Weaving Meaning in Guatemala

On the wall of my bedroom on the east coast of Australia hangs an intricately embroidered, ochre-coloured huipil blouse. The stitching is imperfect, the colour is mottled, it is torn in certain places. But it is, without doubt, my favourite piece of clothing. Every time I pass it I think of my travels to Guatemala, especially the five-day weaving workshop I took there, which taught me the importance of honouring the garments we adorn our bodies with. After that experience, I never looked at clothing the same way again.

Our journey began on the steep shores of Lake Atitlán in Guatemala’s southwestern highlands. From the balcony of my villa, I could see hummingbirds hovering over the yellow and red clock vine flowers, and the morning mists dissolving to reveal the three colossal volcanoes fringing the lake. That first day we took a boat to San Juan la Laguna, a picturesque village filled with cobbled laneways, candy-coloured adobe houses, and fair-trade shops selling textiles, honey and coffee.

The next day took us to a different lakeside village, San Antonio Palopó, where a group of skilled local weavers taught us the basics of designing a weaving and setting up a backstop loom, wrapping the cottons we’d dyed the day before around the warp board.

These weaving traditions are integral to Guatemala’s history and national identity, but they are in danger of extinction. The riotously coloured traditional woven blouses, skirts and pants are expensive, and can take up to two months to create a single piece. And since there are now 15 tonnes of cheap, second-hand clothes being shipped into Guatemala from America every month, the younger generation don’t want to spend their precious time weaving something elaborate, when they can just buy a T-shirt for a dollar.

Learning about these practices and putting your travel dollars behind them, then, is a way of helping to keep Guatemala’s weaving traditions alive. It’s also a way of helping to ensure the older women in the communities, many of whom lost their husbands, brothers and fathers during Guatemala’s bloody 30 year civil war, continue to generate income from their craft.

We finally started weaving on day three, in the lush lakeside gardens surrounding our villas and with the help of the local weavers. It was much more difficult than I had imagined. The back strap looms were uncomfortable, and passing the wooden shuttle back and forth between the strings of cotton was a slow and awkward process. Soon, though, I found a rhythm, and it became almost meditative. The day passed quickly and before I knew it, I was holding a 30-centimetre weaving in my hands.

I definitely didn’t return home a master weaver, but I did receive important hands-on lessons about one of Guatemala’s most important cultural traditions. And now, having created a portion of one with my own hands, I never look at that huipil on my wall - or indeed any piece of clothing in my wardrobe - without feeling a deep respect for the artisans who created it.