a beautiful sweater only to have it start pilling after the second use,” Eileen says.

After a lot of trial and error using different mills with different equipment, Bijou’s best sellers include yak blended with bamboo, silk, and Cormo. “Each blend does something different to enhance the natural properties of the yak fiber, which is why people appreciate our yarn,” Eileen says.

In recent years, they have also added cashmere and qiviut to their yarn line, which, according to Carl, has given rise to a new emergency evacuation strategy at yarn shows. “I tell everyone who comes to our booth that if there’s a fire, we’re grabbing that top row of yarns, (the ones with qiviut and cashmere) and then we’re coming back for the people.”

Living with Carl might seem like Comedy Central is always turned on, although Eileen would hasten to add “not always.” In spite of his gregarious nature and immeasurably swift wit, he is instilled with doses of misanthropy, which accounts for why they moved from Elizabeth, Colorado (population 1,237), to their ranch in Elbert.

According to both Carl and Eileen, Elizabeth was just too crowded for Carl, which makes one wonder how he survived in New Jersey, the most densely populated state in the country, as long as he did.

“We don’t live in the middle of nowhere, but I can see it from my back door,” Carl says.

The price of water The town of Elbert (population 230) is miles upon miles of largely unimpeded and unpopulated prairie land. Historically, it was on the outer rings of the dust bowl and at one time was a relatively bustling community serviced by the w i l df ib e rsmag az i ne.com

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Blues skies, a straight fence line, and not a soul in sight.

railroad. In 1935, a major flood hit Elbert destroying crops and homes, along with hopes for the future. It has gradually gained momentum in the years since, but for the typical homeowner, Elbert’s popularity ranking is abysmally low.

Otherwise, Carl and Eileen wouldn’t have moved there.

To balance the frenzy of fiber festivals, (they vended at 15 shows in 2015), Carl and Eileen have the yaks. At one time, there were 35 of them, but when the drought hit in 2012, grasslands grew weak and hay prices skyrocketed. The cost of feeding that many yaks soon became economically impractical.

“There were a lot of ranches that went out of business practically overnight. You can’t keep livestock if you can’t afford to feed them. We were more fortunate than most since the yaks are not our primary source of income. But we had no choice, we had to cut back the size of our herd,” Carl says.

Bijou Basin Ranch is now home to nine yaks that are petted, pampered, and preened, with complete devotion. In the beginning, they purchased some yaks from a ranch in Colorado that raised animals from Jim Watson in Kalispell, Montana, who is known for raising highly tractable yaks, (he intentionally bottle-feeds babies to encourage human-bonding), so Eileen would feel more comfortable around them.

“These are big animals weighing upwards of 800 pounds.

How many women are going to walk into a pasture surrounded by that amount of hairy tonnage and feel comfortable?” says Carl.

The softer, gentler approach, so to speak, seems to have worked, and over the years Eileen has developed both a fondness and a respect for the yaks.

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“It’s very gratifying to have a back and forth relationship with large animals. You see intelligence in their eyes. You see different family traits. I thought of them as the stereotypical ‘big dumb animals’ until I really got to know them. You learn their different personalities, and when someone is in a good mood or not.

“Without the yaks, I wouldn’t have as much appreciation for the fiber and what it takes to harvest it,” she says.

On days when Carl is feeling particularly saucy and people ask how they get the fiber off the yaks, he tells them the ninjas come in at night and steal it. Eileen will tell you that they go out to the pasture with plastic bags and dog combs, (and a pocketful of yak cookies) to occupy them while they comb out the already shedding down.

Inevitably, Carl’s training as a vet tech has come in handy on the ranch, drawing a line in the sand between what he can

Cattle prod in hand, Eileen can maneuver around the big guys.

Love Me. Wear Me. Eat Me.

By Leslie Petrovski In January, Jandy Sprouse, president of the International Yak Association

Kora, an outdoor apparel company that

(IYAK) and owner with her husband Brad of Great Lakes Ranch in Maple

makes active wear using yak fiber sourced

City, Michigan, set up her booth at the National Western Stock Show in Den-

from Himalayan herders, claims the pure yak

ver, Colorado. There she laid out her two-ounce skeins of 70 percent yak/30

fabric they’ve created for their products is 40

percent bamboo yarns in sport and fingering weights—$55 and $60 respec-

percent warmer, 66 percent more breathable,

tively.

and 17 percent better at wicking water away

By the show’s close, three days later, the yarn was gone. “It’s gorgeous,”

from the skin. Citing a study on their web-

she says. “I can’t keep up with the demand for it.” The same is true for the

site by Sheffield Hallam University’s Centre

calves due to be born at the ranch this spring—all spoken for.

for Sport and Exercise Science, the company

Why yak?

says that when test subjects ran wearing Kora

Today, there are about 2,600 registered yak in North America. Though

base layers they lost an average of 3.5 degrees

still considered novelty livestock, yak are turning up in pastures, on menus—

Celsius compared to losses of 6 percent when

and, yes, knitting needles for myriad reasons. Interest in these prehistoric-

wearing merino or 8 percent for polyester.

looking bovines mirrors that of bison with much of the momentum due to

“People want it because it’s U.S.-raised and

growing interest in grass-fed meat. Independent studies conducted by IYAK,

produced,” Sprouse says. “It’s like the Slow

in fact, have demonstrated that yak has a similar nutritional profile to grass-

Food movement, where people want to know

fed beef and bison but is higher in moisture content so it tends to be juicier.

where their food comes from, they also want

“The meat business is huge,” says Sprouse, who’s been raising yak since

to know where their fiber comes from. We’re

1992 (the couple had the first registered yak in the United States). “It’s grass-

seeing new yak buyers who are looking at fi-

fed, low in cholesterol, there’s no marbling at all, and it’s higher in Omega 3s.

ber as another aspect of the livestock model

There are waiting lists for yak meat.”

to promote.”

Having sustained indigenous people in the Himalayas for thousands of years as a source of fuel, transportation, food, clothing, and shelter, yak also offer multiple income streams for prospective growers. There are markets for animals and calves, as well as milk (yak butter famously inspired the now almost-ubiquitous Bulletproof Coffee), meat, hides, and fiber.

While yak meat has made it onto the radar of innovative chefs for its sweet taste and healthy reputation, the fiber is equally as yummy. Though yak has yet to attain the status of exotics like cashmere and alpaca, the downy undercoat of these enormous beasts is not only softer than wool with micron counts rivaling that of cashmere, it’s also considered warmer and more durable.

and can’t handle. Every time there’s something wrong with an animal, he doesn’t go inside “screaming inside like a girl.”

His years in the field have taught him that in most cases the less he does, the better off the animal is. Yaks have not had every last survival instinct bred out of them and most times (not always) a problem will take care of itself. Not true, however, a few years back when a yak failed to fully expel the placenta after giving birth.

“I knew this was something I couldn’t do and so I called

Juvenile yaks. Photo: Jandy Sprouse

the vet. Eileen helped me get Ruby into the squeeze chute to immobilize her, and soon thereafter the vet arrived, scrubbed-up, put on those L-O-N-G rubber gloves and began reaching inside her, removing everything that didn’t come out with the calf.”

Eileen, was standing by, after all, they are her yaks too, and when it was all over she turned to Carl and confessed, she could have had a completely fulfilled life having never witnessed what she just saw. w i l df ib e rsmag az i ne.com

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Carl enjoying a playful round of “Follow the Leader.”

Detached placentas are not the norm. For the most part yaks are easy keepers. They need access to water, enough feed, (Carl also provides them with shelter in bad weather), sturdy fencing, and an annual dosing of anti-parasite medication. Unlike horses, they don’t need to have their teeth floated. And unlike most goats and sheep, they don’t need to have their hooves trimmed on a regular basis, although if they aren’t given enough space and hard surface to walk on, their hooves will grow uncomfortably long. And because they are beasts of burden, yaks have historically developed a relationship with man, and some of the yaks at Bijou Basin have also developed a sense of humor.

Doc, who is all black, and almost all male (part of one testicle is malformed), is one of those yaks best appreciated from the opposite side of the fence. Not that Doc isn’t friendly, quite the contrary. Doc, however is used to Carl’s style of “slap and tickle” tenderness and will greet a newcomer to the pasture by charging at them at full speed, eyes bulging in true enraged bull fashion, smoke thundering from his nostrils, and then stop about half an inch from the person’s nose and bow his head as if to say, “Now, pet me!”

Because most of the yaks aren’t quite as threatening as Doc, quite a few photo and video crews have been to the ranch. Carl knows how to keep the feisty ones at a distance — most of the time. A few months back a photographer turned his back and Doc came up from behind and in one seamless maneuver, slid his head between the man’s legs, scooped him into the air, and let him hang there just long enough so the photographer would never wonder who was in charge, and then set him back down again.

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Carl still can’t talk about the incident without getting a mildly sadistic chuckle. “Hey, no one got hurt, and think of the stories that guy will be telling his grandchildren 20 years from now!”

Precisely the first thought that went through the photographer’s mind after he changed his pants.

For all of Carl’s big-ness, including by his own admission, his big smart mouth, which got him a detention for nine days the very first day of high school, Carl’s greatest big-ness is his heart. Although his outward demeanor often bears the wounds of a rough and ready childhood in northern New Jersey, and the aching death of his older brother on the eve of adulthood, his love of nature, of animals, and Eileen, he has found sanctuary at Bijou Basin.

Eileen, on the other hand, projects a sense of steadfast calm (detached placenta not withstanding), and has recently returned to the chem lab, developing a new line of fiber wash, Allure.

“It’s chemically beautiful,” she says, once again with a tone of passion that makes most blush, and then adds with a tone of triumphant satisfaction that it has a secret ingredient — a little something related to skincare.

“You can’t believe how amazingly soft it makes the yarn feel,” says Carl, and suddenly you realize that he has, in fact, fully overcome his newbie awkwardness, making one wonder how long it would take Bruce Springsteen to actually feel comfortable selling Tupperware.

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For more information, please visit: bijoubasinranch.com

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Bani Hamida Preserving the future of Jordan’s weaving traditions amidst an influx of refugees from Syria and Iraq.

story and photos

by l i n da co rt r i g h t

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Traveling the desert for centuries, Bedouins traditionally have relied on their weaving to provide shelter from the harsh sand and sun. In the 1970s, the Bani Hamida stopped roaming, nearly bringing an end to a vital part of their heritage.

“

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t’s good to be the king,” a phrase often quoted from the Mel Brooks hit A Brief History of the World, Part I, is a sentiment not universally shared by modern day monarchs and certainly not by King Abdullah II of Jordan, who confessed to his close friends and family during a celebration honoring the tenth anniversary of his reign, “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Beleaguered by a perpetually contentious political climate, the Middle East has endured continuous upheaval since Moses revealed the Ten Commandments. More recently in the wake of the Arab Spring and languishing oil prices, even the sheiks are tightening their turbans. Barbarian tactics employed by various religious fanatics are no longer fanning the flames; they have incited their own inferno, making Jordan’s shared borders with Syria and Iraq an unimpeded gateway for escape. This tiny kingdom the size

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of Indiana has welcomed 600 thousand Syrian refugees in the past four years and more than 700 thousand from Iraq in the last twenty.

To absorb this deluge of frightened, displaced humans has been a tough assignment for a country of 7.5 million with 22 percent unemployment.

No wonder the king was willing to trade in his paycheck. Perhaps His Majesty should take up weaving.

In 1985, Save the Children Federation’s country director in Jordan, Rebecca Salti, established the Bani Hamida Women’s Weaving Project to help revive traditional Bedouin rug weaving and generate income. Twelve years later, the project merged with Jordan River Foundation (JRF), an NGO chaired by Her Majesty Queen Rania al-Abdullah.

The project now boasts a thirty-year history of providing employment for more than fifteen hundred women in thirteen villages during its zenith, weaving traditional Bedouin-style rugs that were once a staple of every Jordanian home. JRF’s showroom, located in a renovated schoolhouse along the affluent Rainbow Street on Jebel Amman, is filled with richly colored rugs and wall hangings, hand-embroidered pillows, and home accent pieces worthy of an interior decorator’s budget. The showroom caters to Jordan’s robust ex-pat clientele and well-heeled Jordanians, and its contents (and price tags) belie the impoverished conditions of its workers—a discrepancy further underscored when I am taken to Makawir to meet Hailma al-Qa’aydeh, the project’s director.

On the day before the start of Ramadan (absurdly bad timing), I leave Amman, accompanied by Gretta Khaso, JRF’s lead designer, for the fifty-mile drive south along the King’s Highway. As we pass through Madaba, a city noted for its historic tile work and a growing bedroom community for Amman, urban density and its

confinement soon yield to an expanse of desert populated by herds of mangy goats, Bedouin encampments, and enough trash to start a landfill the size of lower Manhattan. A haze of heat and lung-gripping dust is permanently affixed to the horizon, and though I am not at risk of becoming king (or queen), I do think I would prefer a throne elsewhere.

The Bani Hamida are a seminomadic Bedouin clan who roamed what is now the Kingdom of Jordan for millennia. They were revered horse breeders and owned most of the land east of the Dead Sea. In the early 1970s, the Bani Hamida settled on the windy hilltops of their summer pastureland in Makawir. And because I wasn’t completely attentive during my sixth-grade bible class, I now have to be reminded that Makawir is where King Herod built his citadel atop the mountain, just a short drive from Bani Hamida’s headquarters and local showroom.

Makawir is also where John the Baptist lost his head! Having openly criticized the king for marrying Herodias, his half-brother’s wife, John the Baptist was imprisoned at the castle, Machaerus. The king spared John the Baptist his life, preferring instead to listen to the words of a righteous and devout teacher. Herodias, however, had a less benevolent attitude. Thus, when Salome, her fourteen-year-old daughter, artfully seduced the king (her stepfather) during a ceremonial dance, he offered to grant the young girl any earthly desire. At her mother’s behest, Salome requested the head of John of Baptist. It was soon proffered on a large platter.

Not surprisingly, the locals call Machaerus Qala’at al-Meshneq—Gallows Castle.

Craft-based women’s cooperatives that provide income and empowerment are approaching commonplace. In 1985, the Bani Hamida Weaving Project was a pioneering adventure, perfectly suited for an area where many, according to data provided by the World Bank, were considered the “poor-

BEDOUIN GROUND LOOM

t

Space. St yle. Strength.

raditional Bedouin weaving is done on a ground loom, which differs significantly from both a backstrap and floor loom with moveable beams. On a ground loom the entire warp is fully extended, typically between two wooden posts firmly pounded into the ground. Modern ground looms, typically built inside, are attached to rebar driven down through a cement floor.

Using a ground loom, the weaver must physically move along the piece, passing the weft (horizontal) threads back and forth.

Both backstrap and floor looms work more like a paper towel holder. The warp threads are wrapped around two separate rolls, or beams, exposing only a small amount of workspace. As the weaving progresses, the weaver is stationary, unrolling the warp from one side, and rolling up the newly woven cloth on the other.

Ground looms are designed to create heavy cloths used for making tents and rugs, often using coarse sheep and goat hair for the warp, able to withstand the tension of being fully stretched out.

Alternatively, the two “paper towel rolls” reduce the direct tension on the warp from up to 15 feet (for a long runner to tent panel), to only a few feet of working space.

Some modern weavers agonize over the amount of space a floor loom occupies in their house, using a ground loom would be unthinkable.

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Top: The entrance to Bani Hamida headquarters in Makawir.

Bottom: Halima outside her home with car keys in hand!

est of the poor.” A typical household in Makawir earned 100 JOD (Jordanian dinar) about $70 a month, to feed, clothe, and potentially educate a family of eight or more children. Nearly 45 percent of the men worked outside the area, many employed by the army. Infant mortality was 50 percent higher than that of Jordan as a whole. Malnutrition was chronic, and tuberculosis still prevalent.

Bani Hamida began with just 12 women from Makawir, who produced four flat-weave rugs. Within five years, the project grew to 389 weavers, 6 dyers, 22 village supervisors, and 80 loom setters. Moreover, there was a marked shift from older women, who could be seen spinning and weaving outside their 46

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homes in traditional Bedouin dresses, to younger women, many of whom had some literacy skills and were able to manage light bookkeeping and other administrative duties.

The increase in the number of project participants over such a short time was decidedly impressive. The underlying question, however, came down to dollars and cents. Did Bani Hamida and the money that had been poured into it from numerous outside agencies genuinely make a difference in the lives of these women?

USAID commissioned a Community Impact Assessment in 1990, and this indicated that although the income derived from spinning, carding, dyeing, and weaving did not alleviate the women’s poverty, it did fill the gap between minimal survival and basic living standards and provide increased spending power for food, clothing, and education. More importantly, it was also the beginning of a woman’s ability to lessen her dependence on her husband. Bani Hamida had launched not only a successful rug business but the beginning stages of empowerment in a culture that historically accorded a woman no worth outside her responsibilities as wife and mother.

Bani Hamida was lacing the air with the sweet smell of independence.

Shortly before 10 a.m., we arrive at Halima’s home. She greets me at the gate in a simple, maroon abaya and mustard-colored hijab. Despite the remoteness of her location and the humble surroundings of her upbringing, Halima has grown accustomed to nosy journalists with intrusive cameras.

She is the very model of success—without question—and has received national and international recognition for her work.

Raised in a traditional Bedouin family, the oldest of twelve children, Halima was one of the younger women in the community to join Bani Hamida. Initially she volunteered as wool-washer but eventually became a skilled weaver. Her unique designs brought attention to her work, and soon she began taking on more responsibilities.

It was also during this time that Halima was engaged to breakfast—meat, sweets, fruit, fresh yogurt and pastries, be married. As her workload increased and began to include freshly baked bread with fresh zatar (the Middle Eastern traveling to other weavers, her fiancé (also from a traditional go-to spice mix), and a selection of olives from her very own Bedouin family) and, moretrees, which would be comover, her future mother-in-law pletely ruined if dropped in Infant mortality was 50 percent objected. They did not want a martini. I tell Halima that higher than that of Jordan as a whole.

Halima to become a model of King Abdullah could not have modern independence, particdone better!

Malnutrition was chronic, and ularly if it meant being alone Halima offers me utentuberculosis still prevalent. in a car with a man! Halima sils, suspecting I might not decided to marry someone be comfortable using my else. She now has a driver’s license and is the proud owner of hands—not true. In between mouthfuls and handfuls, Gretta a white pickup truck. describes the plans for the day. Our visits will be kept short Halima’s house is upscale by local standards. There is in order to include everything. Many of the women will be a large living room and kitchen, two bedrooms, a modern leaving work early to prepare for Ramadan’s month-long fast bathroom, and not a speck of dust to be found anywhere (my and feast cycle. Although there is no religious reason for me lungs notwithstanding). On the floor, there are beautiful not to visit during Ramadan, its first few days are particularhandwoven rugs she made, along with several wall hangings ly difficult. People are adjusting to rising early for morning and a small stack of rugs tucked in the corner. They are for prayer, completely fasting during daylight hours (many will her daughter’s trousseau. not even drink water) and only after sunset and more prayer will they enjoy an ample meal. Despite the prolonged period of abstinence, some Muslims actually gain weight during RaTradition dictates a small feast, at the very least, to madan by more than compensating in the evening what they welcome a guest. The dining room table is fully laden or have eschewed all day long.

Breakfast fit for a King!

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Jordan takes its lead from Saudi Arabia in determining how much flexibility there is to Ramadan. Last year, restaurants in Amman were allowed to stay open during the daytime to cater to the non-Muslim population. However, they had to keep the curtains drawn so passersby could not see people eating. This year, the restaurants are not permitted to open during the daytime, and most abide, except for some of the international fast-food chains such as Pizza Hut and Starbucks, which leads me to wonder if thousands of ex-pats are on a thirty-day diet of mochaccinos and four-topping pizzas.

Our first stop is to a weaver’s home. It is only a tenminute drive to get there but the heat has already become so intense, I suspect I will wilt the moment I leave the air-conditioned car. Any conciliatory thoughts about it being a dry heat are total rubbish.

The roads in Amman are well paved, and in this area, not particularly well traveled. We pass just two vehicles, each with a male driver. The majority of women travel by foot, or by bus if they are going to Madaba for shopping or to see a

doctor. Most don’t travel at all. Many women still have large families, and as we drive up the hill to the weaver’s home, a swarm of young kids surrounds our car. Anyplace else I might think it is the neighborhood gang. But here, I suspect the children all belong to one person.

“Salam-alaikum,” I say to the woman, who is seated on the dirt floor, her legs outstretched on either side of the floor loom. She looks up at me, smiles, and responds, “Wa alaikum-salam” (and peace be upon you).

I am thoroughly enchanted by her beauty and broad white smile. HowevWeaving with one’s toes! er, a very small child, perhaps only two, is clutching her mother hard and wailing! The little girl stares at me with rich black eyes, consumed by terror.

Traditionally, Bedouins would weave outside constantly combatting the wind and the dirt. The clean cement floor makes for better working conditions and a cleaner finished product.

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I don’t know what to do. I suspect my features, my pale skin, my blonde (uncovered) hair, are unfamiliar and therefore alarming. Gretta explains that it is not my Americanness, it is because the father is not there to protect them.

The little girl’s screaming continues, and no amount of comforting seems to work. I wonder if I should leave.

Meanwhile, curiosity has taken hold of the gang of children outside, and they begin creeping through the building’s open, garage-style door. They are older and couldn’t care less about the color of my hair (covered or otherwise). Jordanians are typically quite accepting of uncovered women, perhaps a carryover from King Hussein’s wife, the Americanborn Queen Noor.

One of the kids in the gang comes over and scoops up the screaming toddler. Within a few minutes quiet ensues, and I am able to talk with the weaver.

The woman uses a homemade back strap loom that is both long and heavy, forcing her to constantly adjust the tension by doing a modified fanny crawl every few rows to keep the threads taught. She has eight children (a few gang members apparently are not hers), and she relies on her weaving money to help feed, clothe, and educate her brood. Without Bani Hamida, she would have no other means of earning an income.

The piece she is working on is stunning, and Halima bends over to inspect the work, both praising the weaver and simultaneously pointing out a few areas that could be better.

I ask the woman if she enjoys weaving. She pauses, and then shakes her head in resignation. “Not really,” she answers. The wool is rough and chafes at her hands. She extends them for me to examine. But weaving is her only option. Apparently, she would prefer spending time with the goats, the very mention of which brings out her beautiful smile.

With no further prompting, the weaver gets up from the floor and leads me outside to a small corral. Most of the goats (at least twenty) are resting under a tarp to escape the sun, but as I swing my leg over the fence they all come running. My arrival does not incite screams of panic. Perhaps they know I am vegetarian.

Even without benefit of direct communication, it is clear the woman enjoys being with the goats, an attitude I find somewhat surprising. The stereotypical relationship between Muslims and livestock does not often include great affection, contrary to how many Westerners view their animals, even the ones they eat! However, because of her unmistakable affection, I ask if she has a favorite.

She does, and points to an all white goat that has noticeably been by her side. Most of the goats are brown or black, with pendulous ears and spindly legs. They are used for both

meat and milk, but after the Bani Hamida settled, many of them reduced their herd size because they were no longer on the move full-time and therefore needed to purchase feed for their animals during the sedentary season.

I ask the woman if she will let me take a picture of her and her beautiful white goat, and after a few quick shots, she tells me to wait one moment and she disappears under the tarp, emerging moments later holding a baby goat. Having

Top: The author makes a faux pas. Below: The other “kids” are thrilled to have their picture taken.

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Opposite: Initially treated like a feared enemy, the child bids me farewell from the safety of her front entrance.

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I did not hop over the fence in my long skirt to keep clean, I explain. I hand my camera to Gretta so I can literally embrace the moment, and without a second thought, I cuddle the baby and lightly kiss its head.

Everyone goes silent. Even the gang, who have stayed five paces behind me and are now lined up along the fence, let out a collective gasp.

In that very instant, consumed by my maternal goatiness, I have forgotten where I am. It is one thing to enjoy goats, it is quite another to put your lips on one! If I had got down on all fours and licked the ground, it would have been just as offensive, possibly less.

No matter how hard I try. No matter how many books I read or thoughtful inquiries I make in advance to observe cultural norms, I still make mistakes. This particular mis-

tail

The Kiss

step, however, is not as egregious as some. Never ask a Chinese woman, for example, if she sought acupuncture during her pregnancy. She will ignore you completely, if not excuse herself from the room. Fortunately, the damage is quickly repaired when I ask Gretta for my camera and begin snapping pictures of the children.

All “kids” make great pictures.

The dye house is the next stop, and though it is only early afternoon, the women are anxious to get home and begin preparations for Ramadan. I promise them I will be quick, as quick as anyone can sprint about the desert, that is.

The facilities are spotless, and it is not because the workers have been alerted about my arrival. It is because of Halima, who is both determined and fair-minded and runs Bani Hamida with one criterion: perfection.

In the first building, made of cement block and no bigger than a one-car garage, there are four propane-fired dye vats. The last batch of the day, a pleasing shade of Christmas green, is being lifted out, causing a blast of steam that momentarily obscures the face of the lifter—and my camera lens.

Natural dyes were initially used when the project began in the 1980s. Many of the women did the spinning, carding, weaving and dyeing completely on their own—just as

de

raised my own goats for nearly twenty years, my reaction is completely reflexive. I stretch out my arms and she passes the kid over, cautioning me that he is full of dirt and “stuff ” and would soil my blouse.

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they always had. They were not, however, used to working with the large quantities of the wool that the project soon required, and it wasn’t long before measures were taken to ensure personal safety regarding the use of highly caustic mordants. Eventually synthetic dyes imported from Switzerland replaced natural ones.

The head dyer motions to guide me to another building.

It is her kitchen. The shelves are full of jars with colored powder and foreign labels. She opens a three-ring binder and flips through page after page, individually encased in plastic sleeves, showing off her recipes with samples of colored yarn for every single dye lot.

Trying to replicate the exact dye recipe is challenging even in modern settings. In the desert, where water, which is both precious and expensive, must be hauled in, it is nearly impossible. I marvel at her skill and color consistency, recognizing the impediments of her environment.

She appreciates my words of praise, in fact so much so that as we are leaning over the binder together, she wraps her arms around me and squeezes, long and tight. For those who have never explored the true meaning of travel, a single moment like this is what makes many of us continue to stretch the limits of comfort, seeking out different cultures, forging new relationships, and relishing moments like these, if only for a second or two.

Interestingly, twenty minutes earlier, I was kissing a goat in a manner that I guarantee resembled how 99 percent of Americans kiss their dog or cat (and likely their goats too, if they own any). Now, I am standing next to a total stranger, I don’t even know her name, and she is holding me closer than my own mother with her Puritan upbringing would ever have allowed.

Where I came from, people didn’t go around hugging strangers, and if they did, they were soon taken elsewhere. It is a mixed-up world we live in.

“Would you like to visit the spinners?” asks Gretta, “I think there is still time. They work from their home.”

Back in the car with the air-conditioning set to “tornado,” I try to adjust to the relentless heat and barren landscape.

Undoubtedly my glorious Maine winters with subzero temperatures and acres of snowfall would be equally disturbing to those who call the desert home.

We pass only a handful of cars on the way to the spinners’ home. Again, there are no female drivers in sight. Unlike the weaver, whose home is more on the outskirts of the village, these women live in a closer community. In fact, it is a designated community of spinners, which has evolved as the result of Bani Hamida. The houses are by no means stacked on top of each other like Jenga blocks. They are, however, 52

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within easy walking distance, allowing the women to enjoy the benefits of a common purpose.

A Tale of Two Sisters We pull up to the spinner’s house where two sisters live. It seems quite large in fact, as it has two stories.

There is no gang to greet me. There is, however, a moppy-headed young girl who catapults at me from the front door, screaming the whole way. She is several years older than the previously distressed child. But still, the fact that my presence is so disquieting feels equally disquieting in return.

By the time we reach the front door, I have a different read on the situation and surmise that the little girl has probably been screaming for hours, possibly all week.

Two women in black abayas are standing in the doorway.

They are the sisters, and they appear older than the other women I have met. Possibly they are in their late fifties or sixties. The harsh sun is certainly no friend of gentle skincare.

Inside, there is a large receiving room with a kitchen

Top: A dyer carefully removes a freshly “cooked” skein. Below: The two spinning sisters. Left: Freshly dyed wool, set outside to dry.

in the back and another room to the side. At least five other things brown and varying shades thereof. people are milling about, occasionally appearing in door“It’s imported from New Zealand,” says Gretta. ways to catch a glimpse of the foreigner. At least three genA combination of the volume of wool needed for Bani erations live here: the two sisters, one husband, an undeterHamida, the amount of water needed to thoroughly scour it, mined number of children and plus the difference between grandchildren—the screamer using native brown wool verWhy should Jordan be any different belonging to the latter catsus all white to maintain dye from so many other lands, utilizing clean, consistency makes New Zeaegory.

One of the grandchildren, a land wool a better and more beautiful, white wool, direct from young boy in his teens, runs to economic alternative.

Down Under? the kitchen to get me a chair, Why should Jordan be any assuming I will not want to sit different from so many other on the floor. Mind you, it’s not sitting on the floor that I find lands, utilizing clean, beautiful, white wool, direct from troublesome, it’s the getting up. Still, I wave my hand and say Down Under? it is not necessary. After all, when in Makawir …

Part of my conversation with Gretta regarding the sheep Without prompting, the women get their wooden drop is translated for the two sisters, I’m just not sure which part, spindles and begin to demonstrate, wrapping huge wads of but one of them disappears and returns moments later, handcombed wool around their arm, absently rolling the spindle ing me a pair of sheep shears. I am not sure if they still own across their thighs, and setting the process in motion. The sheep, but the shears are clearly worn, although still sharp wool seems surprisingly white, and I can’t imagine where to the touch. I return the shears so I can hold my camera they are keeping all the white sheep in this land noted for all instead. Once again, the sister disappears, shears in hand, w i l df ib e rsmag az i ne.com

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My beautiful spinner.

returning them from whence they came.

Sitting on the cool tile floor, just watching the two women spinning away, is a scene of blessed quietude. That is, until the screamer bursts into the room, shears in hand, running straight for me. I am at eye-level!

If this had happened in the US, or, in any number of locations other than the Middle East, I might have attempted to block the attack or, at the very least, scream back. But being rendered blind for the sake of international relations seems like a steep price. I manage to quickly scramble to my feet instead, leaving my partly exposed shins in the line of attack where I suspect I will not suffer a mortal blow.

Fortunately, a young woman emerges from the kitchen and apprehends the assailant—perhaps this is her mother— and I soon return to watching my two spinners. They invite me to try their drop spindles. Past experience has taught me never to let on that I know how to spin because that instantly raises expectations. I don’t, however, use a drop spindle, and my efforts are clumsy. One of the sisters begins to demonstrate how the wool should be properly wound around my arm, and once again that sense of sweet familiarity takes hold as she wraps her arms around me to get the positioning just-so.

I try to learn a bit about their family. Who is married to 54

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whom, and how many children do they each have? One sister has six children, her husband drives the van that picks up the Bani Hamida workers and takes them to the dye house and the main office. The other, my spinning instructor, who has a gentleness to her aging face that approaches ethereal, has seven children. Her husband left her for another woman and now lives in northern Jordan.

She softly turns her head and looks at me with sadness.

“Perhaps, if I were beautiful, he would not have left.”

I want to weep. I want to hold her in my arms and tell her how beautiful she is. I want her to know that she is not to blame for her husband’s leaving. She is perfect just as she is.

I want to erase the wound in her heart that has been festering for years. I want to do all these things, but I can not.

Instead, I look at her in a way that I hope conveys we are kindred spirits. Not necessarily because of being abandoned by a husband, but because of a sense of inadequacy that can never be mended.

Jordan is a land where men can still have multiple wives, but even so, it’s not always good to be the king.

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For more information about Bani Hamida, please visit: wwww.jordanriver.jo

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A Life in Threads Tucked away on a backstreet in Amman, Jordan, women piece together the fragments of their life.

story and photos

by l i n da co rt r i g h t

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The women at the Al Karma Center are delighted to pose for the camera.

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n the months leading up to my visit to Jordan, I was keenly focused on the news – particularly reports from Al Jazeera. I was hoping that during my brief visit to the Middle East, I would be able to cross into Syria and interview a sheep farmer. My visit to Afghanistan a few years back had given me an extraordinary appreciation of conflict zones and the role natural fibers can play. A quick hop over the border from Jordan into Syria would no doubt expand that understanding, and so I kept on the lookout for “minor” insurgencies not necessarily covered in US headlines.

My plans ran amok before I even landed in Amman, Jordan. My American friend, who would connect me with the man who could take me to Syria, wrote and told me her mother was dying, and she was returning to the States. However, I could still use her driver, who spoke very good English, she reassured me.

I wasn’t convinced.

I thought long and hard about whether this was a sign that I should cancel the trip. I was already in India, checking on the progress of the Cashmere Center. Perhaps I shouldn’t press my luck and should just return home. By the next day, I had convinced myself that I hadn’t done anything stupid, yet … and at the very least, I should continue with my plans and write about Bani Hamida, a 30-year project run by Jordan River Trust to support Bedouin women through traditional rug weaving.

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Top: Pillows for sale at the Jordan River Trust showroom. Below: An exquisite hand embroidered tapestry depicting the Tree of Life.

Amer motioned toward a heavy metal gate with a guard shack at the side.

I had no delusions that anyone in the neighborhood spoke English.

Now, I was reading Al Jazeera even more carefully.

By the time I arrived in Jordan, my friend’s mother had died and she was already flying back to Amman. Our flights landed within less than an hour of each other and we rode home from the airport together at 3 a.m., mystified that things had worked out. Her driver, Amer, spoke very good English, just as she promised.

By the following morning, actually it was just a few hours later the same morning, I was in a car, heading to Makawir to visit the Bedouin weavers. When I returned that evening, I learned the mission to Syria was cancelled. My liaison needed to go to Damascus and, unlike our trip, which would have been under the radar, he was traveling in a heavily guarded entourage involving several flights and multiple changes in armored convoys.

“It’s all protocol,” he explained. “It is actually just 110 miles from here by car.”

I was disappointed. I still wanted to see if there was some way, perhaps, I could connect Syrians and fiber during my stay. The fact that Ramadan began on the second day of my visit only exacerbated my efforts that much more.

On the very last day of my stay in Amman, in the last few hours in fact, while en route to the airport, I finally found my Syrian connection, the Al Karma Center. Located in Jabal Al Natheef, a poverty-stricken area in northern Amman, the center is run by Jordan River Foundation, employing impoverished Jordanians, Palestinian and now Syrian refugees to machine sew and embroider traditional crafts.

The Al Karma Center didn’t involve working with wool or silk, or any of the typical “wild fiber” categories, but it did involve women’s empowerment.

Broadening the definition of wild fibers for this one instance seemed wholly appropriate.

Amer groaned as he stuffed my oversized duffle bag into the trunk of his car. “I do not have much energy. I do not eat all day.” Ramadan, especially in the beginning, does little to lift national spirit, as more than 95 percent of the country walks around hungry and weak. I leaned forward to help him but he waved me aside.

A few days earlier he tossed the very same bag into the car at the airport with ease, and I had easily maneuvered it down several flights of stairs. Clearly, Amer felt weak.

Amer had a vague idea of where the Al Karma Center was located, but there was no street address or phone number to confirm, and so we drove to northern Amman and began asking. Several times Amer got out of the car to ask for directions – always from a man – and invariably, the person would look at me in the back seat with a questioning eye.

After seeking directions from the fifth person, I sensed it was time to abandon the search. I had a flight to catch!

Amer persisted and finally we stopped in the middle of the street. “We’re here!” he announced.

There was nothing around me but empty storefronts, wasting away like everyone else.

Amer motioned toward a heavy metal gate with a guard shack at the side. I had no delusions that anyone in the neighborhood spoke English.

“Are you sure this is the place?”

“Yes, see the sign?” There was a very small sign on the side of the building. But how was I going to get past the guard?

“Please, Amer, would you just go and explain why I’m here?”

Amer agreed, but his body language suggested he was not being paid to be my liaison.

From the mo-

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It was stunning to watch how deftly this woman was able to maneuver the sewing machine across the canvas.

ment I got out of the car, heads began to turn. Faces appeared in windows, and casual looks turned into full-blown stares. I grabbed my bag, trying to console my nerves with the fact that my visit would be brief.

The guard waved me through and motioned me to a doorway in the back. I had not a clue where I was going, nor could I ask. I went through the door and climbed a flight of stairs, calling out “hello, hello” to announce my arrival. Of

course, I should have been shouting, salaam alaikum, but I didn’t think of that.

A middle-aged woman in a black print abaya and rich purple hijab appeared at the top of the stairs. Her eyes were outlined with kohl like a black magic marker. She was the manager and the guard had called to forewarn her. With open arms she gave me a sweet hug and my fears were gone.

The woman spoke few words of English, but after I showed her a copy of Wild Fibers and explained that I was doing a story on Bani Hamida, she understood my mission.

What she couldn’t understand is what I was doing going all over the world by myself.

A few minutes earlier I was asking myself the very same question.

The center employs 40 women who come to work daily, bent over sewing machines and creating handcraft projects, including a beautiful line of decoupage giftware and the most spectacular kites! Another 250 women do piecework from home, coming to the center to pick-up and drop-off their projects. A growing number of them are Syrian refugees — many of them widowed, all of them penniless and heartbroken. The Al Karma Center is the only thing offering them a measure of hope, helping to keep food on the table (continued on page 61)

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with possibly some money leftover for schooling.

Without a translator, my ability to write a comprehensive was abolished. But even without words, I could get a sense of how things worked.

The woman led me into a small room furnished with a desk and several chairs. This was where the women came to collect their piecework and it was crowded, buzzing with chatty voices clearly engaged in gossip, not business. The atmosphere surprised me and I was immediately taken in, showing them pictures of other women from around the world that told the story in a way my words could not.

I sat down next to one woman who was working a cross-stitch piece. She was Jordanian and had been working at the center for 15 years. All she could do was smile, and her sense of calm seemed to belie the circumstances of her life. She was the antithesis of the woman standing next to her, dressed in all black. This woman was a Syrian refugee and had started working at the center less than a year ago.

She looked at me, and she looked me straight in the eye. Before she said a word, her pain became overwhelming. She began shaking her head from side to side, telling me her home was “gone.”

She bent her head down and continuing to shake back and forth, her voice grew weaker, her son was “gone” too. She looked at me for a moment, to see if I understood what she was saying with just a few words of English, and I realize that my words would fail to support her.

She looked back down again, this time grabbing hold of her right thigh. “My daughter,” she said quietly, “The bomb.” And then there was a long pause. “Gone,” she repeated, indicating her daughter’s leg had been blown off.

What a fool I had been. How naïve of me to think that somehow in my desire to understand how women were rebuilding their lives, I could bear witness to their past. This woman was not seeking my sympathy, she was telling her story because it is the reality that now defines every day of her life. Her eyes told me her soul was broken, and my inability to console her felt excruciating.

There was a young boy clutching her hand, I suspect he is a grandchild. Perhaps from her son, or her daughter, it doesn’t matter. He, too, looks shattered. His childhood now shredded like tiny

This beautiful young lady had just finished her schooling and was on our second day of training at the center. The money she earned, she hoped, would enable her to continue her education.

bits of shrapnel.

The woman was given a bag with a new embroidery project to work on, and as she went to leave I reached for her. I took her by both hands and looked straight at her.

“I am glad you are safe now. I pray your future will grow brighter.”

“Inshallah,” [if it is god’s will] she replied, and walked out the door.

Several minutes later I also walk out the door. Amer has been waiting in the car for me.

“How did the interview go?” he asked out of politeness.

“It was fine. I guess … I just don’t think I will write about it.”

He looked confused, but I didn’t explain. Indeed, how can such F misery ever be put into words?

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Looking for Shepherds and Spaceships

i n K a l myki a Russia’s only Buddhist republic is home to thousands of fine wool sheep and a rather peculiar past president.

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s a child, my understanding of international relations was no more complicated than the contents of my lunch box. There were good countries like England and France. They were the PB&J of politics, tasty and always welcome. There were mediocre countries like Brazil and Turkey; neither good nor bad and largely unremarkable, like a meatloaf sandwich. And then there was the USSR, the bologna of foreign relations. It looked bad. It smelled bad.

And no one, at least in my group of friends, ever touched it. This was the perfect response in the Cold War era, in which I grew up believing USSoviet relations would never thaw.

When the Cold War did come to an end, I still couldn’t imagine a world where the golden hammer and sickle wasn’t battering the skies above the Kremlin. Nor could I imagine that one day I would step off a plane in Moscow, preparing to go chasing after sheep.

“I will be your best guide ever,” Lada says, erupting with enthusiasm as we drive to her home in Moscow’s suburbs.

Lada Kirisenko and I had met the previous year when she stopped by my booth at New York Sheep and Wool Festival. Connected by our mutual love of fibers (she raises Angora rabbits, known as “fluffy rabbits” by most Russians), Lada agreed to be my guide during an upcoming trip to her country. More importantly, she also agreed to help me find an unusual sheep story to go along with the story about the famous Orenburg knitters

that I had already arranged.

Once Lada returned home we Skyped intermittently, reviewing possible destinations until she found the perfect place. The country was called Kalmykia.

Kalmykia?

I had never heard of Kalmykia, I didn’t recall seeing it on the tattered world map my geography teacher used to pull down in front of the blackboard, and apparently Lada didn’t know much about Kalmykia either.

“I think we will be like cosmonauts. It will be big adventure!” she said. Little did she know how accurate her forecast would be.

Opposite page: At the entrance to the newly built temple in Elista stands a shepherd and his sheep, symbolizing the country’s pastoral roots. story and photos

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“I think we will be like cosmonauts.

It will be big adventure!”

A few years back, The Economist, published an article titled “Earth to Kalmykia” about Kirsan Ilyumzhinov, Kalmykia’s former president. It seems Lada and I weren’t the only ones with a galactic mission.

Kalmykia is about the size of Scotland and has two commodities: sheep and oil. It is also the only Buddhist republic in Europe and houses the largest plastic Buddha in the world—the Kalmyks will say it is made from “advanced space-age composites!”

Same thing.

Former president Ilyumzhinov is perhaps the only national leader who is also a former boxing champion and chess champion and who at one time counted among his circle of close buds the Dalai Lama, Sadaam Hussein, and Steven Segal. (He was also a friend of Muammar Gaddafi, but they rarely got to see each other.) As a postscript to this atypical portfolio, Kirsan is also millionaire who was kidnapped while still in office. He was abducted, or so he says, from his Moscow apartment by aliens wearing yellow space suits!

The Kalymyks were aghast. The Kremlin was not amused.

What might have been written off by some as an evening with too much vodka, too much Star Trek, or both caused several higher-ups to immediately become concerned about the possibility that Kirsan might have leaked state secrets during his brief, extraterrestrial rendezvous. Their efforts to prosecute Kirsan or, at the very least, detain him were hampered by the fact that there is no formal Russian protocol for handling leaders of state “who have been abducted by aliens.”

Nearly twenty years since, this bureaucratic loophole remains open.

Lada assures me we will visit a big Merino farm, but long before I see my first sheep, I am obsessed with learning more about Kirsan and his fellow countrymen. I don’t know when I will get another chance to visit the only Russian Buddhist Republic whose president went AWOL in outer space.

Kirsan’s political career could fill a book, and like many leaders, he chose to write one—while still in office. At least two chapter headings are unsettling, “Without Me the People Are Incomplete” and “It Only Takes Two Weeks to Have a Man Killed.”

Seriously?

A very damp day in Moscow. Fortunately, no aliens in sight!

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Poverty, pipelines, and prayer wheels dominate Kalmykia’s landscape, and Kirsan was known to use a yellow Rolls Royce on his campaign trail. It was reported that, at one time, he owned ten Rolls Royces. He dismissed the accusation as utter nonsense. “I have only six!” he snapped.

“Good cars. Well built.”

Kirsan left office in 2010, passing the baton on to one of his close friends, Alexy Orlov. Alexy has apparently not left the planet, or if he has, he’s not saying a word about it. The Kalmyks, for the most part, have forgotten Kirsan, although he is still very much in the news as the head of FIDE, the world chess federation. The country has more pressing issues to handle, including the desperate state of desertification plaguing 85 percent of its once fertile landscape.

The culprit responsible for this problem is at the top of my itinerary.

Kalmykia was once a thriving agricultural landscape with thousands—even millions—of sheep, camels, and cattle dotting an endless vista of European Steppe, reaching to the Caspian Sea. The land has now been chewed, or rather, stomped bare. Among the most egregious offenders are the

a Rolls.) The architecture is bland, reminding me of dry toast in need of a little jam. But there are a few bright red pagodas with golden dragons, peeking through the treetops. The juxtaposition of the two styles is nothing short of bizarre.

“I think you feel like home with the temples.” Lada is aware that I have spent time traveling in other Buddhist lands.

“Not entirely,” I answer. The temples and dragons are indeed familiar. However, the chessboards with oversized pieces scattered about town remind me that there is still some Soviet “bologna” flavoring the atmosphere.

By eight o’clock the next morning, Lada and I are heading to the sheep farm, and escaping lackluster architecture and uber Buddhas, we begin our three-hour drive over mostly unpaved roads to the village of Achinery. With every mile, Kalmykia’s tired landscape grows weaker as the history of this human and environmental crime scene begins to unfold.

Kalmyks—the word comes from the Turkish word “kalmak” meaning remnant, or to leave behind—are descended from the Oryat tribe in western Mongolia. At the beginning of the seventeenth century the Oryats packed up their camels, grabbed their families, mounted their horses, and headed west, eventually settling on the banks of the Volga River where they had access to both water and fertile land. For years, everyone got along like they were BFFs (Best Friends Forever). The Russians welcomed the Oryats to their unsettled borderland, while thousands of sheep and cattle successfully supported the pastoralist newcomers. Peter the Great even allowed these (mostly) peaceful Buddhists to have their own kingdom in exchange for keeping the borders secure from marauding hordes of bandits and outlaws.

Then, Catherine the Great assumed the throne, and there was a shift in PR management. Catherine declared the Oryats were now Russian subjects. Rather than lose their autonomy, nearly half the Oryats fled back to Mongolia, many of whom died from either Chessboards are ubiquitous in Elista, reflecting its Russian flavor and dedication starvation or brutality in transit. Those who to former President Kirsan, head of FIDE, the international chess federation. chose to remain became de facto, the remnants, Merinos, a non-native sheep breed equipped with hooves or Kalmyks. adapted for gripping steep mountains, not sandy steppe.

Two hundred years after these resourceful Buddhists These hooves effectively chop their way through the rangesettled in Russia they had converted the steppe into one of land like parsley on a cutting board. its most productive landscapes. It supported 2.5 million head Lada and I step off the plane in Elista, (Kalmykia’s capital, of cattle, sheep, horses and camels along with a population where we are taken to our hotel in a tired Lada sedan, (the of 1 million wild saiga (a species of antelope now critically Chevrolet of Russian cars and nowhere nearly as well built as endangered by desertification).

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Dressed in beautiful traditional costumes, the young ladies provided the perfect welcome to Kalmykia.

Kalmykia’s rich black soil supported its agricultural productivity. It became the livestock farm for all of Russia and also exported meat and wool to Persia and beyond.

The secret of the Kalmyks’ success? Land management.

Nomads by birth, the Oryats (now Kalmyks) practiced the same transhumance system as they did in their homeland, allowing livestock to graze on the Black Lands (high steppe grasslands) during the winter and keeping them off the land during the summer to ensure the soils weren’t depleted during the intense heat.

It was a system that benefited everyone until the day came when the system was replaced by collective farming, a system established during the Soviet rule. Stalin declared there would be no more moving back and forth across the steppe—or anywhere else. Both man and animal were forced to stay in one place, a practice that instantly caused massive famines and environmental ruination, to say nothing of the subjugation of the human spirit. It is remarkable anything survived. It also led Kalmykia to become one of the prime breeding grounds for Merino sheep. The very ones Lada has arranged for us to visit.

Before arriving in Achinery I have assumed that Lada and I will spend the better part of the day taking notes at the

kitchen table, or plunked on a sofa, while an old, seasoned farmer regales us with tales of his Merino sheep, and that occasionally we will run out to the pastures for a first-hand show-and-tell.

Instead, when we arrive in Achinery, we drive through several dusty blocks of what feels like a ghost town. By mid-May, signs of summer’s heat have arrived, and the wind chases us through town as I look for a home befitting a large Merino breeder.

There is no sign of anyone . . . anywhere. Eventually, we pull into a dirt parking lot adjacent to a two-story office building. It looks more out of place in this remote outpost than a spaceship. I sense Lada and I have, in fact, become cosmonauts.

No doubt our driver is lost and just needs directions.

Instead, we are ordered out of the car, and I grab my camera, just in case. Perhaps I will get a shot of the yellow spacesuits!

We are led around the corner to the main entrance where there are no fewer than fifteen men and women in business attire, along with five young girls dressed in floor-length, turquoise satin dresses with deep-pink bodices and matching hats, standing at the entrance to greet us. They look no more Russian than Fred Flintstone, and they are each holding a w i l df ib e rsmag az i ne.com

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Dolia Ivanovich poised at his desk.

white “welcome” scarf, traditional to many Buddhist cultures and something that does, in fact, make me feel at home.

I am completely disarmed by the size and formality of this greeting.

I don’t even have the wherewithal to poke Lada and ask, “Why didn’t you warn me?” Instead, as I bend my tall frame nearly in half so the young girl can place the scarf around my neck, I wonder if maybe there has been some grotesque error in translation and they think I am someone I am not.

My nervousness soon dissipates when the welcoming committee (includ-

ing the parents of the young ladies) begins taking pictures of the crazy American and her friend, the “fluffy-rabbit” breeder, with their cell phones. The entire group squeezes together. It feels like a family photo where everyone tries to crowd in front of Uncle Melvin’s big beer belly. After ten minutes of smiling and camera swapping and then smiling and swapping some more, I was actually beginning to feel like family. Kalmyks are warm and welcoming, and they are also wild about sheep.

The aging Russian farmer whom I envisioned meeting turned out to be a feisty, fifty-ish gentleman, wearing a coat and tie. He looks as if, with a change of clothes, he could easily be roaming the Gobi, not the border of Volgograd. Dolia Ivanovich is the manager of a big Merino farm, in fact, the biggest. It was previously owned by the government and has subsequently been privatized. Dolia is in charge of 39 thousand sheep, an operation that he manages from this two-story “spaceship.”

As we march inside the building, I begin to connect the dots. I will not be spending the

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The aging Russian farmer whom I envisioned meeting turned out to be a feisty, fifty-ish gentleman, wearing a coat and tie. He looks as if, with a change of clothes, he could easily be roaming the Gobi, not the border of Volgograd. day crouched over a kitchen table, taking notes. I can sit quite comfortably in Dolia’s office on the second floor, where a large portrait of President Putin (wearing a shirt) hangs directly behind his desk and a slightly smaller portrait of His Holiness the Dalai Lama hangs to one side.

Reality TV? We sit down at a long table where the other chairs are soon filled by Dolia’s farm manager, several assistants, Lada, a translator, and the producer from the television station in Elista. During the welcoming ceremony I had noticed someone with a large video camera standing to the side but didn’t pay much attention. I now learn that a three-man film crew has driven out from Elista to document my every move.

“We are so happy you have come to visit us,” the producer told me. “We are going to make a show about your trip to visit our sheep!”

I smile politely and give Lada a look indicating “We can

talk about this later.”

Dolia and I talk about sheep for the next hour, eventually covering the table with volumes of handwritten records that document breeding history, wool counts, lambing rates, etc. There are enough charts and graphs to make the folks at Ernst & Young positively giddy.

But why are the Merinos here? Why, in this country that historically has supported fat-tailed sheep (notably Karakuls with soft, flat feet), are thousands of Merinos ripping-up the land?

The answer: Stalin.

Stalin’s system of farm collectivization overhauled a centuries-old practice of pastoralism, rotating herds of sheep, camels and cattle through the countryside, ensuring areas were always left with enough vegetation to provide for future growth. Although growing numbers of fine-wool sheep from the neighboring Caucus Mountains had gradually been introduced to Kalmykia in the 1800s, Stalin began populating

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The entire cast of performers posing with the author (front row, second from right) and Lada Kirisenko, (back row, second from right.)

Kalmykia with millions of Merinos imported from Australia. ago, the average life expectancy in Kalmykia was forty-four Dolia points to pictures of proud, muscular, Australian years, a frightening statistic by any measure, particularly in farmers posing alongside a prized ram, next to several equala land with only 100 thousand native Kalmyks remaining. If ly proud Kalmyks, including Dolia (the ram’s new owner), left unattended, the country was heading toward ecological standing beside it. He has made several sheep-purchasing ethnocide. trips to Australia, including a visit with Tom Ashby, presiTo his credit, President Kirsan declared a state of emerdent of the Australian Merino Sheep Breeders Association. gency, and this garnered attention and subsequent funding He mentions Tom’s name with Hollywood-style adoration. from the United Nations Environment Program (UNEP) to “Really? Tom and I are friends from way back. We met in help restore the land. It is still a work in progress.

Paris!”

Throughout all of Russia, It is true. I met Tom years the Merino population has ago at the World Merino Condeclined dramatically, a fact As per Stalin’s wishes, the Merino ference in Rambouillet, France. largely attributed to an overfloodgates were opened, and by I never suspected we would all downfall of natural fibers, the end of the 1950s their footprint be connected by one degree of coupled with a much, much was unmistakable. The once deep separation in Russia’s southern smaller Russian Army to clothe. desert.

Dolia is proud of his top breedblack soil had been overgrazed As per Stalin’s wishes, the ing stock, which produces truly beyond recognition Merino floodgates were opened, fine wool at less than nineteen and by the end of the 1950s their microns, and adjacent to his footprint was unmistakable. The office, there is a large reception once deep black soil had been overgrazed beyond recogniroom fully decorated with impressive trophies affirming the tion, giving Kalmykia the dubious honor of being the first quality of his sheep. case of man-made desertification on the planet with a new Naturally, I want to see these sheep. But first, I am told desert that covered 85 percent of its land. Fifty percent is the schoolchildren have prepared a small performance for now considered severely critical. my visit. I am, by all accounts, speechless.

The land degradation affected not only the sheep but also The group of us, including the television crew, walks the the Kalmyks. Land productivity decreased dramatically, and short distance to the only school in town. There is nothing with it, so did the quality of life. As recently as thirty years strikingly unusual about the classrooms other than the fact 72

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that the walls are rife with pictures of every Russian leader. It is an outrageous assembly of portraits—stern, furrowed-brow, and bearded men, all looking like first cousins of Tolstoy, except for the modern leaders, who would never be cast in anything so common as facial hair, a style befitting the working class.

Lada and I are given front row seats in the assembly room surrounded by parents, who are no different than any proud parent whose child is about to perform, and teachers.

For nearly an hour, we are treated to recitations of epic poems recounting tales of Kalmyk heroism. Songs of romance and heartbreak— Pushkin set to music— and several dance troupes of mixed ages, performing in costume to recorded music playing in the background.

Our “quick” lunch is served under a beautiful Merino tapestry.

They are so thoroughly engaged in their performance, their hearts are so embedded, and voices how much of anything can survive, let alone thrive. The so entwined with every note, I can only respond with thunsaiga, a wild antelope distinguished by a nose that looks dering applause at the end of every act. more suited for a mohel than a breathing apparatus, historiThere is no payoff in questioning possible motives of procally has thrived in poor conditions. It has gone from a poppaganda. It is an outstanding cultural welcome and perforulation of close to 1 million to only 50 thousand. Blame the mance. At its conclusion, Lada reaches for the chocolates we land, but also blame the hunters who have all but annihilated have brought as presents, originally intended for the “big” this animal in a quest to capture their highly prized horns. sheep farmer and his family, and bestows them on the young Because there is nowhere for the sheep to hide in the performers instead. open flatlands, I am curious about predation, always a conAnother round of picture taking ensues, and the children cern for any farmer, large or small. This particular area of are adamant that I join them. It will the Eurasian Steppe was relatively always be a reminder of one of the free of predators until the sound of sweetest moments from my internafighting broke out in Chechnya, a tional travels. few hundred miles south of KaI trust, however, it is now time to lmykia on the opposite side of the go and see the sheep. But first, there Caucus Mountains, scaring wolves is lunch, which, in a moment of utter out of the mountains and forcing stupidity, I think might be somethem to seek safer ground to the thing small and casual. north—here in Kalmykia.

An hour and a half later, strugLivestock guardian dogs are the gling to digest what seemed like an primary defense against the wolves. obscene amount of food, which was They will bite first and ask questions The unmistakable wild saiga antelope. presented in a large social hall commonly later. It is best to keep my distance if I reserved for weddings and other grand see one. events, we are on the road. Dolia’s farm is nearly an hour’s I don’t see any wolves or livestock guardian dogs en route drive outside of town, in the opposite direction from which to the farm. Occasionally there is an abandoned car in the we came that morning. middle of a field, and Dolia tells me that if I had come a few The land is tediously flat with grasses that look permaweeks earlier, the entire steppe would have been covered in nently bent over, each blade like a phone pole struck by a wild red tulips. This image is often depicted on Kalmykia’s car. There is nothing to stop the wind that blows from the promotional material, right alongside pictures of His HoliCaspian in a maelstrom of dirt and dust, and I can’t imagine ness The Dalai Lama, and Putin. . . . w i l df ib e rsmag az i ne.com

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I rely on Lada, and my translator, for most of the conversation, but Dolia has spent enough time with the Aussies to pick up some English phrases, and like everyone else on the planet, he also knows the word Obama. It also seems that his officious manner is beginning to soften (perhaps it was the vodka at lunch?), and we begin kidding each other in a way that is wholly unexpected.

A shining blue lake appears on the horizon, and soon we pull along its shores for me to both admire and photograph.

Nearly everywhere I look, waterfowl scatter along the shoreline, and a family of swans, cygnets in tow, paddles effortlessly across the water. In view of the otherwise stark surroundings, the wildlife is particularly welcome, and Dolia seizes the moment to joke with me.

“Swan Lake!” he announces in near-perfect English with a laugh, and it takes me just a half beat to catch on.

“You’re right, Swan Lake,” I repeat, giving him a big eye-roll.

At last, I can see sheep on the horizon, and I forget the miles of long travel to get here, although I am aware that we will be retracing our steps to return to Elista that night. The car pulls up close enough for me to get some pictures while Dolia orders the shepherd to herd the sheep into a position

Perfectly poised for their headshots, Dolia’s rams know how to work the camera.

most advantageous to the sunlight. I confess that my photographs will not do justice to the shepherd’s efforts, but Dolia doesn’t seem to care.

The sheep—all 39 thousand—are his babies, and I suppose if he had a savant’s memory, he would name every one. These sheep are the pride of both Dolia and Kalmykia. Although gone are the days when this land was fancied as the prime Soviet animal farm, the quality of wool is still exceptional. In fact, a mill was built in Elista several years back to encourage local processing, but for reasons that aren’t entirely clear, it is not in operation.

Dolia can tell I am impressed by his sheep, and in truth, they are robust-looking Merinos with clean faces that prevent wool blindness and sound bodies to sustain miles of travel along the open steppe. I have no doubt that some of his sheep possess fleeces of nineteen microns or less, I just have no way of telling without a hands-on inspection. Catching one of these beauties to examine it on the open range would be next to impossible, if not foolhardy. Dolia, of course, has a plan.

Back in the car we go. Dolia promises it is only twenty minutes or so to the next pasture. Although I have no visions of an alien abduction, I feel as if I have been kidnapped in Kalmykia and will be released only after I have inspected every last ewe. I am deeply grateful Surrounded by miles and miles of nothingness, abandoned cars and a small lake for every moment of hospitality enhance the landscape.

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Just one of thousands of Dolia’s beautiful Merinos.

and generosity I have been so graciously afforded.

And I suspect if I were not feeling a tad fatigued by all the travel, I might be more gung ho. But I can tell I am approaching a mindset where all sheep begin to look alike, a waterloo for a fiber editor.

Our car eventually crests a hill. Astonishingly, there are acres of lush green grass, totally betraying notions of a desertification. Dolia’s top rams live here, and they are accorded a reserved dining area.

These sheep are the pride of both Dolia and Kalmykia. Although gone are the days when this land was fancied as the prime Soviet animal farm, the quality of wool is still exceptional.

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Dusk begins to fall on the pastures of Kalmykia.

He has already had them gathered in a small area to await my arrival.

“Hollywood stars!” says Dolia, explaining their fine wool has made them celebrities, and they are now quite accustomed to being photographed. In two days, Russia’s leading sheep competition will be held in Elista, and Dolia is excited about his entries.

“Which ones are you taking?” I ask.

Dolia looks at me as if to say, “Did you really just ask me what I think you did?”

Apparently, his best rams have already been sequestered for the show. There will be no pre-show peeking for this American. Dolia may like me but that doesn’t mean he trusts me to see his rams.

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something about a well-built, two hundred pound ram with outstanding wool that feels slightly seductive. It’s the ovine version of a muscled thoroughbred bathed in a light film of sweat. I am not the least surprised that, as Dolia and I finger our way through the fleeces in this gathering of near–Best in Show, he can easily recite the history of each one’s wool records.

But where does all this gorgeous wool go?

Sadly, it goes right in the bin with the not-so-gorgeous stuff.

At present, the output of truly fine Merino from Dolia’s flock is not enough to make a clothing manufacturer swoon, particularly when beautiful wool can be had for a handful of Chinese yuan. Dolia’s wool is shipped to and processed in Moscow where it is used for heavier apparel and, of course,

soldiers’ uniforms. He doesn’t seem upset that his wool isn’t accorded a more prestigious afterlife. He knows, along with the rest of Russia’s Merino breeders, that his sheep are the best.

As the light begins to change and evening draws near, I begin inching my way toward the car for the four-hour ride back to Elista. It has been a long. . .very long day. Dolia throws up his arms, and I sense he is going to embrace me like family.

“Now,” he says with jubilation, “we will have a traditional Kalmyk dinner!”

My weary heart sinks, but Dolia’s hospitality is unparalleled.

During the time we have been inspecting sheep, Dolia’s staff has erected a ger— in the middle of the steppe—and

has been cooking a lamb in the traditional manner. This particular recipe calls for baking the lamb by stuffing all its parts inside the stomach and then burying the whole thing underground amid a pile of red-hot rocks. The end result is a charred round heap that can only be accessed by impaling a large hunting knife in the middle and thwacking it with the palm of the hand. Once the meal has been split open, fresh juicy hunks of lamb are there for the taking.

As the guest of honor, I am presented with a very generous helping. And though my formative beliefs about bologna and Soviet relations have been thoroughly extinguished, never did I long for the taste of a simple smelly sandwich. I look down at my plate and then back up at Dolia and smile. Like every other “special” moment of my visit this, too, will be forever remembered.

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Reflections on Kalmykia Photos by Linda Cortright 78

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During the middle of May, one of two Russian sheep shows is held in Elista, Kalmykia. The four-day event is highlighted by a sheep meat and wool competition, horse races, along with cultural displays from neighboring republics. What it lacks in hand knitting yarn is more than compensated for by the burst of color and continuous performances of song and dance.

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While non-stop music (a lot of accordion playing) keeps the crowds entertained outside, inside the barns is where the real work takes place. Farmers are busy preening their sheep, occasionally packaging wool for Lada, the “f luff y rabbit� lady.

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By Linda Cortright

not my job

During the sheep festival in Kalmykia, I was dazzled. It was more than just my being agog at all the different sheep breeds, it was being surrounded by so many new cultural groups, inviting people to enjoy their cuisine, listen to their music, and of course, watch the wonderful dancers. Not only was I the only American there, but I had been given a traditional Kalmyk hat (which I wore more out of respect, than a sense of fashion), I decidedly stuck out.

Now, dancing in Kalmykia, or traditional dancing in the Baltic States, bears no resemblance to anything I learned during my younger years of dance classes. Men and women do not touch each other, not even a little.

As best as I could tell, the woman would tippy-toe around the perimeter of the dance floor, waving her arms in faux swan fashion, looking at her partner with equal parts coquettish desire and utter disdain. And then, she would rapidly tippy-toe the opposite direction, clearly the man’s queue to come and chase her.

It was nothing but a stroke of ridiculously bad luck that one of the top sheep breeders from Dagestan

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decided that I – the American – needed a spin on the dance floor. And naturally, I – the American – accepted, and as I began walking towards him, I realized I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do. Any type of modern dancing, consisting of a few rhythmic steps punctuated by a friendly butt wiggle, would have run completely afoul of the local culture. (My dance partner was Muslim.)

For five minutes I moved politely, demurely in fact, while a crowd quickly began to assemble. I would like to tell you that I took comfort in the knowledge that I would never see any of these people again. But I didn’t. For the past three days I had been followed by a television crew, documenting my every move. Quite possibly, this little two-step interlude would wind up on Prime Time.

When the dance was over my partner said, “You dance like beautiful butterfly.”

I thanked him, trying not to roll my eyes, and dashed back into the crowd, fearing he just might want to ask me again.

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© RooM the Agency Mobile / Alamy Stock Photo

Every move you make ... Every step you take ... I’ll be watching you ...

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still remember black and white television, coffee for a quarter, and waistbands that came to your waist, not your pelvis. I can also remember putting on a “nice” outfit to meet my grandmother at the airport, back when meeting someone at the airport included standing on a giant binocular stand to watch the planes land, and then greeting the visitor at the gate. There was a certain ambience of professional familiarity Wi ld F ib ers Mag a z i ne 2 0 1 6

back then that has regrettably been extinguished virtually everywhere you can find a control tower.

As recently as a few years back, the domestic terminal in New Delhi still reminded me of the old days. India’s domestic carriers including Spice Jet, Kingfisher, and IndiGo (a personal favorite) sold tickets from kiosks and small plastic cubicles, which, from the outside appeared as if they were as likely to dispense a soft-serve as a ticket to the Ganges. This

façade did not engender a spirit of great confidence in their Who was this man in a linen suit? Where was he going? piloting skills. And traveling 8,000 miles for an ice cream Was he on business? He looked a bit overdressed for Kullu. wasn’t prudent, but there you have it.

Then again, what did I know? I had never been. There were I was scheduled on a flight to Kullu, a small town in enough people milling about the airport that I could track Himachal Pradesh in the Lower Himalayas, to write a story his moves without detection. I should also add that we were about a mill that was processing camel fiber for one of my about the only Westerners in the waiting area, engaging my friends in Kazakhstan. curiosity even further.

Unlike most airports, Eventually, we were The woman making the flight there was no specific gate “kindly” asked to board announcements over the PA system always designation for outbound our flight and “Toad” asbegan by saying, “Good afternoon ladies and sumed his place in line flights. There was a common waiting area similar with the rest of us. I didn’t gentlemen, we ask for your kind attention ...” to a train station, although hear him speak, so I had Clearly, a courteous carryover from British rule. this had the ambience of no idea if he was, in fact, a bus depot. When it was English. But there was time to board, a semi-connothing French or Italian trolled free-for-all ensued toward door number one, two, or about his features, and certainly not in the cut of his clothes. three. Within a few minutes, 120 passengers had left the area After I boarded, I lost sight of “Toad” and began to conand now there was a scrum for newly vacated seats. centrate on my guide, who had been (hopefully) waiting all The flight to Kullu was delayed, and then delayed some these hours for me in Kullu. My friend, the camel man from more. The woman making the flight announcements over the Kazakhstan, had arranged for the guide, and I had no way of PA system always began by saying, “Good afternoon ladies contacting him. I decided if he wasn’t there, I would enlist and gentlemen, we ask for your kind attention ...” Clearly, a “Toad’s” assistance. Afterall, wouldn’t you ask Alastair Cooke courteous carryover from British rule. Her voice was sweetly for help? feminine and with perfect enunciation, she succeeded in getIn fact, my guide was patiently waiting when I got off the ting my “kind attention.” plane and “Toad” vanished in the disembarking shuffle.

After four hours, my attention was still fully engaged Having lost so many hours from the work day, I was albeit with waning kindness. I had watched hundreds of anxious to start. I fetched my bags and as I waited for my people come and go, but I was beginning to recognize a few guide to bring the car around, I notice two beautiful blonde of the same faces still hanging about. I suspected they were women wearing all white salwar kameezes, the traditional also on the Kullu flight, but since we weren’t gathered at a Indian pantsuit. Their long blonde hair, fair white skin, and specific gate, I couldn’t be certain. Sub-consciously, at first, I all-white outfits, easily set them apart and as I did a double began fixating on one man in particular who was dressed in take, I realized they were talking to “Toad.” a linen suit.

Now, really, he was old enough to be their father!

What idiot wears a linen suit in Delhi when it’s 108F? Just then, my car pulled up to the curb but there was The man had that distinct British air, an affable cross so much traffic, it can’t quite reach me and I decide to just between Alastair Cooke and Toad, from The Wind in the wheel my bags down to meet it. Of course, it was strictly Willows. He would sit down and read the paper, and then a coincidence that I had to walk right past “Toad” and his get up and pace around for a bit, look for a new seat, and ladies; I was only trying to make things easier for my guide. then sit down and read some more. There was an ever so In the two-second interval that our paths crossed, I can slight hunch to his posture, possibly caused by four hours of see that “Toad” has pulled out an envelope of pictures and dejected waiting. as the three of them crouch over the photographs, I overI confess that after prolonged delays, there comes a time hear him say in a most decidedly English accent, “Oh, good when I can no longer work on my computer, read my book, heavens! They would never do anything so traditional as get or buy yet another cup of coffee — although no amount of married!” And with that he lets out a happy laugh and the waiting was going to make me drink the coffee they were other two join in. selling at this airport. Sometimes, the only thing I can do I amend my mental dossier to add, “Stuffy old man in is just sit back and stare, creating mental dossiers about the linen suit with antiquated views about people living in sin.” people around me and “Toad” was it.

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I did manage to get to the mill that day, and though they weren’t processing my friend’s camel hair, I made certain that it was in the queue. The mill owner told me how dirty the camel hair was, and not just a little dirty, but dirty, dirty, dirty, in the way someone might click their tongue to say “tsk, tsk, tsk.”

The following day I went chasing after rabbits, an unscheduled stop on the itinerary prompted by a sign several miles north of the airport that read, “Angora Farm.” I suppose the only thing stranger than a man wearing a linen suit in sweltering heat is an Angora Rabbit Farm in India! Chalk it up to one of life’s little surprises when I discovered that more than 16,000 rabbits were farmed in Kullu during the late 1960s, thanks to an entrepreneurial Indian who took a shine to German bunnies.

On my third and final day, I drove up to Manali with my guide, and after experiencing my first monsoon in the back of a tuk-tuk, clothed in my first salawar kameez and nothing more, his phone rang just a few blocks away from my hotel.

“It’s for you,” he said, passing me the phone.

The woman on the other end was friends with the mill owner and heard there was a fiber editor in town. She was Canadian and had a small business selling handwoven shawls. Perhaps we could meet?

Twenty minutes later, Andrea appeared in my hotel lobby and for reasons I am hard pressed to understand, we had an instant connection. She had moved to India from Montreal, and had been living in an ashram for twelve years. A move so untenably bold, she was more exotic than Scheherazade.

We talked for hours and I think it was probably eleven o’clock at night before we decided to go back to the ashram so she could show me her shawls. Perhaps, I could help her sell them.

The shawls were every bit as beautiful as she described with intricate embroidery and finely spun yarn, but I think our newly found friendship was what propelled the conversation into the wee hours. Eventually, I told her I needed to go back to my hotel and get some rest before my return flight to Delhi.

Andrea asked if I might have time in the morning to meet her best friend, “I would love to have you meet her. You two would get along perfectly!”

She then went on to tell me a bit more about her friend, a lovely woman from England. In fact, Andrea had lunched with her that day, along with her friend’s godfather who was visiting from England.

“Toad!” It had to be “Toad!” And as we talked further and I asked a few more questions, right down to the two blondes and the all white garb, which is how Andrea was

also dressed, I came to learn more about this curious man in the linen suit.

Perhaps no one was ever more surprised than I to learn that Christopher, was, in fact, about the hippest geezer in town. He had come to Kullu, not only to visit his goddaughter, who had been the flower girl at his wedding, but to also hear the guruji, head of the ashram, speak.

“Toad” has been studying Sanskrit since the early 1960s and is president of the Sanskrit School, a branch of the London School of Economics. That was not, however, his main occupation. He had a not-so-small business selling reinsurance, with a client list that was largely confidential. I was right to trust him in the event my guide had not been waiting; his company, among other things, handles ambassadors who get kidnapped!

Andrea and I parted with a huge hug. I promised I would try and help her with her shawls. It was the least I could do having correctly identified my mystery man.

The following morning I arrived at the airport, feeling more a bit weary having stayed up far too late with my new friend. I said goodbye to my guide, who, I had not initially realized had come on a 12-hour bus ride from Dharamsala to meet me.

Feeling rather fancy in my new salawar kameez, I made my way through security without delay and began looking for a seat in the small communal waiting room. Behold!

There was “Toad,” reading the paper.

Part of me wanted to run up and hug him, shouting “Christopher!” The other part of me decided I should just walk up and politely introduce myself.

Because Christopher is a polite Englishman, he couldn’t dismiss me with a few phrases. However, when it came time to board the plane, he was the one who suggested we take the empty seats in back and sit together.

In all of my thousands of miles of travel, meeting Christopher has been one of the greatest gifts of my career.

We have remained in remarkably close touch since our first meeting. The couple who would never do anything so traditional as get married, was his daughter and her boyfriend. They are now married with two children and live in New Zealand. Christopher visits them annually en route to Australia, where he teaches a weeklong Sanskrit class.

Christopher spends as much time in the air as I do. Our emails often begin with, “I’m at 36,000 feet, flying to …” We have rendezvoused in Madrid and Delhi. Plus, I have visited him several times in London. Amazingly, he has made it to Grumble Goat Farm here in Maine, passing through, in a manner of speaking, to teach a Sanskrit Class in Toronto.

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need of counsel. He possesses that incomparable English wit, yet armed with advice and perspective that is unfailingly spot on. He also doesn’t hesitate to tell me when I am off the beam, or utterly mad. A few years back when I told him I was going to Afghanistan, he said I was “bloody crazy.” He also knew there was no stopping me. “If the Taliban should capture you, my dear, they will soon realize what a serious mistake they have made.”

Christopher has a subscription to Wild Fibers but tells me he mostly looks at the pictures before passing it on to his personal assistant. He was as surprised as anyone on the “outside” to discover the enormity of the fiber sub-culture. I tell him they’re not all as whacky as I am.

He’s not convinced.

Two years ago I was in Delhi, en route to Ladakh to launch the building of the Cashmere Center. I was there for only one night and by chance, Christopher was in Delhi too. He was there on business, and who was also there to join us for dinner but Elizabeth, his beautiful blonde goddaughter! The story had come full circle. We sat there recounting the tale of our meeting and the role she unwittingly played. “She was stalking me!” Christopher told Elizabeth.

“I was not stalking you,” I protested. “At your age, you should be flattered a woman even noticed you!”

This past December, once again on my way to Ladakh, I stopped off in London to torment Christopher for two days. My visit coincided with a spectacular India Textile exhibit at the V&A, and I told Christopher I could either drag him along, or he could stay home and nap, because that’s what old people do.

By good fortune a friend of mine arranged for me to have tea with Rosemary Crill, the curator of the exhibit. For an avowed India buff, this was akin to tea with Her Majesty the Queen, possibly better.

Christopher decided to join me and, in fact, he is equally devoted as I to all things India, not to mention the fact that he really doesn’t nap.

The exhibit was stunning, packed to the brim with most extraordinary textile treasures from Bangladesh to Bombay, including traditional Kashmiri shawls, embroidered kimonos exported to Japan, and a sultan’s “tent” that redefined outdoor living. I can’t remember the last time a museum trip was so gratifying, complimented by a perfectly wonderful tea.

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Cohen, met us in the V&A’s cafeteria. The conversation went from Indian textiles, to wild fibers because Steve is in love with qiviut!

(Swear!) Soon, the three of us are cooing about qiviut and I suspect Christopher found the whole scenario befuddling at best. Undoubtedly, he had written the whole lot of us off as whacked!

I change the topic so Christopher can be included and the three locals are discussing life in London. Christopher now lives in Marylebone, after selling a large home outside of London now that his son and daughter are grown and gone. In fact, the person who bought Christopher’s home works at the V&A, her office is across the hall from Rosemary’s! The two of them are good friends.

“See? Christopher. Our worlds are more closely entwined than you think!”

“It may be so, my dear, but I still wouldn’t admit to anyone that I know you.”

And that is why I have done him the great service of not using his real name. Although, if you spot a handsome “elderly” gentleman roaming about Delhi’s domestic terminal in a linen suit, I suggest you call him “Richard.” He won’t have any idea who “Christopher” is, F he only looks at the pictures.

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The entrance to the V&A where “Toad” and I meet Rosemary Crill, curator of The Fabric of India exhibit, another chapter in a friendship full of happy coincidences.

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living in one of the

“Last Great Places�

For three months of the year an unrelenting march of tourists and sun-seekers storm Block Island.

North Light Fibers, a micro yarn mill, now offers them a new treasure to take home, proudly made in the USA .

story and photos

by l i n da co rt r i g h t

Cover Image: North Light, Block Island, RI. Photographer: Mona Makela

On a calm Sunday evening, the Block Island ferry steams into Port Judith, Rhode Island.

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lock Island is little more than a salty hiccup off the Rhode Island coast. Encompassing less than 10 square miles, it is smaller than O’Hare International Airport and decidedly less populated with roughly 1,000 year-round residents — about half as many as you would find standing just in the lost luggage queue.

Not quite 13 miles out to sea, the island is decorated with clapboard cottages, stately bluffs, and the scent of clam chowder steadily brewing in the fresh sea air. It is the quintessence of all things idyllic, joining Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard in New England’s holy trinity of tony island retreats. But unlike its lofty neighbors perpetually impregnated with private jets and visits from POTUS, Block Island’s original residents, the Narragansett Indians, called the island Manisses: The Island of the Little God. And what better adornment for the “Island of the Little God” than a little fiber mill?

Sven and Laura Risom moved from Manhattan’s shadow in southern Connecticut and opened North Light Fibers in 2010. Dedicated to producing minimally processed worldclass yarn there was just one problem — it was against the law. In a town laden with fishing nets and frilly B&B’s, there was no zoning ordinance for manufacturing. Before the Risom’s could crank out their first batch of 3-ply Baby Alpaca, they embarked on the unenviable task of having the zoning code re-written.

“It sounds crazy, but it actually makes perfect sense,” says Sven. “Historically, this was a fishing and farming community. Nothing was commercially manufactured here. Every92

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thing was either made at home or shipped in. We couldn’t legally make yarn.”

Black market yarn?

How absurd.

They began talking with the neighbors, attending town meetings, and generating a stack of paperwork thicker than an old-fashioned phone book. But their tenacity paid off and they now take pride in the fact that the mill is the island’s first manufacturer, and unlike the majority of island businesses, theirs also provides year-round employment.

On a Sunday evening in late September, I drive to Narragansett, Rhode Island to catch the Block Island Ferry. Both sides of Main Street are lined with restaurants and snack shacks offering a banquet of fish ‘n chips and ice cream.

There are no fast food chains in my immediate view. In fact, many of the buildings’ ocean-faded facades underscore a tourism trade that long predates free WiFi, back when the first steamship arrived on Block Island in 1873, disgorging a surge of ladies in cumbersome Victorian dress and men in stiff bowler hats.

Now, there is a high-speed ferry that goes from shoreto-shore in 30 minutes. It seems decidedly ironic (and American), that if you are embarking on a relaxing two-week vacation it’s best to get there in a hurry.

I am not embarking on a vacation, however I would at least like to find a parking space in a timely manner and not take out a second mortgage to pay for it. I am quick to forget that convenience comes at a price, even during the off season, and as I make my second pass down Main Street looking for “economy” parking, I realize my pecuniary

dream has turned to dust. No credit cards allowed, just cash in advance, (thank you very much) and I park the car in a lot that resembles the remote parking option at O’Hare minus the complimentary shuttle. Had I arrived a month earlier all of the premium parking lots would be full and reserved seating on the ferry would be mandatory. As it is, the streets are nearly deserted (after all, it is a Sunday evening) leaving me to pitifully drag my roller bag across the loose gravel lot like a grocery cart with a wonky wheel.

For me, there is something about embarking on a sea voyage that calms the corners of my soul, even for only an hour.

As the engines begin chuffing and the shoreline slips away in a haze of smoke and misty foam, the disconnect from daily life takes hold. Indeed, the quest for solitude is the deafening siren of every island retreat and, not surprisingly, the very root of its ruin as nearly every inch of every acre throughout the holy trinity is devoured by tourism, the well-heeled, or both.

It is a malady Block Island has artfully dodged.

In 1991, The Nature Conservancy (TNC), an international nonprofit agency dedicated to preserving endangered ecosystems around the world, named Block Island one of the original “Last Great Places” in the Western Hemisphere.

Collaborating with a robust group of island conservationists, 43 percent of the island is now in conservation, thereby securing it as a stopover along the Atlantic Flight Way for thousands of migratory shorebirds, waterfowl, raptors, and songbirds, including 40 species listed as endangered. The other two-legged migratory “animals” have their own set of restrictions pertaining, in particular, to the building of new nests, which must be setback significantly from the waterline and not more than 40 linear feet along a single level. For those wishing to replicate Mar-a-Largo in the north, (Donald Trump’s 110,000-square-foot Palm Beach mansion), they will need to look elsewhere.

As I make my way to the ferry’s upper deck passing not more than a dozen passengers, I check out the emergency evacuation signs, note where the life vests are stowed, and spot a large poster on the wall promoting “Block Island Weddings” featuring an annoyingly perfect bride and groom, with blinding white teeth, gazing adoringly into each other’s eyes. They are the same couple you see in nearly every idyl-

Who put the Block in Block Island?

Last year on Aug. 28, the U.S. Department of the Interior officially changed the name of North America’s tallest peak from Mount McKinley to—Denali— bestowed by Native Alaskans thousands of years ago.

The 20,237-foot peak is not the only American landmark to receive a European moniker after having been known for centuries by a Native American name. Pa-hay-Okee, which means grassy waters, became the Everglades; Ongtupqa became the Grand Canyon, and Manisses—Block Island.

Named by the native Narragansett people, Manisses meant “Manitou’s Little Island” or “Island of the Little God” (Manitou loosely translated means spirit or life force). In 1614 when Dutch explorer Adriaen Block visited the island, he named it after himself.

And the name stuck.

So after the federal government returned the original name of America’s tallest mountain, The Washington Post raised the question about rechristening five other U.S. landmarks initially named by Native Americans, including the tiny island off the coast of Rhode Island named for Mr. Block.

The Block Island Times jumped on the story asking locals for opinions. Views ran the gamut from “Manisses is a beautiful name with a beautiful meaning” to “Think of the cost to the Block Island economy.”

While most interviewees favored retaining the Block Island appellation, no members of the Narragansett tribe were asked for their thoughts.

lic wedding ad. What you don’t see out of the camera’s view is the father of the bride wringing his hands, and thinking “This wedding is costing me millions!”

I pause for just a moment to zip-up my windbreaker when I spot another poster. This one features an alpaca looking even more adoring than the newlyweds. Stopping just shy of speechless I realize the poster is for North Light

In 1991, The Nature Conservancy (TNC), an international nonprofit agency dedicated to preserving endangered ecosystems around the world, named Block Island one of the original “Last Great Places” in the Western Hemisphere. w i l df ib e rsmag az i ne.com

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Fibers! The juxtaposition of the two advertisements sends a clear message. You can come to Block Island and indulge your passion for passion, or, you can come and indulge your passion for fibers.

Both are colorful, and both are fulfilling, but rare is the knitter whose yarn stash winds up in a divorce court.

The ride across Block Island Sound is all too swift. A congress of commercial fishing boats is tied up at the dock, their briny hulls and empty nets standing at the ready. All but a few sailboats are now parked at their moorings, no doubt resting after a weekend fling. But some can still be seen coasting in the evening breeze, perhaps heading for Newport, a town still synonymous with unparalleled glamour.

Unlike Block Island, which must cope with the inevitable inaccessibility of its island-ness, Newport’s lavish enclave evolved from the onshore manufacturing of spermaceti, the highly coveted wax obtained from scooping the goo out of sperm whale heads. Thanks to Aaron Lopez, a Portuguese Jewish entrepreneur who began manufacturing spermaceti in the mid-19th century, Newport grew to produce half the spermaceti candles used in the 13 colonies. Were it not for the Endangered Species Act, which was amended in 1973 to

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include the killing of whales and the use of their oil, your car’s transmission might still be lubricated with sperm oil.

An unsettling thought in today’s era of all things earthfriendly.

About the time I settle into my seat on the open deck and let the surf begin to lull me like a cradle, I hear the engines throttle back as we prepare to dock. There is only a small crowd of greeters at the landing, and they are easily dwarfed by a much larger crowd of youthful passengers preparing to board. But something about this cadre of young adults seems unusual. They are not attached to their parents, nor are they young parents themselves. In fact, after overhearing a bit of their conversation I realize they are a group of exuberant Eastern European students who have spent the summer on Block Island working in the hospitality industry through the J-1 visa program, responsible for supplying much of the summer tourist trade in the east coast and beyond, with enthusiastic, foreign students looking to improve their English skills while enjoying a slice of American pie — with or without fiber.

Alternatively, I am looking for Sven, who has instructed me to meet him to the right of the ferry. But I’m not sure if he means to the right of the ferry as I step off, or to the right

(Clockwise) Rusty, one of two Bactrian camels at The Abrams Farm, adds a touch of fiber. Sven Risom gives Cindy, the one-eyed Zedonk a friendly scratch. More fiber from the llama, who contemplates crashing the wedding scene.

of the ferry when viewed from the street? Within moments his black truck pulls into the landing and I realize I am in the wrong “right.”

At the risk of defaulting to a stereotype, Sven Risom does not fit the typical fiber mold. He doesn’t spin, weave or knit, nor does he spend hours crafting fine wooden spindles or spinning wheels that sing. He has never owned sheep, nor does he intend to. However, Sven is in love with Laura, and with Block Island. Opening a mill gave Sven a chance to flex his entrepreneurial muscle after a lifetime in corporate shackles, indulge Laura’s passion for fibers (she spins, knits, and weaves), while simultaneously producing something from a place that is near and dear to them both. And though it isn’t formally stated in the business plan, it seems doubtful Sven and Laura would start a business that didn’t allow them to bring all three of their yellow Labs to the office, often dividing the morning commute between the dog car (Laura’s Subaru), and Sven’s truck, which frequently runs errands to the dump, meets the ferry to pick-up supplies, and can hold two adults and three large dogs in a pinch.

Back at the house, I join Laura and Sven for a quick cup of tea before retiring for the night. “We begin work at 7 a.m.,” Sven explains, as I get ready to turn in. “I told Seth you would probably want to stop by early to take pictures of the kangaroos.”

“Perfect!” I reply, and head down the hall to the guest-

room already lost in a dreamland counting sheep, and now, kangaroos.

Coffee and Kangaroos Among Block Island’s many attractions, it just so happens that the “Island of Little Gods” is also home to a farm of exotic animals, which graze in the acres surrounding North Light Fibers. It is not by coincidence that the mill is surrounded by alpacas, Jacob Sheep, and a yak named “Justice.”

Nor is it any coincidence that even though kangaroos and zebus have no fiber-bearing capacity relevant to the yarn industry, I still intend to flash my “fiber press badge” to get up close and personal.

In truth, and marsupials aside, The Abrams Animal Farm is a vital part of the Risom’s story underscoring Sven’s marketing strategy and power of persuasion.

When the Risoms decided to open a mill on Block Island they designated it a Micro Yarn mill for they had no intention of becoming a traditional custom-processing mill, churning out yarn like a soft-serve machine at Dairy Queen.

Instead, they wanted to create a product that was manufactured on the island, allowing tourists to come away from their Block Island vacation with something actually made there, and not China… Proximity to the ferry landing is everything, and yet, a retail yarn shop on Main Street might w i l df ib e rsmag az i ne.com

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seem a bit lackluster nestled in between a hive of upscale artist studios, trendy boutiques, and cafes bursting at the gills.

Alternatively, The Abrams Farm is within a five-minute walk from the action, and offers both a ready-made fiber source and captive audience. The only thing it lacked was a place to put the equipment.

Call it Noah’s Ark, Dr. Doolittle, or simply a pasture dedicated to one man’s love of the beautiful and slightly strange, and you have The Abrams Farm.

Sven has been spending his summers on Block Island for more than 50 years. There isn’t a beach he hasn’t combed, a bluff he hasn’t hiked, or a family he doesn’t know, including the Abrams. When the dream of owning a mill began to grow legs, Sven approached Justin Abrams, who was in his early 80s at the time, about the prospect of building a facility for the mill adjacent to his farm of cherished exotic animals.

Justin agreed to build a place for the mill and yarn shop, and according to Sven, the whole thing was sealed with a handshake, and that alone speaks to the integrity of both parties.

The next morning at seven o’clock sharp I am standing in the kitchen ready to go. Sven, however, is reciting an impressive list of breakfast offerings he is prepared to make for me. “Eggs? Fried, scrambled, or poached? How about an omelet? Cereal? We also have granola, oatmeal, or shredded wheat? Fruit?

Would you like some bananas? How about some fresh melon?”

Sven and Laura equally share kitchen duties, but Laura has already left for work and I am stuck between appearing to be an ungrateful houseguest, and my irrepressible desire to go interview the kangaroos.

“They all sound wonderful. You are amazing. But, really, Sven, I think it’s best to just grab some coffee and get to work. Yes?” I smile apologetically, hoping my professional dedication has successfully masked my childlike desire to head for the petting zoo.

With banana in hand I hop into Sven’s truck and in the light of early day, I see how rough Sven and Laura’s daily commute really is … windy fields, turquoise surf, and thoughtfully maintained old homesteads, there is nary a hint of nouveau flashiness to hinder their 96

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15-minute drive, much less a traffic light.

TNC’s claim that this is one of the last great places left in the Western Hemisphere is without hyperbole.

The Abrams Farm is set among 16 simple acres, almost in the center of town. It is part of the Hotel Manisses’ original property, which is also owned by Justin Abrams, and may be the only hotel in North America where you can see the ocean, a yak, and a one-eyed zedonk (the lovechild of a zebra and a donkey), all from your bedroom window.

Seth Draper, Justin’s grandson, oversees the farm’s daily operations, and though he is a Block Island native and a die-hard surfer, he has inherited his grandfather’s love of animals. Unlike the rest of the onlookers who must enjoy the animals from the other side of the fence, Seth takes me behind-the-scenes, ducking into the barn where two Bactrian camels, Rusty and Lucky, are contemplating what to do for the day.

Bactrians are legitimate fiber animals, but a pair does not a batch of yarn make, although North Light Fibers does carry a camel needle felting kit (both Bactrian and Dromedary) and a worsted weight camel/merino blend.

Seth explains they used to have Dromedaries — definitely not fiber animals — but they had a difficult time coping with the cold, and in truth, neither of them had read “Miss Manners.” Rusty and Lucky arrived as youngsters just over a year ago and have settled in nicely to life on Block Island. Then again, perhaps they’ve heard what happens to those who don’t.

The pastures are beautifully fenced; a fence line any farmer would be proud of. Although I suspect there is something in the insurance policy, if not a warning from the local constable, which states there will be no wild zedonks running down Main Street, particularly during the height of the tourist season!

Call it Noah’s Ark, Dr. Doolittle, or simply a pasture dedicated to one man’s love of the beautiful and slightly strange, and you have The Abrams Farm. Without hesitation, Sven buddies up to Justice, a manly 700-pound yak and a great fiber producer, while several

Jacob Sheep look on like second-class citizens.

Within the world of fiber animals, the multihorned Jacob typically scores high on the exotica chart until it bumps up next to a Sicilian donkey, a pair of Crown Cranes, several fainting goats, and, of course, the kangaroos, which are in a separate pasture.

“Might I just take a quick look at the kangaroos?” I ask, not wishing to appear overly anxious.

“Of course,” Seth replies, and the three of us walk down to Joey and Petunia’s double-fenced pasture, double-fenced to keep tiny fingers out, not the kangaroos in.

Sad to say, but my impression of kangaroos is deeply entwined with Hippety-Hop from Looney Tunes. I expect them to roll back on their tails like beach balls, and throw a punch worthy of Joe Lewis. Instead, Joey and Petunia do just one thing the moment I enter the pasture — they run, or, to be precise, they hop.

Boink! Boink! Boink! Up one side of the fence line, and then Boink! Boink! Boink! Down the other. Pause, look at me, and then again, Boink!

Boink! Boink! Up one side, and back again.

For the first time, photographing a flock of sheep in flight by comparison seems easy.

I wonder if maybe there’s some type of kangaroo treat in my pocket I can offer, but clearly, I am far too strange for their liking and there is no “kangaroo” setting on my camera to accurately capture the “boinking.” Eventually I leave the pasture, feeling, well … a bit rejected.

As we make our way back through the barn where I pause to take a few more pictures, Sven Surrounded by alpacas and the heavenly scent of a sea breeze, Laura and Sven points to the mill building up the hill and tells me to Risom are never far from their three labs, Luke, Hobbes, and Finn. take my time, he will be up in the office waiting for me when I’m ready. Meanwhile, Seth points to a pair “Of course,” I reply, thinking that there will be no runof recently acquired lemurs sleeping inside a well-appointed away zedonks on my watch. penthouse. Consumed by my rebuff I had all but zoomed The mill and yarn shop are housed in a two-story, gray past them. But unlike the kangaroos, the lemurs are so clapboard building, near the top of the hill, displaying a completely unimpressed by my arrival; they can barely lift a large North Light Fibers sign with two rows of colored head from the hammock to greet me. Their eyes blink at me “lights” which, in reality, are balls of yarn. (North Light is in slow motion; they lean their heads forward about an inch one of two Block Island lighthouses.) Several alpacas are for further inspection, and then decide I’m thoroughly ungrazing under a tree and already there are a handful of tournoteworthy, and go back to sleep. ists gazing at the grazers. Cellphone in hand, the images no Snubbed again. doubt are being posted to Facebook, and my hardened fiber I thank Seth for his time and he graciously invites me to heart thinks, they’re just alpacas. come back later in the day. “Just make sure you lock the gate Inside the building, however, is where the real heart of the behind you,” he says. story is, and there is nothing whatsoever hardened about it. w i l df ib e rsmag az i ne.com

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Sven, Laura, and Karyn Logan, their business partner, work full-time and more, at the mill. Their complete dedication is evident in both the atmosphere and the finished product.

The art of yarn Originally from northern Maine’s potato country, and trained as a pediatric nurse, Laura assumed the business of making yarn was somewhat more complex than a Lego set, but less stressful than a Code Blue. “One of the reasons we decided to get into this business is that we wanted something that wouldn’t involve a lot of office politics or shift work!”

Laura explains. “I confess, I didn’t realize how complicated the yarn business is, and I certainly didn’t think I would lie awake in the middle of the night wondering how to fix the carding machine.”

Before purchasing their mill, Laura and Sven traveled to the Mini-Mills plant on Prince Edward Island for several days of training. They came away confident that the task was not beyond their skill set, but on the day of my visit, the dehairing machine is having a seizure and Laura is holding the phone with one hand, a screwdriver in the other, as technical support talks her through the problem.

Admittedly, I come from a generation that still takes pause when a woman changes the oil filter on her car, but Laura’s dexterity around the mill equipment is jaw dropping.

After turning this, and twisting that, she finally sets down the phone, runs over to another machine, grabs some type of knob-thingy from down below and then runs back and fastens the new gizmo in place. Voila! The de-hairer is back in operation. Apparently, the quick switching of gizmos will hold them over until a new part arrives.

“There is an art to making yarn, and there’s an art to keeping the machines running. You really have to be part mechanic to do this job,” Laura says, and I have no doubt that all of her country know-how has served her well.

“Most people have never heard of Fort Kent, Maine. It’s a small town right on the Canadian border. But my parents made sure all of us children knew how to work hard, and that we should also have the best education possible,” she explains. Laura has an undergraduate degree from Boston College and holds a masters degree in Pediatric Critical Care from The University of Pennsylvania.

“I have been knitting, spinning, and weaving practically my whole life. But I have a new appreciation for what type of fiber makes good yarn. If the farmer doesn’t do his job right, I can’t do mine.”

Opposite: Karyn Logan blending roving on the carding machine.

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Laura Risom talking with technical support while Karyn Logan offers moral support. The mill equipment fits neatly on the second floor.

Sven momentarily interrupts Laura to say that they have had to throw away thousands of pounds of unusable fiber, either because of too much vegetable matter, too many second cuts, overall poor quality — or — all of the above.

“Keeping the mill running is only part of the battle,” Sven explains. “In the beginning, we spent a lot of time visiting farms from North Carolina to Maine, and out to Ohio, just looking for the right kind of farmer to work with.

“Just because someone has spent a lot of money on an animal is no guarantee it’s going to produce good fiber.

We’ve really had to educate ourselves along the way, learning which fibers work and which ones don’t.”

Good fiber and good equipment is only a portion of the mill’s success, the other part is that elusive quality called teamwork.

“There isn’t a job here that anyone thinks is above, or, beneath them. Whether it’s labeling yarn, packing a shipment, or cleaning the toilet, everyone chips in,” Sven says. A management style that was not the norm back in the corporate world.

“Most people follow a job opportunity, or a promotion, to wherever it leads them. The paycheck comes first, and the other priorities tend to flow after. “The philosophy behind North Light Fibers is the reverse. We choose to live here.

And we choose to accept the various constraints of living on an island. But at the end of the day, we can lock the door behind us and take the dogs for a walk on the beach. That’s our paycheck.”

The Risoms have three grown children, plus Laura’s mother who is in her late 80s, and Sven’s father, who is 100

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“Nobody is looking to get rich.

Nobody starts spinning yarn because they think it will make them millions. But we believe that our little mill has the ability to do a lot of good,” closing in on 100. When they began discussing the idea of starting a mill on Block Island, the family’s response was universal, “Are you crazy?”

Yes, but perhaps not as crazy as you think.

Partnering In addition to producing beautiful yarns that can be bought individually or in a kit, North Light Fibers has formed several valuable partnerships in just a few short years, including Seamen’s Church, which provides support to mariners and Žene za Žene, the Bosnian chapter of the international organization “Women to Women International” offering emotional and financial support for women displaced by the Bosnian War. Founded in 1993, Žene za Žene, empowers women who have survived a legacy of genocide, systematic rape, and sectarian violence, beyond what most Westerners can ever grasp.

Building relationships with diverse cultures can be equal parts gratifying and frustrating. But Sven’s business sense, and personal savvy have created a model that has made their partnership with Women to Women International a sweet success.

A selection of handwoven scarves for sale. Sven Risom chatting yarn gauges with a customer.

“We ship our yarn to Sarajevo, which, in turn, gets distributed to a group of knitters who are able to create hats, scarves, and gloves, that we can sell in our shop. It is more than just a group of knitters, this is about teaching the women quality control, finances, and a few ins and outs of the import/export business.”

Spinning yarn in Rhode Island, shipping it to Bosnia, and then shipping it back for sale may carry a heavy carbon footprint. Then again, the employment opportunities available to these women are grossly limited, and there is also a well-defined sisterhood within the knitting world that occasionally places humanitarian welfare above the planet’s.

“Nobody is looking to get rich. Nobody starts spinning yarn because they think it will make them millions. But we believe that our little mill has the ability to do a lot of good,” Sven says with equal parts pride and humility.

In addition to their collaboration with Women to Women, North Light Fibers also works with The Hartford Artisans Weaving Center, which employs men and women age 55 and up, who have some type of disability — most of them are blind or have partial vision.

“When we first started the mill, Fran Curran, the director of the Weaving Center, was a big help to us. She knew exactly what yarns to use, and for which designs. It’s been a wonderful opportunity to also work with the weavers.

They even made a trip to Block Island a few years back. It’s another one of those amazing partnerships that has evolved if you’re open to it,” Laura explains.

Even though it is the last Monday in September, and tourism has precipitously dropped off, Sven still spends

North Light Fibers Onshore!

Want to see, touch, and feel North Light Fibers yarns but can’t get to Block Island? You can find NLF at the following shows:

Maryland Sheep & Wool Howard County Fairgrounds May 7-8, 2016

Knit Purl Portland, Oregon knit-purl.com

NY Sheep & Wool Rhinebeck, New York October 15-16, 2016

Northampton Wools Northampton, MA northamptonwools.com

The Fiber Festival of New England Springfield, MA November 5-6, 2016

Criativity Ranch Largo, Florida criativitystore.com

Vogue Live New York, NY January 13-15, 2017 Stitches West Santa Clara, CA February 23-26, 2017 Yarn shops: The Yarnery Minneapolis, Minnesota yarnery.com

Untangled Purls Fredericksburg, Virginia untangledpurls.com Knit New Haven New Haven, Connecticut knitnewhaven.com Knit One Quilt Too Barrington, Rhode Island knitonequilttoo.com

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nearly half of his day taking visitors on a free tour of the inside. Apparently, they are still deciding what to do for mill. During the summer months, their staff increases to acthe day, and then I tip toe (like a cat burglar!) to the door commodate the flow of tourists, but Sven is now solo in the that leads to the kangaroo pasture. I turn the handle slowly, retail shop and I can’t help but eavesdrop on a conversation knowing that one false move and the Boink! Boink! Boink! between an inquisitive newbie knitter, and Sven, who holds marathon will commence. Honestly, I am moving so slowly, an MBA from The Wharton School. Although I don’t hear and with such stealth, it’s hard to believe there is nothing all of it, in part, because more nefarious than a I am trying to blend into pair of hyper kangaroos the background, and the at stake. With the door best way to do that is to now closed behind me, start petting one of the I quickly check around dogs, I hear the woman when lying not two feet ask a very pointed quesaway is Petunia, just as tion about knitting gauge, calm as those lackadaisithe weight of the yarn, cal lemurs. and a specific pattern.

I don’t know why I I was having a difficult hold my breath, but I do, time precisely following as I slowly crouch down, her line of questioning suspecting she will launch and, with all due respect, like a rocket at any moI thought Sven would ment. And then somesurely have to call upthing quite extraordinary stairs for back-up support happens, more extraordifrom Laura or Karyn. He nary, in fact, than I can doesn’t. put into words. For the With remarkable next five minutes Petunia patience and articulation, lets me pet her. She lets Sven answers the woman’s me scratch behind her question to perfection. ears and gently rub her And that, perhaps more back, without the slightthan any ball of yarn, est sign of fear or distress. beautiful dye lot, or a pair Is it possible I am of aloof kangaroos next bonding with a kangaroo? door is what makes North That evening, back Light Fibers special. They at the house, Sven takes Yarn therapy has different meanings for everyone. understand their product. me on his favorite island They understand their walk — the one that goes customer. And at the end of the day, they will do everything up to North Point Lighthouse. There is no one in sight but possible to make sure they have given it their best — even if the two of us and two of the three dogs (Hobbes is getting it means switching out the gizmos. arthritic and stayed behind with Laura). We talk about busiAnother wave of tourists arrive just as they are getting ness and we talk about yarn. We talk about choosing to enjoy ready to close. Sven greets them with fresh enthusiasm, a better way of life, and yes, we talk about Petunia. And while I take the opportunity to duck out and see if, by sometimes we don’t talk at all, because when you are on one chance, the marsupial madness has abated. As Sven begins of the last great places in the Western Hemisphere, someF his tour pitch, I grab my camera and slip out the door. I times it is best to just keep silent … and knit. wave to Seth who is at the controls of a backhoe, flipping the manure bed so it will properly “ripen” for the garden, and then dash to the barn.

For more information about North Light Fibers, please visit Rusty and Lucky give me a casual nod as I quietly walk www.northlightfibers.com.

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hat do Block Island’s sea breezes have to do with the future of offshore wind energy in the United States?

Everything, as it turns out.

The five wind turbines currently undergoing construction off Block Island’s southeast coast represent the country’s first commercial-scale offshore wind farm, and a potential boon for residents who bear the high energy costs of island living.

Scheduled to begin spinning late this year, the 30-megawatt project will supply most of the island’s power, which currently is generated by diesel—1 million gallons of it shipped to the island by ferry—and could potentially reduce islanders’ electricity costs by an estimated 40 percent, according to Deepwater Wind, the company developing the Block Island Wind Farm.

It’s also a test case for offshore wind production in the U.S. While Europe has been busy erecting turbines as a way to meet renewable electricity standards (at the end of 2015 there were a total of 3,230 off-shore wind turbines with a total capacity of 11,027 megawatts, enough to cover 1.5 percent of the EU’s total electricity consumption), the U.S. has seen large offshore projects stall for several reasons.

Part of the problem is one of plenty; the United States boasts abundant alternative and renewable energy sources that the EU lacks, making an expen-

sive technology like offshore wind less appealing in the New World. Add to that NIMBY issues, environmental concerns, and fears over future costs and large offshore wind projects like Cape Wind in Nantucket Sound have been blown off course.

But the small Block Island Wind Farm continues to grow. As of early spring, construction had begun on installing the cable transmission system for the farm and all five foundations had been installed.

Though not all Block Island residents relish the idea of five long-armed turbines obstructing their views, the success of the project could pave the way for harnessing America’s ocean gusts.

“The vast majority here are very ‘pro’,” says Sven Risom of North Light Fibers about the wind project.

“There are some who are worried about their ‘viewshed.’ But we’re going to learn a lot here about the issues and complications; we’re going to learn a lot about storms and storm surges. This is the only East Coast ocean-based wind farm and it’s a pioneer. It’s going to be a benefit for the island.”

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rom the beginning, the Cooperative’s goal has been to provide income to Alaska Native peoples living in the remote villages of Alaska where job opportunities are scarce. Members of the Cooperative hand knit beautiful Qiviut garments, such as Scarves, Hats, Stoles, Headbands, and the more traditional garment called a Nachaq (in the Yup’ik language, meaning hat or hood). We call it a Smokering. It is designed to be worn up around like a hood, or around the neck as a circular scarf. Patterns for our Smokerings and Scarves are village specific and based on traditional and unique items from that village.

There are no quotas or time limits for the members. They are free to knit as they need or want income. This enables the members to live a traditional subsistence lifestyle, while still providing them with money as they need it. Members are paid right away for their work and share in a dividend of the profits at the end of the year. Be a part of our mission to bring money into the remote villages of Alaska and help support Alaska Native traditions.

OOMINGMAK

Anchorage Downtown Location • Corner of 6th & H Little brown house with musk ox mural 604 H Street, Dept. WFM • Anchorage, AK 99501 Toll Free 1-888-360-9665 • (907) 272-9225 • www.qiviut.com 104

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• Eight times warmer than wool • Soft even to the most sensitive skin • Finer than cashmere • Neutral color compliments any complexion • Completely washable and will not shrink • Traditionally inspired designs

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Food and Fiber from a

Frozen Paradise Two hundred miles below the Arctic Circle, Calypso Farm is feeding bellies, spinning wool, and helping others develop a better understanding of food and fiber.

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one are the days when Alaska’s interior was permeated by grizzled men thirsting for gold, panning through river beds by day and ladies by night. Brothels came with the job and so did loneliness as gangs of intrepid young gamblers scratched out an existence in this frozen land.

More than a century later the grizzled men are still here. Now, it is the wilderness and uncompromising solitude they thirst for. The floozies have fled, most of them anyway, and “ladies of the evening” are now equipped with a headlamp, an axe, and a dog-sled team of 16, mushing their way to Nome. Although it is yet to be adopted as the state’s motto, “Alaska, where the men are strong and the women win the Iditarod,” it is not far from myth.

The tiny town of Ester, Alaska, hangs on to the perimeter of Fairbanks like a chilly barnacle, earning its reputation from a now defunct gold-mining camp along Ester Creek. Some claim the town was named after a popular young lassie that earned her reputation at the camp. Others believe the origin is less sensational.

Fifteen years ago, Susan Willsrud and Tom Zimmer laid down roots in Ester.

Literally.

Taking 30 acres of boreal forest and converting it bit by bit into profitable farmland, they have done more than entice luscious lettuce and tasty taters from the unyielding landscape; they have embraced an entire community, while creating farmers of the future.

Starting at the Ester post office, Calypso Farm and Ecology Center is five miles up the old Neena Highway offering obscenely beautiful views of the Alaska Range to the south. By some standards, Calypso is already on the fringes of

story and photos

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Tom Zimmer is equal parts talented in the pasture as he is in the pantry. cooking up a feast from Calypso’s fields of plenty while daughter, Elsa, focuses on her drawing in the background.

nowhere and yet more than 2,000 visitors come here every year to learn about farming and fiber. Designated as a 501c3, Calypso teaches young and old how to cultivate Mother Nature’s abundance using equal skill and respect — qualities Susan and Tom hold dear in all matters — farming and otherwise.

There are chickens, goats, sheep and bees at Calypso.

There are also two herding dogs and a pair of cats, plus an occasional pig. Susan and Tom raise humans as well — two daughters, Addie and Elsa, who were born at home. Elsa, the younger, was born just two weeks after they moved indoors

separate

from their yurt. They are both mindful and guided by nature, choosing to eschew most modern conveniences.

The hand pump that sends water spewing into the kitchen sink never freezes, nor do the “pipes” for the two-seater outhouse; important features when the Arctic Circle is less than 200 miles from your doorstep.

Originally from the California coast, Susan has an undergraduate degree in zoology and botany from University of California at Davis, and a masters in natural resource management from the University of Alaska Fairbanks (UAF). As the result of her student days at UAF, Susan fell in love with Alaska and like so many other women who venture from the lower 48, she has also had a love affair with mushing.

Tom is part east coast and part Brit, with parents hailing from each, dividing his childhood between

Understanding where food comes from is essential to Calypso’s mis- consion. Understanding where fiber comes is next in line

tinents. He holds a bachelor’s degree in geological engineering and a masters in soil science from Utah State University.

It would be heartbreaking to think of either one chained to a desk, gasping for life within the confines of an urban setting. Their love of the outdoors is as palpable as their love for each other, manifesting in a sweet, harmonious relationship.

During the brief few months of eternal sun, Susan and Tom are hard at work cultivating vegetables, flowers, eggs, and wool, for Calypso’s CSA (Community Shared Agriculture), and two Fairbanks farmer’s markets they support. While they are busy feeding and weeding, they are also busy teaching. Children as young as five come to Calypso to learn about farming and so do a handful of young adults Susan looking for a little quality time with one of her ewes cannot ignore a jealous goat.

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A spectacular display of Susan’s handspun yarn from her flock of Shetlands. (photo courtesy of Calypso Farm)

from around the country, participating in Calypso’s fivemonth training program. Susan and Tom believe teaching someone to become a farmer requires more than just the tools necessary to work the land; it is about incorporating a holistic attitude towards life. The summer program begins with a quality of life statement, assessing how farming complements the student’s personal beliefs.

Understanding where food comes from is essential to Calypso’s mission. Understanding where fiber comes from is next.

Sam Dia came to Calypso after graduating from West Point Academy and serving five years in the Army. At one time, Sam believed his interests in Arabic and the Middle East (his father is Lebanese), would lead to a career in international relations.

Sam has done some rethinking.

After leaving the Army, Sam took a sustainable agriculture class eventually leading to work on a bison ranch and a dairy goat farm. Learning about raising sheep is part of what attracted him to Calypso’s program. Learning to spin is not.

Calypso is all about hands-on teaching, from planning vegetable beds to spinning wool. (There are 16 well-loved Shetlands at Calypso.) Confronted with a pile of greasy fleece and a double-treadle spinning wheel, Sam called in for back-up during those first few missions.

“I don’t have great fine motor skill coordination,” he

admits. “But I have a brand new appreciation for where wool comes from and what it takes to produce it.”

If forced to choose between spending a day in the garden with carrots and broccoli, or a pasture with lambs and poop, the pasture wins every time. Spending time at the spinning wheel, however, is a different matter.

“It’s harder than boot camp!” claims this West Point alum.

At the end of the program, Sam appreciates that Calypso gave him a new understanding of living a more thoughtful life within your means. But even with Pinga now at his side, (an English Shepherd puppy with full-on herding skills) it will be awhile before he adopts the mantle of shepherd. “You still have down time when you raise vegetables. You don’t get that with sheep.”

Introducing wool to the farm’s mission was not a difficult decision for Susan. Deciding what sheep would be appropriate required a bit of research. Contrary to life in the lower 48 where fiber farms can be found within less than an hour of nearly anywhere, from Manhattan to Miami, Fairbanks is a bit off the radar. Her nearest resource: Eugene, OR, where Susan began combing the stalls at Black Sheep Festival.

“I was overwhelmed. But I began talking to different farmers and it became clear that raising Shetlands was the best choice. They are native to a cold climate and you can do virtually anything with their wool.” w i l df ib e rsmag az i ne.com

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A few months later, several lambs arrived in Fairbanks — at the airport — and Calypso added wool to its list of sustainable products.

“It’s easy to have a farm with all the things you love whether its sheep, goats, rabbits, or chickens. But being a sustainable farm means raising only things that can earn their keep.”

Susan has developed a wonderful assortment of wooly wares beyond her beautifully handspun skeins that she sells at the farmer’s market. She also has fanciful needle-felted creatures and Christmas ornaments, wool-wrapped bracelets, and felted scarves. All of which go to support her sheep habit, one of Tom’s soft spots as well.

With Susan at the helm on the craft side, Tom is the one who makes it possible, shearing the sheep every spring around mid-April. During the winter months, which sometimes start within hours of Labor Day, the sheep are kept coated to protect their fleeces from hay and other organic matter; a scenario guaranteed to turn a luscious fleece, lousy.

The sheep share the pasture with two dairy goats, the original provocateurs. When either Susan or Tom walk into the pasture, everyone comes running — even the old ladies whose knees are beginning to stiffen. The sudden burst in activity signals Tuva, the new English shepherd puppy

(Pinga’s sister), to begin herding from outside the fence. It is a mission fraught with equal parts frustration and entertainment.

Above the sheepfold, Calypso’s fiber studio is almost complete. There are large windows providing unobstructed views of the Alaskan Range, a woodstove, and plenty of space for spinning and felting classes, plus accessories, confirming that Susan’s historically green thumb may now be covered in dye.

When Hilary King came to Calypso, she decided she would drive from her home in Minnesota just so she could bring her Ashford spinning wheel with her. Having already worked on several farms, she was anxious to learn more about homesteading, but her art had always kept her in an urban environment.

“I thought I needed to be near a big city to stay connected to the art scene. But I also love growing my own food.

The two didn’t go together,” she said.

Following her Calypso program, Hilary has also done some rethinking. The art community in Fairbanks is vibrant, offering just as much support and opportunity as what she assumed was only available in a large urban setting. She also decided not to drive back to the lower 48 and now lives not

Your one-stop shop for all things muskox--raw, dehaired, and spun qiviut for your fiber-crafting pleasure.

Tours offered in the summer months.

The animals would love to see you!

Learn more at www.muskoxuaf.org.

UAF is an affirmative action/equal opportunity employer and educational institution.

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Opposite page: Sam Dia with his puppy, Pinga.

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Above: Hillary King, embracing her flowers. Below: Dan Ochs, undoubtedly wishing he was spinning. (Photos courtesy of Calypso Farm.) Left: Stephanie Stillman, temporarily void of muddy feet. Photo courtesy of Allie Stillman Hage.) Below: An afternoon playing with fiber at Calypso Farm. (Photo courtesy of Calypso Farm.)

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far from Calyspo. As the result of Susan’s guidance, Hilary is also thinking about incorporating fiber arts as part of a therapy program she would like to develop — one that would also include gardening.

As for hands-on farming, Hilary is definitely a weeder versus a fence fixer. The sheep have given her a deeper appreciation of wool and, coupled with Susan’s preference for spinning in the grease (unwashed wool), Hilary produced her first pair of handspun, hand-dyed mittens at Calypso.

She carries them with her everywhere, even after the last signs of snow have long since melted.

Lambing season lifts everyone’s spirits, particularly after the long dark days of winter. Lambing is also the time when lots of local schoolchildren visit the farm, particularly young schoolchildren, putting Tom in the unenviable position of handling difficult births with an audience of squealing kindergartners.

“What can you do?” says Tom. “We are here to teach. We are always at the mercy of Mother Nature.”

Mother Nature is no stranger to breach births and Tom recalls being elbow-deep inside a ewe as the children sat and watched.

Not one … not a single one … made a sound. Thankfully, everything worked out.

When Stephanie Stillman came to Calypso, she was already a slow food warrior, working on an urban farm in Berkeley, CA, cultivating more than just vegetables but also

an understanding of social justice issues attached to the global food business. Stephanie was sold on Calypso after learning Susan spun wool as part of the training program.

“The idea of spinning wool just seemed so cool!” Stephanie said.

Without the challenges of boot camp to gauge its difficulty, Stephanie admits spinning wool is not a quick learn.

“It was impossible! I try to block it from my memory,” she laughs.

Already a dedicated knitter and crocheter, Stephanie remembers sitting at the spinning wheel and thinking if I don’t learn how to do this now, I never will.

Five months later when Stephanie left Calypso, her love of mud was indomitable. She flew from Fairbanks to Honolulu, (with a crocheted bikini top tucked in her bag!), and spent the next three months WWOOF-ing (World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms) on a fruit and vegetable farm in Kauai. Three years later, Stephanie is the proud owner of Muddy Feet Farm, a vegetable farm and CSA outside of Minneapolis, MN. Her quality of life statement has been modified since leaving Calypso, “I grow food to care for the earth, I teach to share the gifts taught to me, and I practice Yoga to remember who I am.”

There are no spinning wheels at her farm, but she embraces the value of growing your own food and teaching others how to grow theirs.

Before coming to Calypso, the notion of being a full-time

Tuva, the English Shepherd puppy, is determined to start herding the sheep , if only from the opposite side of the fence.

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farmer still had an element of fantasy. “Susan and Tom are magical. They taught us about the need for a business plan. They taught us about marketing. They taught us everything you can possibly imagine about sustainability. And most importantly, they taught me I could do it!”

As for her love of fiber, that’s changed too. “I really didn’t give it much thought before.” Admitting that sometimes she would spend money on really nice yarn for a special project, and other times, she went straight to the discount bin.

“Susan opened-up my eyes to fiber arts. Learning to needle-felt was a wonderful part of the experience and a lot easier to learn than spinning.”

Every intern comes to Calypso with different dreams; they can be personal or professional, and sometimes both. It is impossible to spend time at Calypso, if only for a few hours, and not come away respecting, if not embracing, a different way of life.

Dan Ochs was on a mission when he applied to Calypso’s farming program. All but intoxicated by agriculture since childhood, (his mother is an agriculture librarian, his father, a crop control consultant), Dan graduated from Cornell University with a degree in Applied Economics, envisioning an office on Wall Street, wheeling and dealing as an international grain broker. Instead, Dan received a Fulbright and moved to Mexico with Scotia Bank, studying agriculture trade policies. Afterwards, he decided the desk on Wall Street could go to someone else, working in the field is where he wanted to be. He came to Calypso to get a hands-on understanding about small farming.

“All of my experience revolved around commercial operations — thousands and thousands of acres, using GPS data to optimize crop locations. Calypso was at the opposite end of the spectrum. Plus, I love adventure!

“I had always seen agriculture from a business model, focusing on cost and efficiency. Everything at Calypso is about the community. We ate and cooked most of our meals as a community. The food that we grew was for the community. There are more components to farming than putting seeds in the ground and looking for profit.”

And somewhat surprisingly, this man with professional aspirations fell in love with wool too.

“My nerdy side really liked the physics of spinning, adding a few twists to the fiber to exponentially increase its strength. It wasn’t easy at first but once I

Susan Willsrud and Tom Zimmer,

got the spinning part down, the whole Zen thing began to happen.

I never dreamed I would look forward to spending an evening in Alaska spinning wool.”

Off the record, Dan hopes that when his life settles down (he’s currently applying to graduate school) he will have his own spinning wheel, twisting to his heart’s content. In the meantime, when someone asks him about his time at Calypso, he says it was awesome!

“Unless you’ve been there, you can’t imagine what it is like to wake-up every morning and see the Alaskan Range outside your window. You can’t imagine what it’s like to grow a two-pound head of Romaine in less than three weeks. But, what you really can’t imagine is how important food is to community.”

Susan and Tom confirmed the importance of looking at agriculture and food systems from a holistic perspective. “They are amazing people that have built something very special. They are willing to embrace everyone that walks onto the farm, and they taught me many things I never would have learned in a big AG environment.

F farmer is admirable. Being happy, however, is true “Being a small success.”

w

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Saturday, May 7, 9 am - 6 pm

Howard County Fairgrounds

2016

Sunday, May 8, 9 am - 5 pm

West Friendship, Maryland

Bring your friends and family to the 43rd annual Maryland Sheep & Wool Festival!

You’ll see all facets of the sheep industry, featuring nearly 1000 sheep, sheep shearing, sheep shows, working sheepdogs, sheep-to-shawl contest, gourmet lamb cooking, fleece show & sale, skein & garment competition and exhibition, workshops and seminars, over 275 vendors and much more!

Suggested donation at the gate - $5.00 For more information: www.sheepandwool.org Sponsored by the Maryland Sheep Breeders Association

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dyeing to help

Rwanda story and photos

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Umva! Listen, and let me tell you our stor y “If I had a s ens e of foreb o ding ab out t his t r ip, it is b e caus e t raveling into t he un k nown can a ls o b e li ke dying. Af ter t he anguish of t he go o dbyes and t he dep arture its elf, you s e em to diminish, g rowing sma l ler and sma l ler, vanishing into t he dist ance …You’re gone, no one can dep end on you, you are on ly a dim memor y …

What go o d are you, unobt ainable and s o far away? ” The Last Train to Zona Verde, Paul Theroux

I

A mother and her two daughters.

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n 2013, I did the unimaginable. I vanished into the distance and traveled to Rwanda — the land of a thousand hills.

Three years and four journeys later, my sense of foreboding has diminished, however the anguish of goodbyes has not. As Theroux predicted, my travels to Africa have made me unobtainable. I do believe, however, I have found the good in being so far away.

Before the plane touched down amidst Rwanda’s spiraling mountains, my knowledge of Africa’s natural dye industry was limited to a handful of regional cultures and dye sources.

Yet, despite my fascination by the complexity of this vast continent, my sights had never been set on going there. And then, quite unexpectedly, I was invited in 2013 to work with widows in Rwanda’s Northern Province as part of a program, sponsored by True Vineyard Ministries (TVM), to help women improve their natural dye techniques and color palette. The widows earn modest wages washing, carding, spinning and naturally dyeing yarns produced from their small flock of Merino sheep, which were originally imported from Kenya and provide greater value producing wool than meat.

With little hesitation, likely propelled more by enchantment than words of caution, I beetled off to Africa, hoping my efforts would help the women and TVM’s mission prosper. I tucked extracts of madder, indigo, cochineal, and weld in my suitcase, eventually completing the dyepot with onion skins I obtained from the local markets. My time in Rwanda ultimately felt all too brief, but the project was

a success. The widows were delighted. And I returned home, fully captivated by this land in the heart of Africa.

The genocide that consumed Rwanda in 1994 is hallmarked by such untenable abuse, it often overshadows the details that precipitated the initial turmoil, leaving few outside of its borders with little more than a fading memory.

In the wake of my visit, I realized I needed to understand more about these people who had slipped seamlessly into my heart.

The facts are staggering. Between April and July 1994, upwards of 800,000 Rwandans were killed. Most of the dead were Tutsis, the longstanding “favored” ethnic group, although outnumbered by the Hutus six to one.

Those who did the killing were Hutus, who are traditionally soil-tilling people as opposed to the Tutsis, who are cattle herders. For many reasons, many of which originated when Rwanda was under Belgian control, Hutus were deemed an “inferior” class. Therein lie the roots of simmering discontent, which eventually boiled over in 1959 when the Hutus killed 20,000 Tutsis.

In 1962, Belgium relinquished control and thereby granted Rwanda its independence. The Hutus reclaimed their rung on the ladder and the balance of power shifted.

dent Paul Kagame said, “If you properly use the knowledge and strength you are acquiring, you will take this country to another level. If you do it the wrong way, you will destroy it.”

Seventy percent of Rwanda’s population is under the age of 30.

The future of Rwanda is in their hands.

Prior to my visit, the magnitude of Rwanda’s suffering was distant — faceRwanda’s one4one logo. less words on a page.

Scenes on the television could be dismissed with a click of the remote. Now that had changed and so had I. My work in Rwanda took on a different destiny; a departure from the traditional NGO

Prior to my visit, the magnitude of Rwanda’s suffering was distant — faceless words on a page. Scenes on the television could be dismissed with a click of the remote. Now that had changed and so had I.

Decades of discrimination are slow to disappear and though the Tutsis are in the minority, they were feared, resented, and often blamed for the country’s social and economic woes. On April 6, 1994, a plane carrying President Habyarimana, a Hutu, was shot down. Genocide erupted overnight. Hutu extremists began executing their master plan: to destroy the entire Tutsi civilian population. Political leaders who might have quelled or temporarily stymied the movement were among the first to be killed. Tutsis and people suspected of being Tutsi, were killed in their homes. They were killed at roadblocks. Often entire families were assassinated and 250,000 to 500,000 women were raped, many by HIV-positive men.

It is the first time where planned use of rape by HIVinfected men was used as a weapon of mass extermination.

Nearly 22 years have passed since the 1994 killings. The hope for lasting peace is still uncertain, but there is reason for optimism. In a speech to Rwandan youth, Rwanda’s Presi-

template. Rather than getting bogged down in the inevitable administrative costs of running a nonprofit, I saw how donations could be directly used to provide assistance. And so began my next journey, not at all as the one Theroux described.

Meeting Mariya Through a mutual friend in Rwanda, I met a young man who shared about his family and the hard times they were having. We began corresponding via email during the winter months following my first visit and in March 2014, he told me that their family cow had died. His grandmother, Mariya, had become the head of household owing to losses from the genocide and other tragedies. The responsibility of raising many of her grandchildren was all consuming and further compounded when one of Mariya’s daughters died in childbirth, leaving her to raise a newborn. w i l df ib e rsmag az i ne.com

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After the death of the newborn’s mother, there was no ready access to milk and now, the cow was dead too. The baby needed milk and I reached out to as many as possible as fast as I could. I wrote a post on Facebook asking for financial help to buy a new cow.

The response was overwhelming.

I returned to Rwanda in May 2014 with money in my pocket and Mariya negotiated for a new cow. This one act became the foundation for our mutual trust and respect. We named the cow Inshuti, which means friends in Kinyarwanda, the language of Rwanda. A seed was sown and an idea began to take root.

It was during this visit that I was able to spend time with Mariya and her family. We communicated through her grandson who was able to translate, and often times we communicated without words at all. I was not yet clear about our future but I felt something unique unfolding, so I just let the days take me along.

When a guest comes to visit, Rwandan tradition is most

t

welcoming. When I would visit Mariya, a few family members would first meet me at a designated place. Then we would all walk together to Mariya’s home. The walk along the footpaths is slow and peaceful going up and down the hillside, greeting neighbors along the way. I am called a muzungu, meaning a white person/Westerner. A muzungu sighting brings many stares from the villagers, sometimes begging, and sometimes laughter. Often, I would hear women and little kids call out “Muzungu! Muzungu!” I would turn to them, smile, and say “mwiriwe” meaning good afternoon and they would reply “yego” for yes.

The staring and laughing takes some adjusting to, but I understand their reaction comes from a place of curiosity, not disdain for my presence. I remember seeing a T-shirt one day in the city market that read, ‘My name is not Muzungu’ boldly printed on the front.

I never saw anyone wearing one.

On that first visit to Mariya’s home, I was welcomed into the lounge room, or living room as we know it. There

hough natural dyer Nancy Zeller has studied with the who’s who of natural dyers over the years and built her own reputation dyeing her own line of Long Ridge Farm fibers and textiles,

she knew virtually nothing about the natural dyestuffs she would find in Rwanda when she visited to study the native plants at INES (Institut D’Enseignement Supérieur) University, Musanze.

Through studies with Nigerian indigo and adire master Gasali Adeyemo, Nancy knew about the gorgeous tradition of Yoruba indigo dyeing and through her mentor, Michele Wipplinger, founder of Earthues, Nancy was familiar with Malian mud cloth—an almost 1,000 year old technique for dyeing cloth using fermented mud. Beyond that, Nancy had no idea what she would find in the university’s libraries and growing in the institution’s botanical gardens.

What she discovered was more than encouraging. Poring over reference documents that listed local plant names in Kinyarwanda with their Latin family names, Nancy was able to identify plants that might make good dyes by their scientific names. For example, following the trail of the name Asteraceae, what is commonly known as the daisy family, of which goldenrod is a member, Nancy discovered goldenrod relatives with the potential to create yellow.

“If you know your Latin,” she says, “you can go anywhere.”

Having identified 3 dozen plants with viable dye properties, Nancy

Natural dye samples for the university.

started dyeing—proving that Rwanda has the right stuff.

“There were some lovely colors,” she says. “Reds, greens, and some surprises from plants I thought might not yield.”

Given that she has yet to publish her results, Nancy is reluctant to divulge specifics about her findings. When she does, she believes the work will bring credence to the value of the INES botanical gardens and help create sustainable sources of income for Rwandan artists and entrepreneurs. Her research will continue in Rwanda in collaboration with INES.

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was a dirt floor made from the local red clay, the walls were made of mud block with an exposed ceiling to the metal roof, and a few pieces of simple wood furniture.

I remember being struck by its utter simplicity and soon I settled in. One of the senior women in the family brought me some fresh passion fruit juice and imineke (the very best small, sweet bananas), and a plate of fresh doughnuts.

The other adults came to greet me and we proceeded to share the food together. Then the children came into the lounge, the boys in long pants and T-shirts, the girls in crisp, clean skirts that came below the knee. Each one personally welcomed me and then filed out to the back of the home to play. Their manners were flawless and their smiles irresistible. With Mariya’s family, there is order and respect. Yet there is also a boundless sense of love and caring for one another from the youngest to the eldest.

Winds of change

Top: Children gathering outside Mariya’s home for lunch. Below: Transportation in Musanze takes different forms. Opposite: Footpath leading to Mariya’s home.

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One afternoon during a visit to Mariya’s, the great African skies exploded. Thunder grew loud and angry, the rains battered everything and everyone. The temperature dropped 15 degrees in a matter of minutes and soon, the dirt clay floor grew moist and slimy. With no ceiling for protection, only exposed beams, the room grew cold almost instantly. I was cold. We were all cold.

I went to the front door to catch a glimpse of the driving rain. My eyes searched along the hilltops engulfed in an army of storm clouds, then back inside to the lounge with its wet, slimy floor and finally, my eyes rested on Mariya. I saw endurance and kindness. But most of all I saw strength. There and then, I knew this woman needed a blessing, having lost so many children and loved ones, having survived the genocide while protecting those she could. Mariya cares for her children and her grandchildren, she tends the cow, farms her small plot of land growing food for meals and to sell at the local market. She carries the baby, Akim, on her back throughout most

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Grandmother carrying Akim.

The bulk of the burden for them to succeed would unquestionably be on me, but for them to have work, a chance to earn money, and to have a vested interest in a small cause was a once in a lifetime opportunity for both of us.

In addition to my growing relationship with Mariya during my 2014 visit, I also met a prominent Rwandan who arranged a meeting with the rector of INES (Institue D’Enséignment Supérieur) University, Musanze. He understood my interest in researching Rwanda’s indigenous plants for their natural dye properties, knowing the work would benefit both the university and the artisans. As a result, I was offered a research residency beginning in 2015.

There are more than 300 native species of medicinal plants, shrubs and trees at the university’s botanical gardens, which are predominantly used for research, providing usage and dosage information to traditional Rwandan healers. Medicinal plants have been the standard in treatment for seemingly forever, although the increased availability of Western medicine has gained acceptance. A week on antibiotics can feel like a miracle cure!

With most plant species at my fingertips and a lab to do the research, my

of the day. She is the pillar of the entire family. I made a promise to myself not to abandon this family. If there was a way to help Mariya’s family out of poverty, I had to try.

Employment opportunities in Rwanda, even with an education and a skill, are difficult at best. For older women — above age 35 — it is virtually impossible. Selling wares at the market is the best and often only hope. The women want to work but their options are limited. Mariya is over 65 and her eldest daughter is over 40.

They are strong and capable, but they are trapped in a culture that defines their options based on their age. In 2014, I founded Rwanda – one4one as a way of further collecting donations and support, believing that I could one day create a sustainable solution for Mariya and her family.

Fortunately, Mariya is quite talented with some of the traditional Rwandan handcrafts of basket weaving, pottery, and sewing. When she learned I was using plants to create color, she wanted to learn more and, of course, I was thrilled to show her. We agreed that I would come to her house one afternoon to teach her how to create color using leaves, stems, berries and other natural dyestuffs. And so, in the cool of the lounge, with her grandson translating, Mariya and I made art together. It was at that moment that I saw a purpose to my natural dye knowledge. If I could teach Mariya and her daughter to naturally dye textiles, I could find a way to market them, ultimately providing them with a new source of much needed income.

Mariya’s new home!

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... I knew this woman needed a blessing, having lost so many children and loved ones, having survived the genocide while protecting those she could.

dream to document Rwandan plant species for natural color would take a giant leap forward. I returned home to the US with a head full of ideas and work to do to prepare for my 2015 adventure.

My first order of business was to set a new fundraising goal. My intention was to improve Mariya’s home by building cement floors and hung ceilings, plus make outside improvements to prevent further erosion to the house. Not the least of these improvements was to bring water closer to her home.

There is no plumbing in most homes. Typically, households fetch water every day in jerry cans. For Mariya’s family this meant up to three trips daily to a well, walking 20 minutes each way. On-site water would be a true blessing.

Learning Kinyarwanda I also arranged for an apartment in Musanze, and made a commitment to learn Kinyarwanda, lest I be rendered mute, forcing me to communicate by waving my hands to little or no avail.

And so, my lessons in Kinyarwanda began. Every day Mariya’s grandson emailed me four sentences, two in English and two in Kinyarwanda which I had to translate, return, and have corrected. Understandably, I had more than my share of confusion and frustration. However, my studies paid off and after a year of near daily assignments, I can read and write in simple Kinyarwanda, although my pronunciation is still, well … not quite perfect.

By May 2015, I was ready to beetle off to Rwanda again.

This time, I would stay for two months in order to complete the research at the university, oversee the home improvements, and begin the dye work with the ladies.

It was during this stay that my “place” in Musanze began to shift. I was able to purchase food at the market and readily engage in simple chats. I was able to negotiate moto rides, as they are my favorite mode of local transportation. Moto travel (hopping on the back of a small motorcycle) is not without its hazards but there is no substitute for its efficiency. The drivers are friendly and appreciate my efforts to speak Kinyarwanda.

They smile and say “ikinyarwanda urakizi” meaning “you are knowing Kinyarwanda.” I reply, “ndageregeza,” meaning, “I

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am trying!” which always elicits more smiles. The driver provides the passenger with a helmet, which is guaranteed to be in varying states of disrepair. The shield is often so scratched, the view, especially at night, is one giant blur, and the neck strap is often loose enough to wrap around my torso. The roadways are typically a chaotic confluence of pedestrians, cars, and trucks, with men pushing bicycles stacked with potato sacks, charcoal, bundles of sugarcane and, no doubt, the kitchen sink.

It’s best not to let the mind wander to what inherent perils are in the road ahead, for then you miss the beauty of the ride.

For weeks, as I listened to everyone speaking Kinyarwanda, one word was a constant in conversation.

Umva (pronounced OOM-vah) is used to catch attention in a conversation. Umva means “listen.” On my last afternoon at Mariya’s, listening to everyone chatting and enjoying their time together, Umva came to life. With brand new cement floors, a brand new ceiling, a water pump close to her home, Mariya and I could now share conversation while enjoying passion fruit juice and doughnuts.

Not only had the home improvements been a success, but also the ladies of Umva had dyed more than 100 textile pieces during my brief two-month stay. Without question, the future was beginning to take shape.

In the months that followed my 2015 visit, Umva has presented at trade shows, established points of sale in both Rwanda and the US, created an online retail store and, most importantly, has provided the family with income. The ladies excel at dyeing the wools and silks that are provided, and take their work seriously. They have been trained to analyze the results from each dyepot and use that knowledge to continue dyeing a consistent, high quality product. With each piece sold, they are lifted a bit further out of poverty, slowly building the steps to a secure future.

In January 2016, I returned to Rwanda, not only to continue the dyework with the ladies but also to develop ideas for the future. One vision is to have Umva dye fabrics that could be designed into fashion. The first step is being realized, as Umva will be part of the annual Rwanda Cultural Fashion Show this coming September. Umva will collaborate with a Rwandan fashion designer to create a number of designs that will be presented at the annual event in Kigali.

We will be present all day for the exhibition and attend the fashion show in the evening. Bringing natural dyeing to the fashion stage in Rwanda is a wonderful beginning. It is the culmination of many stages of a developing idea. I cannot properly express my gratitude for the support of the many

Nancy Zeller with an avid jump-roper! Opposite: Ladies from Umva proudly displaying their naturally dyed shawls.

donors who help keep Rwanda – one4one moving forward.

The whole project has unfolded in the most amazing and heartwarming way.

Through the unyielding support of family and friends, Rwanda – one4one successfully raised $7,200 in its first fundraising campaign and during my visit in the summer of 2015, all of the improvements were successfully completed.

Since then, donors are updated regularly and continue to witness the project’s success. The goal for 2016 is $7,000 and we are optimistic about reaching it.

Most of the time when I am in Musanze, I rely on moto travel, but when it is time to return home I must go by taxi, stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey with oversized bags, now filled with Umva’s hand and earth colored creations. Joseph is my taxi driver for these trips and during our time traveling through the hillsides to Kigali, enjoying the vistas from 6,200 feet and the fresh clean air, we always meet Mariya and her family by the roadside for one last goodbye.

Mariya and I hug, holding each other tightly and looking quietly into one another’s eyes. When I know I have used up Joseph’s kindnesses for waiting I get back in the taxi and we leave Musanze, a lump in my throat and tears falling gently as I reluctantly crawl into the back seat.

I will miss this place. This land that was once a simple name on a map. This land of a thousand hills. However, most of all, I will miss Mariya and her family, who have brought a richness to my world, coloring it in the best way possible.

Naturally.

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For more information about Rwanda one4one, please visit: longridgefarm.com/rwanda w i l df ib e rsmag az i ne.com

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My Story:

When love strikes, passion follows LYNN ZIMMERMAN

If you give a knitter a wheel, she’ll learn to spin; if you give a spinner a loom, she’ll learn to weave...or so it goes for this passionate fiber artist.

I

started my love affair with the fiber arts as a knitter. I’d always admired projects knit in handspun yarn, but would tell myself that with so many beautiful commercially produced yarns, I didn’t need to make my own. That all changed on a trip to New Zealand in 2007. I happened upon the Christchurch Spinners and Weavers Guild Shop, where the members graciously invited me to a meeting and set me up with a wheel and some wool. I was hooked.

I found Schacht shortly after my trip. I knew I wanted a wheel that was modern, beautiful, and would help me create the yarn I knew I could spin.

Once I saw67a49 36Matchless, I fell 15 100 100 10 0 42 5 92 4 in love. When I sat down to spin on one, I knew that we were meant for each other and I’d never need another wheel. However, in the years since, I have a 40th 0Anniversary Cherry 38 37 added 94 24 76 81 31 90 7 0 36

Lynn Zimmerman is a knitter, spinner, and weaver who is always looking for something new to learn, and loves to pass on her knowledge to others. She lives in Fort Collins, Colorado, and you can often find her spinning or weaving with a cat (or three) in her lap.

Matchless and a Sidekick to my stable of wheels. Each wheel has its purpose and helps me create beautiful yarn.

After I started spinning, I thought my crafting world was complete. But it seems that there’s always room for one more hobby. I attended the Schacht 40th Anniversary exhibition in Boulder and I was enchanted by

the beautiful handwoven items. I quickly signed up for a weaving class and came home with a Schacht Flip loom. That led to a 4-shaft Schacht Baby Wolf loom, which I eventually upgraded to an 8-shaft Baby Wolf.

I’m lucky to live near teachers who are so talented and willing to share their love of the craft. As a tribute to them, I’ve been fortunate enough to teach others to weave on Cricket looms. When I teach, I encourage my students to find the tools that make them feel comfortable and that allow them to focus fully on what they are creating.

The Schacht tools I use are an extension of me and enhance my creativity. My Schacht wheels and looms make me a better spinner, weaver, and artist.

Schacht Matchless

Schacht Spindle Co., Inc. 6101 Ben Place Boulder, Colorado 80301 p. 303.442.3212 f. 303.447.9273 schachtspindle.com 3 66 100 9

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Below: Handspun yarn by Lynn Zimmerman.

w i l df ib e rsmag az i ne.com

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Broomstick Air?

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by l i n da co rt r i g h t

or reasons that are based on stereotype and not fact, I was not entirely enchanted at the prospect of going to Russia. Borscht makes me gag. I don’t drink vodka. I had been cautioned that Americans aren’t always greeted with a friendly slap on the back and a chorus of “Gee, it’s good to see you!” And then, there are the airlines. For as along as I can remember, Aeroflot has been the one airline in the world guaranteed to make you wish you had stayed home. The growing selection of domestic carriers didn’t engender much trust either.

Lada, my Russian friend and fellow fiber cohort, agreed to accompany me during my 10-day visit to her country, which officially began on a gray, wet day in Moscow, turning Red Square from scarlet to soggy. The following morning, under clear blue skies, we were off to Sheremetyevo Airport for our flight on Rusline to Kalmykia. Foolishly, I had done some research in advance about Rusline. Most of the comments online were generic, ranging from small seats to cold blinis. But I couldn’t ignore the remark from one passenger complaining about his Rusline flight, clearly distressed by three men in service uniforms, frantically clearing snow off the wings with dust brooms!

My trip was scheduled for May. Lada and I boarded the plane for the twohour flight, taking our seats in the very back.

The pre-takeoff spiel began spitting over the PA system, followed by an English translation.

Together we sat with “Seatbelts buckled. Small portable electronic devices turned to flight mode.” And our “carry-on luggage stowed under the seat in front of us.” We sat waiting for the roar of the engines to begin.

Nothing happened. The cabin door didn’t close. The cabin lights didn’t dim. The flight attendant didn’t get into her jump seat. Nothing. Eventually, there was more noise over the PA system, but without an English translation to follow. I gave Lada a gentle poke.

“Whadhesay? Whadhesay?”

“He said we have small technical problem. We will wait while they fix.”

A few minutes later two men in blue uniforms with neon stripes glowing brighter than a pint of plutonium boarded the plane and disappeared into the cockpit. From where I 130

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was sitting, I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Frankly, it wouldn’t have mattered. And so we waited. And then waited some more.

Finally, the two men emerged from the cockpit and as the flight attendant reached over to close the cabin door, I heard the pilot’s voice over the PA system again.

“Whadhesay? Whadhesay?” I asked, deciding to lean in closer this time rather than give her a second poke.

“He said we still have technical problem. Now, we will go to technical parking.”

And sure enough the pilot put the plane in “reverse,” except planes don’t have reverse, and thus, we were pushed several hundred yards across the tarmac to “technical parking” whereupon different men, but wearing the same radiated duds, boarded the plane and the process began all over again.

In millions of miles of travel, and I mean millions, I have not once visited “technical parking.” I can only surmise that here at Sheremetyevo Airport, this must be where they keep the dust brooms!

I looked at Lada with a pathetic smile. There were just two words on my mind, “Get off!” It was only the first day of our adventure and already my suspicions were beginning to come true.

The technicians eventually left the plane and once again, the pilot’s voice echoed throughout the cabin.

“He says problem is fixed. Now we enjoy flight.”

The door was shut. The flight attendant took her seat.

And as we began heading down the runway, the woman sitting across the aisle from me waved her hands in a cross and closed her eyes tight. The men in front of us appeared fueled with vodka. And for the next two hours I wondered why I didn’t stay home. A thought that once we had safely landed, never entered my mind again.

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