The master weaver stands up and starts to sing. His voice echoes around the carpet warehouse, a high warble pure and true, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and goosebumps ripple along my arms. Below him, cross-legged on the floor, three members of his family work as one, their fingers knotting hundreds of threads in a hypnotic dance of hands. A carpet of incredible intricacy stretches away from the little group, oranges mingling with reds and ochres, set within a border of midnight blue and tassels the colour of tea.