In Long Mỹ, a village in Vietnam's Mekong Delta region, Phan Thị Nga and her childhood friend, Chiêm Thị Bé, are working on a batch of colourful patchwork cushions destined for customers from as far as Europe. 

As they work, Nga recounts a time in Long Mỹ when travelling on xuồng, local-style wooden boats, was a daily occurrence. "We used to bathe and even cook using the river water, now no one would dare do that," she exclaimed with a laugh, referring to the pollution that has swept the waters. 

Located in Hậu Giang province, water still flows into Long Mỹ from the grand Mekong itself, forming countless tributaries and streams, flanked by rows of Flame of the Forest trees.

But the picturesque setting hides decades of poverty from casual eyes. As the land becomes less suited for farming owing to unsustainable farming practices and pollution, the flowing streams leave villagers, who cannot afford their own transport, stranded from schools and other services that might lift them out of poverty.

For women like Nga and Bé, crafting quilts for Mekong Quilts, a social enterprise that creates sustainable work for underprivileged women, was a boon to their fortunes — until orders dried up. 

The COVID-19 pandemic’s halt on international travel meant the end of demand for the women’s intricate quilts, which were highly popular with travellers.

But sustained by a small stream of online orders and a pivot towards making new products like face masks, Mekong Quilts, which still operates one shop in Ho Chi Minh City, has held onto its mission to uplift the community. 

And as travel gradually resumes, Mekong Quilts is now also running cycling tours to the Mekong Delta, where visitors can get to know the communities behind the crafts. 

The Women of Mekong Quilts

Nga belongs to the first batch of women trained by a British fabric designer when Mekong Quilts first started in 2001. “[Partly] because I love the job, and because of my previous experience as a seamstress,” Nga says, recounting how she came to join Mekong Quilts.

“Many [of the ladies] saw me making quilts and asked to join and learn the craft!”

Extremely passionate about quilting, she explains the labour-intensive process: "We soak the fabric [in soap water] for one day before drying for another day. After that, we iron all the pieces of cloth to make sure the patterns are well-aligned.” 

Larger details are then completed using sewing machines, with smaller details and patchwork finished painstakingly by hand.

"Once [the quilts are] finished, we wash them one more time!" says Nga, who is now the leader of Mekong Quilts sewing team in Long Mỹ village’s Thuận An ward. She hopes that demand recovers as the pandemic dies down.

Adds Bé: “Quilting work gives us stable work. It also gives us voice in the household. Without it, many of us [women] would need to go to Saigon to work.” She notes that it would also be “very difficult for kids to stay in school”, as they may need work to support their families.

The Fabric of Life

For poorer families in the region, traversing 'monkey bridges’, or cầu khỉ, as the locals call them, is an everyday ordeal. Life without a motorbike may mean being trapped in a never-ending cycle of poverty. 

In 1994, when Bernard Kervyn founded NGO Mekong Plus — the parent organisation of Mekong Quilts — funding the cost of building better roads and bridges was top on the list of priorities.

"Accessibility means children can go to school and stay in school," says Bernard, who worked in the human rights sector before starting Mekong Plus. 

Mekong Plus offered to fund up to one-third of the cost of construction, but early efforts were stymied by a lack of support from local authorities. “We finally arrived in Long Mỹ, and established a long term working relationship with Ánh Dương centre, an independent NGO that shared similar ideals,” shares Bernard. Since the 1990s, Mekong Plus has helped construct at least 10 to 20 bridges and about 20km of rural roads annually. 

Then came Mekong Quilts, which was started as a social enterprise to create employment for local women. “Providing the mothers with work means the children can stay in school,” Bernard notes.  

So far, over 150 women from the Mekong Delta have been engaged as artisans, who are paid for each item they create — a product range that before COVID-19 included festive papier-mâché hangables to water hyacinth fibre tote bags. Mekong Quilts was such a success that the social enterprise was able to open five shops in Ho Chi Minh City, Hanoi, Hôi An, Siem Reap and Phnom Penh. 

An Ecosystem for Empowerment

Before the pandemic, Mekong Quilts was able to fund a scholarship programme with its proceeds. Due to the Mekong Delta’s remote and difficult terrain, distance and the affordability of basic transport can be hurdles to a child's education. “The average cost of keeping a child [from the Mekong Delta] in high school is almost VND12,000,000 (US$530) a year,” Bernard notes.

The scholarship programme has helped the families of youth like Nguyễn Văn Huynh, who is now working remotely for a European company; his sister Nguyễn Thị Huỳnh Như has managed to continue her schooling. 

Mekong Quilts was also able to modestly contribute to Mekong Plus which runs programmes to improve access to healthcare, education and microfinance opportunities for underprivileged communities in the Mekong Delta. For example, the micro-credit schemes help locals to start small-scale pig, eel, duck egg and even straw mushroom farming projects.

‘Brother’ Phạm Thanh Trần, one of Ánh Dương's farming experts, describes how locals with little land can farm straw mushrooms for a quick turnover. A single stash of straw can produce up to US$30 worth of mushrooms a month, using less than a sqm worth of space.

A Ride to the Finish Line

As the pandemic worsened, Mekong Quilts’ quick-thinking team, not willing to simply wait for work to dry up, were able to launch a line of hand-sewn triple-layer fabric masks with eye-catching designs, several of which feature traditional batik and Hmong indigo fabric acquired sustainably from tribeswomen. 

The masks helped keep the artisans employed as quilt orders dropped 60 per cent by June 2020. "We began focusing on baby quilts, cushions and also, fashion," Hồ Tiêu Đan, a long-time volunteer, added.

Although less than half of Mekong Quilts’ pre-pandemic headcount of artisans remain working regularly, the social enterprise has managed to stay afloat. 

“We make about 1,000 masks every month [now],” shares Út. “Many of us have returned to working in big factories or in the fields but at least there’s still work to do.”

Meanwhile, Mekong Quilts’ bamboo bicycles are finding a growing audience. 

Designed by Bernard with Alain Kit, a French bicycle designer, the bicycle takes advantage of the abundance of bamboo in Vietnam. “Except for the wheels, tyres and joints reinforced by hemp fibre and epoxy, the bicycles are fully bamboo!” Bernard says with pride.

At its peak, Mekong Quilts’ bamboo bicycle workshop kept nearly 20 craftsmen and women employed. Currently, only four remain, as  the pandemic has driven down demand.

In the last few months however, cycling tours — when allowed by the authorities — on these bikes have helped to support Mekong Plus. Cyclists can visit Long Mỹ over a two-day trip where they see a side of Vietnam that is often overlooked amid the rapid transformation of the country. 

First organised in 2014 for donors of Mekong Plus, the trips have become popular since Mekong Quilts opened them to the public, generating some US$2,780 in the first six months after tours were allowed to resume. “[Beyond travelling costs], participants contribute freely to Mekong Quilts at the end of the tours, largely going back into our scholarship programme,” Bernard says.

Tours aside, Mekong Quilts hopes that more people are inspired by the beauty and the stories behind its crafts to make a purchase, while looking forward to Vietnam opening the door  to international tourism, allowing more artisans to be employed. As volunteer Đan puts it:  “It’s a gift that gives twice.

Sometimes, as travellers, we long to be transported to a different place and time, grounded by an eye for beauty and authenticity. A longing that has only strengthened in the COVID-19 pandemic, which has bound many travellers to home.

Terrapuri Heritage Village is one such place.Nestled on a scenic slice of coast between the South China Sea and Setiu Wetlands in the Malaysian state of Terengganu, it offers the remote locale and contemporary comforts we desire from a weekend getaway, but it is no cookie-cutter resort. 

Terrapuri, which means “Land of the Palaces” in Sanskrit, is modelled after an ancient Malay palace. Every building in the compound is lovingly reconstructed from old wooden houses that belonged to Terengganu royalty and noblemen centuries ago.

Behind this concept is Alex Lee, a Terengganu travel industry veteran with a deep commitment to conservation that remains even as tourism revenue takes a dive from the pandemic’s chokehold on international travel. 

The Royal Treatment

When Nozirawati Rohim (Wati) first joined Terrapuri in 2015, she was amazed by what she saw. “I had never seen any place like this. Here, you really get a kampung [Bahasa Melayu for “village”] atmosphere and lifestyle,” says Wati, a general worker at the resort. “Where else in Malaysia can you find beautiful traditional houses like these [in one location]?”

Arriving at Terrapuri, guests are greeted by a gate that recalls ancient temples, which opens to a calming oasis, anchored by a sprawling courtyard with a moat, flowering plants and towering palms.Amid this lush setting are 22 resurrected guest villas restored in the style of classic Terengganu houses: each stands on a raised platform with high stilts, steep gabled roofs and a wide verandah. Beneath each house are implements like ploughs, coconut scrapers and sampans (wooden boats) — just like how kampung folks stored them in the old days.

The sense of history is carried through in the interior appointments. A gerobok (traditional wardrobe), wooden chairs, brass trays, chests and earthen jars recall homes of wealthy Malays in the olden days. Period details are faithfully recreated, right down to latches used to close windows and doors from the inside. 

To construct Terrapuri, Alex began buying old houses from all over Terengganu. In 2006, he started rebuilding them house by house on a 4-ha piece of land facing the South China Sea.No expenses were spared to ensure authenticity. Because of their age – between 100 to 250 years old – most of the houses were extensively damaged or decayed. More than 50 skilled Malay artisans were hired to restore the original wooden structures and to recreate the intricate sobek (filigree) and kerawang (piercing) wood carvings. All the wooden parts were polished until they achieved the silvery sheen characteristic of their original era.

“The project ended up costing RM10 million (US$2.36 million). People called it 'Projek Orang Gila' (Crazy Man's Project).”

Alex Lee Founder, Terrapuri Heritage Village

Yet the process yielded priceless revelations. “I met so many carpenters, house owners and villagers who opened my eyes to the richness of our local heritage. If nobody champions all this, our history is in danger of disappearing,” he says. 

To make the iconic Singhora clay roof-tiles — which were no longer widely manufactured — Alex tracked down the sole living craftsperson in neighbouring state Kelantan. “This kind of roof allows the house to breathe,” he shares, “but they’re also high maintenance and delicate. Sometimes, a falling mempelam (mango) can break the tile.”To put the pieces together, the ancient technique of building without using metal nails — known as pasak — was employed. Upon completion, each house was named after the village it came from and traditional rituals performed to bless them and the occupants.There was one more challenge. Who was going to run Terrapuri? Alex was advised to bring in trained hospitality specialists, but he insisted on hiring from the nearby village, although most could barely speak English and had no experience in hospitality. “This is our opportunity to empower our community,” he said.After nearly five years of planning and construction, Terrapuri finally opened its doors in 2011.

Conservation amid COVI9-19

Even with the pandemic, restoration work has continued, with all of Terrapuri’s staff employed to maintain the property, while Alex continues to hire artisans to restore houses that will eventually be part of Terrapuri. 

To bring in revenue, Alex has been offering “Book Now Travel Later” deals valid till March 2022, which offer guests discounted rates for advance bookings, allowing them to contribute to preserving these architectural gems and ensuring local livelihoods even as travel is restricted. 

Without tourists, demand for local crafts and specialities like batik fabrics, woven baskets, and keropok keping (fish crackers) have plunged, so Alex has set up Terrapuri online stores for these products via e-tailer platforms, to help their makers develop a modest stream of income. “It’s still very new but there is some good response,” he shares.

Bestsellers include the batik sarongs and the keropok keping, a traditional Terengganu snack invented as a way to use up excess fish. Made of seasoned fish paste, these salty, crispy crackers are delicious eaten with chilli sauce, and can be bought in both raw and ready-to-eat form.

Amid the slump, there have been flowerings of interest among Malaysians for Terrapuri’s offerings; Alex has received commissions from individuals seeking classic Malay furnishings for their homes, which has provided much-needed income for the artisan communities.

“A lot of people buy furniture from Java or Bali. We want people to see the value of Malaysian lifestyle and Malay culture, and what our artisans have to offer,” says Alex. “We have a showroom now, and we will keep working on these collaborations, to bring work to our communities.”

A Heart for Heritage

Growing up, Alex was fascinated by the beauty and ingenuity of traditional Malay architecture, while immersed in the outdoors as well as local foods like budu ( fermented fish sauce) and belacan (shrimp paste).

These formative experiences came together when he ventured into the travel industry in the late 1990s, by renting out his grandfather’s shophouse in Marang town to backpackers on their way to Terengganu’s popular resort islands, dubbing it Marang Inn.

When guests asked for excursions, he engaged his fishermen friends to organise boat tours and river safaris, splitting the profits. Seeing the potential of the travel industry, he set up his own travel agency, Ping Anchorage.Marang Inn did well, earning mentions in Lonely Planet and The Guardian. But more than that, his international guests became his window to global trends and issues. From them, Alex learnt the concept of heritage conservation, a concept in its infancy in Malaysia. "Here, old wooden houses were seen as a symbol of backwardness and poverty, not as precious antiques. What was not valued by the locals was prized by foreigners,” he laments.Marang Inn was eventually demolished to make way for urban development. Seeing the same fate befall other buildings in the town, Alex realised the urgency of creating awareness about heritage preservation. Terrapuri became the project that turned this vision into reality.

It is a message that has seeped into the consciousness of those working alongside him. “When people come here, we are excited to promote our traditional food,” says Wati.

“What's the use of flying thousands of miles only to eat spaghetti? When visitors come, we must introduce them to our heritage food like ayam hikayat.”

Wati General worker, Terrapuri Heritage Village

She appreciates how Alex has been steadfast in hiring locally, unlike bigger hotels. “With stable finances, I’ve been able to gradually upgrade my lifestyle...I am thankful to Mr Lee for employing locals from nearby villages to improve their economy.”  

“I hope this resort will stand strong. You need a place like this to let the next generation know about the arts and crafts of Malay culture. Nowadays, children typically stay in big cities; they only know apartments and stone houses,” she adds.

Nature's Grocer and Guardian

Tempting as it is to luxuriate in Terrapuri, venturing out rewards the intrepid traveller. A day tour of the nearby Setiu Wetlands, created by the ocean meeting coastal rivers, is a chance to encounter rare wildlife and meet the communities living there.

The richness and diversity of Setiu Wetlands is not lost on Alex, who believes that ecotourism can help protect the land while empowering those who call it home. 

Though an important ecosystem that acts as a storm buffer and is home to 29 species of mammals, 161 species of birds and 36 species of reptiles and amphibians, the wetlands are under threat from uncontrolled land use. The World Wildlife Fund estimates nearly 20 per cent of Setiu’s natural vegetation was stripped between 2008 and 2011.

To increase local sensitivity towards conservation and improve locals’ livelihoods, Alex recruits fishermen as boatmen for Terrapuri’s day tours during monsoon seasons, when they do not go out to sea. With other stakeholders, he organised workshops and retraining programmes for locals to help them understand the importance of protecting their mangroves.

“If in the old days, they would simply chop down the trees to obtain wood, now they help us to replant them. They have become our eco-warriors,” Alex says with a smile.

Through Terrapuri, visitors get to meet other living legends too: “Botol Man”, a retiree who created a mini-museum from over 7,000 discarded bottles he collected from the beach; a heritage boatmaker who crafts sailing vessels for world competitions; and Pak Harun, a fisherman who can detect specific species by skin diving into the ocean and listening to fish sounds.  

To support traditional Terengganu products, Terrapuri’s tours also include a visit to a village to shop for handicrafts and food items made locally from materials harvested from the wetlands. 

Says Alex, “We have plenty more local legends and hidden gems yet to be discovered. The problem is that all these stories are not properly recorded. I’m hoping to get them documented someday so that at least the future generation will know.”

In 2015, local lobbyists scored a major victory when the government agreed to gazette 400 ha of the wetlands as a state park, and RM8 million was pledged to conduct eco-training for locals to manage the land. 

Alex hopes the value of community-based tourism takes root, so that the people and culture can thrive, and find greater appreciation among their fellow Malaysians. 

“During COVID, Malaysians cannot travel overseas, so we are seeing more Malaysian guests,” he shares. “Most of our guests came from Europe, from Singapore, but we hope to see more Malaysians appreciate what we have here, and keep the culture alive.”

Amid the COVID-19 pandemic, is there a more iconic accessory than the ubiquitous face mask?

On the website of Noesa, a Jakarta-based favourite among the sustainable style-conscious set, face masks made with beautiful ikat fabric are front and centre, as part of their Corona Survival Kit collection. 

But these colourful textiles are more than just a symbol of these unusual times: they are part of the tapestry of empowerment and cultural preservation woven by Watubo, a collective from Sikka regency in Flores, Indonesia. 

A traveller could once participate in a weaving workshop by Watubo in their village of Watublapi, which provided the weavers a vital source of income while safeguarding their craft. But the pandemic has ground these efforts to a halt. 

With a little help from customers looking for something special, Watubo weavers hope to restore not only some of their income, but also their platform for sustaining and reinventing their ancestral craft.

Meet Rosvita 

“Ikat represents a woman’s worth,” says Rosvita Sensiana, an ikat artist with more than 20 years of experience. “Our ancestors didn’t have clothing stores, [so] to clothe her children and husband, a Sikkanese woman toils with her body to weave ikat.”

Ikat means “to bind” or “knot” in Indonesian languages, and Sikka regency is one of the most reputable producers of fine ikat in Indonesia, with centuries’ worth of vegetable dye traditions. Born into a family of Sikkanese master weavers, 36 year-old Rosvita is the founder of Watubo. 

Before the pandemic, Watubo made most of its income from taking part in national and international exhibitions, as well as hosting travellers to its ikat workshop, where participants could learn the craft while enjoying the sights, sounds and stories of Sikka. 

All this changed when the pandemic struck in 2020, but Rosvita is confident that Watubo will find a way to prosper again. “Watubo means ‘breathing rock’ or ‘living rock.’ It represents our belief that no matter how hard a place is, we will certainly survive,” she says.

Introduction to ikat

I met Rosvita in 2019 before the pandemic when I took part in Watubo’s ikat workshop, a collaboration between Watubo and Noesa. 

“An ikat workshop would attract visitors, which would help promote Watubo and increase weavers’ earnings,” said Rosvita then, adding that participants’ respect for ikat is also the goal.

Noesa provided the funds to build a homestay for guests and handled the online bookings. The workshops also included a tour of Sikka led by Rosvita. 

But these workshops are on hiatus indefinitely, and for now, avid travellers can only experience the rich history of Watubo’s ikat through the wares sold on Noesa. 

Ikat  is popular worldwide, but my interest in it is personal. My maternal great-grandmother, originally from Roti island near Timor, was a weaver who clothed her family in elegant, handwoven ikat bearing intricate motifs identifying their surnames.

I never met her, but I still hold a sarong that she wove for my grandmother in the 1950s — an heirloom no one in my diasporic extended family can replicate.Since my family had lost this cultural knowledge, I had come to Sikka to learn from another weaving culture. But even in Sikka, where ikat is considered to be thriving and current, perpetuating the culture has neither been easy nor straightforward.

Many Watubo weavers are alumni of Bliran Sina, an older collective founded by Rosvita’s father, which focuses on the most traditional forms of Sikkanese ikat, and subjects weavers to a myriad of protocols and taboos. 

Although Rosvita supports preserving tradition, she believes that innovation upgrades weaver’s livelihoods because it opens up markets otherwise impenetrable by traditional ikat.

In 2014, she started Watubo with Noesa’s support. The collective allows younger weavers to explore creative innovations such as novel colours and contemporary motifs. These updated iterations of ikat can be applied to products such as camera straps and wallets. In contrast, traditional ikat bear sacred images and cannot be used in the same way.  

Watubo became Noesa’s first artisan partner, connecting its weavers to Noesa’s urban consumers, and becoming a success story of a woman-led rural creative enterprise.

Threads of a rich history

A former Roman Catholic  kingdom that ruled parts of central Flores from 1607 to 1954, Sikka may not have royal heritage sites matching Java and Sumatra’s grand royal palaces , but it can hold up ikat as one of royal Sikka’s biggest remaining testaments. 

It is a discipline that is not only arduous, but also easily rendered meaningless when divorced from a practicing community and their culture, which provide ecological and historic context to the craft. 

Watubo’s workshop, named Orinila (“House of Indigo” in Sikkanese), aimed to preserve this connection. Guests are welcomed with a ceremony involving dance, music, offerings to Watublapi ancestors, a formal introduction to express the guest’s intention for visiting, chewing betelnut, and a Holy Communion-like ritual of eating chicken and rice. 

Next, the weavers and I discussed our lesson plan. I produced a grid paper drawing of my grandfather’s Johannes clan motif, to be woven into a scarf.

No newbie finishes a scarf in three days, so the workshop involves a dozen weavers demonstrating works-in-progress at different stages, and allocating time for a guest to practice each stage. Watubo then completes the scarf and ships it to the guest later.

On day one, I recognised my instructor Maria Genisa, having previously bought her work. Though I had only seen her photograph and name on a Watubo label, it felt like I was meeting an old friend.

Genisa and I spun hanks of cotton thread into balls, and wrapped them around a warp frame. I learned that Genisa’s husband Yohanes Mulyadi is a Watubo colourist. Yohanes also grows cloves, but he and Genisa found weaving a better source of income.

Meanwhile, on another frame, Virgensia Nurak taught me how to translate my paper study into the right proportions for resist binding — binding yarn with a tight wrapping applied in the desired pattern.

It was hard. The shape of my resist kept skewing as though it was having spasms, and I needed Virgensia to pull them back into the motif’s normal shape. We spent three laughter-filled hours together, where I only managed to bind 8cm of resist over 5cm of warp.

The next morning, Virgensia had finished binding the resist for my scarf, and it was ready for dyeing. 

Rosvita explains Watubo’s commitment to vegetable dye: “Firstly, it preserves our ancestors’ cultural heritage. Secondly, it is safe for women, children, and the environment. Thirdly, it encourages us to regrow and conserve culturally important plants, and harvest them sustainably.”

Vegetable dyeing also allows weavers to experiment and be surprised by the results. “Soaking threads in experimental vegetable dye recipes makes my heart pound,” says Rosvita.

Morinda red is the trickiest colour. Threads need prepping overnight in an oily candlenut pre-mordant before colouring red. I was already breaking a sweat as I pounded the pre-mordant using a tall wooden pestle and a deep stone mortar. After that, I still had tough morinda roots to cut up and pound into a pasty dye.

When I was done, I felt like I had finished rowing cardio at the gym, but with an awestruck feeling as I watched milky white threads turn crimson with a touch of berry.

I started day three watching the vibrant threads we dyed dry in the sun. Opening the resist and rearranging the resist-dyed threads over the warp frame to form the intended motif is painstaking work. 

When I finally sat at the loom, I moved the weft to and fro through the warps and watched them transform into fabric. In two hours, I weave a mere 4cm.

My emotions brimmed over the goodbye dinner. I’d always thought my urban lifestyle and career made it impossible for me to learn ikat, but Watubo made my first step in this long journey possible, immersing me in a labour-intensive process that revived our ancestors’ creative spirits. 

A pandemic pause

Rosvita has been vocal about how Watubo has financially changed her life. 

“I had nothing before Watubo,” Rosvita had told me during my visit. “[After Watubo] I’ve bought a house and a motorbike. I am reaching prosperity. I have everything I need.”

Other weavers have used money earned from Watubo to send  their children to university, or to develop farms from which they can earn even more.

Because of this, Watubo had become a full-time livelihood for many weavers and their families, who would otherwise earn less as farmers, labourers or working for the government.

Now it’s a different story. “During the pandemic our finances haven’t been as great,” says Rosvita. “Earnings from ikat have been difficult to rely on, so weavers currently rely more  on agriculture.”

The few sales that happened during the pandemic were mainly from Noesa and “very few other visitors,” mostly Flores locals. For now, Watubo has to sustain the resources to resume full production in future. “We hope this pandemic ends soon, to resume our activities and join exhibitions again,” says Rosvita. 

Until then, a simple ikat mask remains to tell the rich history of this inspiring collective.