"Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 46"
The Andes Mountains rose like a jagged spine against the sky, their snow-capped peaks piercing the clouds as Su Yao's truck climbed a winding dirt road. Below, terraced fields of quinoa and potatoes clung to the slopes, and small herds of alpacas grazed on sparse grass, their soft wool glowing white and brown in the sunlight. At 12,000 feet, a Quechua village emerged: stone huts with thatched roofs clustered around a plaza where a weathered stone cross stood beside an ancient huaca (sacred stone). Nearby, a group of weavers sat on woolen blankets, their hands moving over looms strung with fine alpaca yarn dyed in rich purples, reds, and golds. Their leader, a man with a broad-brimmed hat and a poncho covered in intricate patterns named Tito, looked up as they approached, his dark eyes assessing. "You've come for the poncho," he said, his Quechua language laced with Spanish, gesturing to the garments draped over a wooden frame.
The Quechua people of the Peruvian Andes have woven alpaca wool textiles for over 3,000 years, their craft intertwined with their agricultural calendar and spiritual connection to the cosmos. A poncho is more than clothing—it is a living calendar: patterns of zigzags represent lightning (a sign to plant), circles denote full moons (time to harvest), and stepped motifs mimic the Andes, mapping the sacred geography. Weaving is guided by the pacha (three worlds): the hanan pacha (upper world of gods), kay pacha (middle world of humans), and ukhu pacha (underworld of ancestors), with each thread carrying messages between realms. Su Yao's team had traveled here to merge this cosmic craft with their seaweed-metal blend, hoping to create a textile that honored Quechua cosmovisión while enhancing the wool's durability against the harsh mountain climate. But from the first conversation, it was clear that their understanding of "symbolism" and "function" was as different as the high Andes and the ocean depths.
Tito's daughter, Marisol, a 24-year-old weaver who also worked as a guide at Machu Picchu, held up a poncho with a pattern of silver stars on a deep blue background. "This is my father's chullpa poncho," she said, tracing a star cluster with her finger. "The pattern is Mama Quilla—the moon goddess. Each thread is dyed with cochineal from the valley, and the stars are woven during the quilla fulla (full moon) to carry her light. You don't just weave it—you align it with the sky."
Su Yao's team had brought computerized looms and synthetic alpaca blends, intending to mass-produce simplified poncho patterns using their seaweed-metal blend for a "high-altitude luxury" collection. When Lin displayed a prototype with digitized star patterns, the weavers fell silent, their needles hovering. Tito's uncle, Don Clemente, an elderly yatiri (shaman) with a beard white as alpaca wool and a necklace of llama bones, stood and raised his staff. "You think you can trap the moon in a machine?" he shouted, his voice echoing across the plaza. "These threads talk to the mountains. Your metal is deaf—it cannot hear Pachamama (Mother Earth) speak."
Cultural friction deepened over materials and rituals. Quechua weavers harvest alpaca wool by hand during the pukllay (harvest festival), singing to the animals to "give their warmth freely." The wool is cleaned with water from glacial streams blessed by the yatiri, then dyed using plants and insects gathered according to the stars: indigo for blue during the Sirius rising, cochineal for red when Venus appears, and mollis leaves for green under the Pleiades. The dyeing process includes despachos (offerings)—small bundles of coca leaves, sugar, and yarn buried in the earth to thank Pachamama. The seaweed-metal blend, despite its sustainable origins, was viewed as spiritually disconnected. "Your thread comes from the salt sea," Tito said, feeling a sample. "It doesn't know our cold winds or our sacred water. It will anger the mountains."
A practical crisis emerged when the metal threads reacted with the indigo dye, turning it a faded gray and causing the alpaca fibers to mat. "It kills the communication," Marisol said, holding up a ruined swatch where the moon pattern had blurred. "Our ponchos should last generations, their colors deepening like stories. This fades like a forgotten dream."
Then disaster struck: an unexpected hailstorm—violent even by Andean standards—pelted the village, killing dozens of alpacas and flattening the quinoa fields. The stored wool, kept in a stone hut, was soaked and began to mildew, and the cochineal insects, carefully cultivated on cactus plants, were frozen. With winter approaching and no materials to weave warm ponchos, the village faced a crisis. Don Clemente, performing a libation ritual by pouring chicha (corn beer) on the huaca, blamed the team for disturbing the natural balance. "You brought something cold from the sea to our peaks," he chanted. "Now Apu (mountain god) is angry, and he sends ice to punish us."
That night, Su Yao sat with Tito in his stone hut, where a clay stove simmered with chuño (freeze-dried potato stew), filling the air with the scent of cumin and coca. The walls were hung with ponchos and coca leaves dried in bundles, and a small altar to Pachamama held a bowl of glacial water. "I'm sorry," Su Yao said, sipping mate de coca (coca tea). "We came here thinking we could improve your craft, but we've only shown we don't understand its soul."
Tito smiled, passing Su Yao a piece of pisco (grape brandy) to warm her. "The hailstorm is not your fault," he said. "Pachamama gives and takes—this is her way. My grandfather used to say that storms make our weaving tighter, like the bonds of community. But your thread—maybe it's a gift, if we wrap it in our ways. The young people leave for Lima. We need to show them our ponchos can walk in both worlds."
Su Yao nodded, hope blooming like quinoa in spring. "What if we start over? We'll help you bury the fallen alpacas with respect, replant the cacti for cochineal, and dry the wet wool. We'll learn to weave on your backstrap looms, by hand. We won't use your sacred star patterns. Instead, we'll create new ones together—designs that merge your mountain constellations with our ocean tides, honoring both Pachamama and the sea. And we'll let Don Clemente bless the metal thread with despachos, so it carries Pachamama's blessing."
Marisol, who had been listening from the doorway, stepped inside, her aguayo (carrying cloth) slung over one arm. "You'd really learn to spin alpaca wool at this altitude? Your lungs will burn, your fingers will freeze."
"However long it takes," Su Yao said. "And we'll learn the hymns to the mountains while we work. Respect means speaking their language."
Over the next two months, the team immersed themselves in Quechua life. They helped build shelters for the surviving alpacas, their hands numb from hammering in the cold, and trekked to glacial streams with Don Clemente to collect blessed water, learning to offer coca leaves at each spring. They sat cross-legged in the plaza, spinning wool until their fingers ached, as the women sang akulliku (weaving songs) to the rhythm of the looms. "The wool must be spun with the mountain winds," Tito said, showing Su Yao how to let the breeze twist the fibers. "Fighting the wind makes weak thread—like fighting Pachamama makes a hard life."
They learned to dye wool in clay pots set over open fires, their clothes stained blue and red as Marisol taught them to read the dye's "energy" by its bubbles. "Indigo needs to 'breathe' with the fire," she said, adjusting the logs under a vat. "Too hot, and it loses its connection to the stars." They practiced the tocapu stitch, a tiny geometric pattern that encodes Quechua proverbs, their progress slow but steady as Don Clemente—who wove without looking, relying on muscle memory—corrected their tension. "The stitch should be small enough to hide a secret," he said, his gnarled fingers brushing Su Yao's work. "But strong enough to hold a promise."
To solve the reaction between the metal threads and indigo, Lin experimented with coating the metal in a solution of llama fat and q'owa (mountain mint), a mixture Quechua use to waterproof leather. The fat sealed the metal, preventing discoloration, while the mint infused it with a scent Don Clemente declared "pleasing to Apu." "It's like giving the thread a mountain heart," she said, showing Tito a swatch where the blue now glowed against the metal's shimmer.
Fiona, inspired by the way Andean rivers flow to the Amazon and then to the sea, designed a new pattern called Yaku Ñan (Water Path), merging Quechua star motifs with ocean waves in seaweed-metal thread. The stars gradually flow into waves, symbolizing the connection between mountain springs and the ocean. "It honors your Apu and our tides," she said, and Don Clemente nodded, running his hand over the design. "Pachamama's water connects all," he said. "This cloth tells that truth."
As the alpacas recovered and new cochineal cacti sprouted, the village held a raymi (festival) to honor the sun god Inti, with dancing, feasting, and the sacrifice of a llama to Pachamama. They unveiled their first collaborative piece: a poncho with the Yaku Ñan pattern, its alpaca fibers strengthened by seaweed-metal thread that caught the sunlight like glacial ice, and traditional red and gold borders that glowed against the mountain snow.
Tito draped the poncho over Su Yao's shoulders during the celebration, as the village cheered. "This poncho has two breaths," he said, his voice warm with pride. "One from our mountains, one from your sea. But both breathe Pachamama's air."
As the team's truck descended the mountain, Marisol ran alongside, waving a small package. Su Yao rolled down the window, and she tossed it in: a scrap of alpaca wool dyed indigo, stitched with a tiny star and wave in seaweed-metal, tied with a coca leaf. "To remember us by," read a note in Quechua and Spanish. "Remember that the stars above and the waves below drink from the same Pachamama."
Su Yao clutched the package as the Andes faded into the distance, their peaks glowing pink at sunset. She thought of the hours spent spinning wool in the cold, the despachos buried with Don Clemente, the way the metal thread had finally learned to dance with the alpaca. The Quechua had taught her that tradition isn't a relic—it's a conversation with the earth and sky, one that can learn new words without losing its meaning.
Her phone buzzed with a message from the Berber team: photos of Amina holding their collaborative zellige blanket at a mountain festival. Su Yao smiled, typing back: "We've added a new stitch—Quechua mountains and your sea, woven as one."
Somewhere in the distance, a quena (Andean flute) played, its melody floating on the wind like a prayer. Su Yao knew their journey was far from over. There were still countless cultures to learn from, countless threads to weave into the tapestry of their work. And as long as they approached each new place with humility—listening to the land, honoring the ancestors—the tapestry would only grow more sacred, a testament to the beauty of all life woven together.