On a silk road

Speaking over the thud of music coming from the bars nearby, he soon kills any romantic notions I might be forming of him as some kind of simple craftsman. He's a shrewd operator and, like all good businessmen, Niyom understands his clientele.

Everything used to be made at his small office in another part of the city, he explains, but a few years ago he moved half his staff to this shop because the tourists liked to see for themselves that the products were handmade.

At a heavy wooden table on the other side of the alley, the workers sit slicing and threading strips of fresh leather sourced from Thai cattle, buffalo and lamb and from pigs exported from Japan. Unfazed by the humidity, they expertly piece together the bags, wallets, boots and waistcoats that hang in the shop opposite.

"This area is hippie-style," Niyom says. I know what he means. The phrase neatly encapsulates the commodified version of independent travel offered on Khao San Road; it's a kind of Las Vegas for backpackers, filled with MBA graduates pretending to be Jack Kerouac.

I can't help but be seduced by the quality of the leatherwork. After a brief struggle with my conscience, I decide I'll allow myself this one slip. I buy a wallet.

Escaping the commercial tentacles of the big city, I flee Bangkok for rural Vietnam. Flying from the Thai capital to Danang in central Vietnam, it's then a short taxi ride to Hoi An. About halfway between Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon) and surrounded by luminous green rice paddies, the town has changed little in centuries. The French colonial houses, pagodas and Chinese assembly halls in the old quarter of town are perfectly preserved and have earned the town a place on UNESCO's World Heritage List.

In the bustling riverside market you can pick up a bowl of cau lau, a delicious noodle soup and local delicacy made with croutons, slices of pork and bean sprouts. For most visitors though, the cuisine takes second place to the tailoring. At least 200 silk shops are located downtown, continuing a trade that was started five centuries ago by Chinese and Japanese merchants. Prices are very competitive: suits start from as little as $US40 ($57), though you'd be advised to pay more to ensure quality.

In a narrow shop at the back of the market, Xi runs her family business. I meet her among the high smells and mangled body parts of the market's fish section where, after the briefest of exchanges, she grabs me by the hand - her other hand clutching her young daughter - and leads me like a schoolboy through the crowds to her shop. At a large table she shows me Western-brand clothing catalogues and says she can provide me with a tailored replica of anything I choose for a fraction of the price.

A stocky little woman, Xi, 29, runs the shop with her sister-in-law while her mother and younger siblings make the orders at home. Next to the clothing catalogues, a notebook contains the written endorsements of happy customers. Some of the entries, however, read like police statements. Nico, an Italian, says he was "practically dragged in here" and had "no intention whatsoever of buying a fitted shirt". Still, he did and left "with a smile on my face".

I look up to see Xi beaming at me ominously. Needless to say by the time I leave Hoi An, I'm clutching a cotton jacket, two pairs of cotton trousers, a silk kimono, a present for my niece and my new wallet is $US200 lighter. This is not going according to plan.

Two flights and a train journey later, I meet Molly Rubin at a silk-weaving collective in Vientiane's hinterland in Laos. She has a fairtrade business, Rubyzaar, which she runs with her sister, importing garments they sell wholesale and at street fairs at home in New York.

They have spent much of the past eight years travelling throughout South-East Asia looking for original items and finding people to make their designs. By coincidence, she too has just come from Hoi An, where she was having a new line of dresses made that she plans to show at a trade show on her return to the US.

Five years ago she discovered the Malaikham weaving collective - named after the family who run it - after stumbling across the silks in a store in Vientiane, the low-key capital of Laos. "Immediately we were like, 'Take us to where this is made'," she says. "You need to see the conditions it was made in, in order to know whether you can feel OK about doing business with them. In this case, we saw that this was a good set-up. The spirit among the staff was buoyant, everyone was well treated."

The collective is located inside a nondescript warehouse in a semi-rural setting 30 minutes' drive from Vientiane. About 50 workers, all women, thread together the raw silk on wooden looms. Like the Cham Muslim women Thompson worked with in Bangkok, these Laotian women are preserving a tradition that has continued unbroken for centuries.

Outside, the sky is a tranquil blue in the late afternoon. Around us are wooden vats ringed by iron bindings, each filled nearly to the brim with brightly coloured natural dyes.

"You should buy some of the silk. It's amazingly cheap considering the quality," Molly tells me.

"Oh yeah. How cheap?" I ask, my ears pricking up. I hope my dad can forgive me.

The nearest airport to Hoi An is Danang. Singapore Airlines has a low season return fare to Danang for $348, not including tax, with a change of aircraft in Singapore. An airline called PBair plans to fly from Bangkok to Danang (pbair.com). To get to the weavers of Laos there is an overnight sleeper train to Vientiane from Hua Lamphong train station in Bangkok. Seats can be booked in Bangkok or through a specialist travel agency such as traveller2000.com.