Silk in the Sahel: Tuntun and Marka Faso Dan Fani in Northwestern Burkina Faso

In many ways, January 18, 2010, started out as a day like any other. I was in Burkina Faso on a Fulbright fellowship; I spent my time researching traditional-style textiles of the Marka people in the northwestern part of the country. I had made great contacts in major weaving centers, but had learned little about one of the Marka’s most important textiles, tuntun fani: cotton cloth woven with silk stripes. On that day, however, I was invited to the small and isolated village of Sani to visit the women’s textile cooperative Yantoyɛrɛla. The man who introduced me to these women, Abbe Urbain Doh, is a Samo Roman Catholic priest who has a remarkable zeal for educating people regardless of their background or religion. Sani is well off the beaten path, and although it is entirely Muslim, Abbe Doh is helping the women of this cooperative learn how to read Jula. So when Abbe Doh invited me that day, I tagged along to deliver primers donated by the Diocese. This would be my third visit to see the cloth that Yantoyɛrɛla produced. Like other Marka weavers, they create textiles collectively known as faso dan fani, or “country cloth.” It is by far the most popular traditional-style textile in northwestern Burkina Faso. I wasn’t expecting to find people talking about tuntun fani in Sani; up until that day, none of the Marka had wanted to discuss it in detail. There were plenty of traders (of all local ethnicities) who would point to cotton or kapok and tell me that it was tuntun. Likewise people would talk about tuntun and how important it was. But no one would actually sit down and tell me exactly what it was, much less where it came from and how it was processed. Given that Marka textile artists are part of the endogamous ɲamakalaw—a closed group of Mande artists believed to have great spiritual power—I could only imagine that silk weaving was among their most precious and carefully guarded secrets. Further, as a toubab, or “white person,” I would definitely be seen an outsider by this close-knit profession. Thus for me, tuntun seemed to be a secret hidden in plain sight; those who were initiated into the knowledge of wild silk were privy to its mystery, while those born or educated outside the tradition seemingly would never learn anything substantive about it. So as Abbe Doh’s car bounced across the dusty, pot-holed tracks toward Sani, I had no hopes of learning anything new about tuntun. As we pulled in amongst the village’s red banco buildings, the women of Yantoyɛrɛla greeted us with their characteristic enthusiasm. As always, they were pleased with visitors and delighted with the primers. After a period of visiting, to my amazement they decided to show us some of their treasured textiles and—even more surprisingly—to talk about them openly. I am not sure what brought about this change. Perhaps they were thrilled with Abbe Doh’s contribution of books to their classes, or perhaps (but less likely) they were excited that this strange toubab was still interested in their work after two prior visits. Among the most fascinating objects they showed were textiles dating back several decades. In particular, Ourokia Sako, a leader in the group, took out a beautiful pagne that she called sɔrɔ ti ku beira (“a rich person does not respect others”); her grandmother gave it to her mother, who passed it down to her (Figs. 1–2). Although the pagne was over fifty years old, I was shocked at how new it looked. Ms. Sako explained that it was the strength of the tuntun that made the pagne last so long, and that you could tell it was old because the tuntun was white from repeated washing, and not the usual light but distinctive greenish brown. After looking at several other heirloom pagnes, two of the women held out the most curious-looking objects I had ever seen in Burkina Faso (Fig. 3). Dripping with grayish liquid, they