In East India, women layer their old cotton saris and other orphaned patches of cloth six deep, and then sew a running stitch through the layers in rows that looks like your grandmother’s quilt. Only slimmer. More like something you want to wear, rather than take to bed. The perfect (recycled) comfort cloth.
A six hour drive up dirt mountain roads leads to a village of scattered huts with thatched roof hats. I’m close to the line between East and West Timor where civil war has divided the lush jungle of green, searching for old textiles for which these parts are known – ikats and indigo and tamarind red – elegant and intricate weaves.