# "Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 103"
The Andean sun blazed over terraced valleys, where Quechua villages clung to mountain slopes like clusters of stone. Su Yao's jeep climbed winding roads, passing women in *pollera* skirts herding llamas and children flying kites shaped like condors, until it reached a community nestled beneath the snow-capped peak of a sacred mountain. In a courtyard ringed by adobe houses, a group of weavers sat on woolen rugs, their fingers knotting vibrant threads into thick ponchos.
Their leader, 65-year-old Mama Quispe, looked up from her work, her face weathered like the mountain rocks. She wore a *llama wool* hat embroidered with geometric patterns and held up a finished *poncho*—a kaleidoscope of reds, greens, and golds, its surface covered in motifs of condors (freedom), corn (sustenance), and lightning bolts (the mountain god's blessing). "This is our *wayra* (wind)," she said in Quechua, her voice carried on the breeze. "It speaks for us when we can't."
Quechua weaving, a craft dating back to Inca times, is a sacred practice where every thread holds spiritual meaning. The *backstrap loom* is seen as a microcosm of the universe—its vertical threads the *hanan pacha* (upper world of gods), horizontal threads the *kay pacha* (middle world of humans), and the weaver's body the bridge between them. Dyes come from mountain plants: *cochineal* bugs for crimson, *mollusk* shells for purple, and *quinoa* leaves for green, with recipes guarded by *yatiris* (shamans) who perform rituals to "awaken the color's power." "We weave during *pacha kamaq* (full moon)," Mama Quispe's granddaughter, 24-year-old Luz, explained, showing a poncho with a central square (the village) surrounded by zigzags (mountain paths). "The moon's light makes the threads stronger—like a mother's love makes a child brave."
Su Yao's team arrived after the Lagos exhibition, drawn to the Quechua's mastery of color and symbolism. They brought samples of seaweed-metal threads woven into llama wool, hoping to create a fabric that retained the poncho's vibrancy while adding resistance to the harsh mountain climate. But when Lin displayed a machine-woven prototype with printed motifs, Mama Quispe's brother, 68-year-old Tio Carlos—a *yatiri* with a feathered headdress and a pouch of sacred coca leaves—grunted in disapproval. "Your machine weaves without praying," he said, poking the fabric. "Our threads are tied while chanting to *Pachamama* (Mother Earth)—that's why they keep us warm. This thing is cold, like a glacier without sun."
Tensions flared when a sudden hailstorm battered the valley, destroying *cochineal* crops and soaking stored wool. "The mountain rejects your metal," women whispered as they wrung water from sodden fibers. With the *Inti Raymi* (sun festival) approaching, when new ponchos are worn to honor the sun god Inti, the community faced disaster. "The priests need their ceremonial cloaks," Mama Quispe said, her voice tight as she stared at the bruised plants. "Without them, the sun might not return."
That night, Su Yao sat with Mama Quispe in her hut, where a clay pot of *quinoa soup* simmered over a fire. The walls were hung with woven textiles depicting Tio Carlos' vision quests, and a small shrine held a stone from the sacred mountain, draped in red cloth. "I know you think we're here to change your ways," Su Yao said, breaking off a piece of *chicha morada* (purple corn drink). "But we want to help your stories survive—like the mountain survives storms."
Mama Quispe smiled, passing her a bowl of soup. "My grandmother used to say that even broken threads can make a strong cloth," she said. "But your thread—maybe it's a sign. Young people leave for the cities now. They don't know how to tie the *chakana* (Inca cross) knot. We need to show them our weaving still talks to Pachamama."
Over the next three weeks, the team worked alongside the weavers. They helped rebuild the cochineal drying racks with stone and straw, their hands raw from lifting rocks, and trekked to high-altitude lakes with Tio Carlos to collect *mollusk* shells, learning to chant the *pacha mama* prayer as they filled their baskets. "*Ama sua, ama llulla, ama qhilla* (Don't steal, don't lie, don't be lazy)," they sang, the Quechua words mixing with their own languages until the rhythm felt like breathing.
Lin experimented with coating the seaweed-metal threads in *quinoa wax* and *llama fat*, a mixture Quechua use to waterproof leather. "It needs to 'listen' to the wool," she said, showing Mama Quispe a swatch where the metal threads had absorbed the cochineal dye, glowing crimson beside the wool. Mama Quispe ran her fingers over it, then nodded: "Inti would smile on this."
Fiona collaborated with Luz to design a new pattern: the *chakana* cross (representing the three worlds) merging into ocean waves woven with the treated metal threads. "It honors your mountains and our sea," Fiona explained, and Tio Carlos traced the pattern with a coca leaf, then pressed it to his forehead. "Pachamama's body includes both earth and water," he said. "This cloth understands her."
On the morning of *Inti Raymi*, the weavers gathered to unveil their collaborative poncho. Stretched between two *totora* reeds, it blazed in the sun: the chakana cross in traditional reds and golds, transitioning into waves of blue wool shot through with metal threads that caught the light like mountain streams. Mama Quispe draped a corner over Su Yao's shoulders, then pressed a small square into her hand—a chakana and a wave, stitched together. "Now you're part of our mountain," she said.
As the team's jeep descended the valley, they could hear the *zampoña* (panpipe) music starting, and through the window, they saw Luz teaching a group of teenagers to tie the chakana knot, the seaweed-metal thread spooled beside her. Su Yao thought of the cochineal plants, sprouting new growth, and the way the metal threads had learned to glow like wool—how foreign things, when wrapped in respect, could become part of something ancient.
Her phone buzzed with a message from Lagos: Temitope had sold their collaborative adire to a museum, and the proceeds were funding a new indigo farm. Su Yao smiled, typing back: "We've added new knots in the Andes—your turn to weave something beautiful."
Somewhere in the distance, the *zampoñas* played a melody that echoed the Quechua chants and the crash of distant waves, a harmony that felt as old as the mountains and as new as dawn.