GUATEMALA HIGHLANDS-THE ROAD TO MOMOSTENANGO/WEAVING

Leaving Quetzaltenango we headed up toward Momostenango to find wool blankets.  The road to Momostenango was full of switchbacks and often we were caught behind chicken buses or large trucks. In spite of slow traffic it was a beautiful drive as we climbed higher and higher through thickets of pine trees.

Manuel stopped the car just outside of town near this evangelical church.  He then headed back up the road trying to find an acquaintance of his, a weaver of chamarras (wool blankets).  We were close behind.

Soon we were carefully finding our way down the mountain on a narrow dirt path surrounded by a cluster of houses. Chickens, dogs and cats were following us. Children's heads popped out of the humble houses to see who was coming down the path.  Manuel had found his friend's house and workshop but the weaver was at the hospital getting a checkup.  Even so, Manuel worked his magic and we still got a tour of his weaving workshop.  Halfway down I met this woman and her grandchildren.

She was carding wool and placing it in the wash pan when she was done.  Of course I wanted to try it and she encouraged me with a wide smile.

Soon that smile turned into a laugh as I struggled to get the wire brush through the wool.  She finally took it from me and with smooth movements started the rhythm of pulling apart the wire bristles and combing the wool into clean puffs.  I was so surprised by my inability to even begin to card the wool that my appreciation for her and others like her grew by leaps and bounds.

Continuing down the narrow path we saw dyed wool drying in the sun.

Natural herbs, vegetables and vines are used to color the wool.

After the wool is dyed it is put in a water bath in the large pot on the right, placed over a fire on the left and steamed until the color is set.  Then it is dried in the sun.

These skeins are ready to be woven into blankets, pillow covers and shawls.

This loom has been in the family for generations.  Notice the sheared wool in front, ready to be carded.

As we walked past this altar set in a little alcove I noticed the fresh flowers.  It made the weaver's home a little more holy.

Loom weaving is a vanishing art.  This man is one of the last.  We felt his soft, heavy blankets wishing we could purchase one to bring home, but the weaver wasn't there...instead he left us with a memory to tuck away for another time.