GUANGOPOLO, Ecuador (AP) 鈥� In her modest home in Guangopolo, east of capital, Ligia Ipiales carefully separates strands from a horse鈥檚 tail, weaving a mesh as fine as gauze for a 鈥渃edazo,鈥� a traditional sieve clinging to survival.
The craft that once made the village famous is now fading. Only nine 鈥渃edacero鈥� artisans remain. The youngest is 51-year-old Guido Paucar, the only man in the group, while the oldest is Ipiales, at 76.
鈥淭his is our village鈥檚 identity. If it disappears, Guangopolo loses a part of who it is,鈥� said Paucar. 鈥淲e are the last generation making these sieves.鈥�
Fifty years ago, recalled Paucar, around 500 Indigenous families made a living by crafting and selling sieves, moving up to 600 units every month, with prices ranging from $6 to $30 depending on the size. But the emergence of cheaper plastic sieves and synthetic fabrics meant that sieves were reduced to display crafts with no presence in everyday life. 鈥淣ow we only sell up to 10 each week,鈥� he added.
Local records show that 1,500 residents of Guangopolo have been weaving sieves for 200 years. Crafted like a drum, each sieve features a thin, 15-centimeter (6 inches) high wooden rim that secures the traditional horsetail fabric. Until the turn of the past century, the tools were indispensable in Ecuadorian kitchens, where they were primarily used to sift flour.
Industrial growth and environmental shifts have made it increasingly difficult to source horsehair and the wood of the native Pumamaqui tree.
Until recently, horses were indispensable companions for agricultural work in the Andean fields. Today, however, farmers prefer motorcycles and tractors. This shift has forced artisans to look elsewhere, making southern Colombia and central Ecuador the primary sources for horsehair. But the material comes at a steep price, with 100 pounds (about 45 kilograms) costing around $1,000.
After being washed and dried, horsehair is sorted by length and stretched onto a simple wooden frame known as a guanga. Seated cross-legged on the floor, the artisans work with such speed that their fingers blur, selecting, stretching and knotting individual strands into an intricate mesh.
Making cedazos once provided women with extra income and sometimes helped pay for their children鈥檚 education.
At the El Cedacero craft center, home to Guangopolo鈥檚 remaining weavers, efforts to train a new generation through workshops and classes have repeatedly fallen short.
鈥淔rom the age of 6 or 7 our mothers taught us how to weave sieves,鈥� said Leonor Cuje, 57, gesturing toward a table lined with sieves, bracelets and brushes made from horsehair. 鈥淣ow they are professionals and they don鈥檛 want to do this anymore.”
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