"Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 118"
The Andes Mountains towered over Cusco, their snow-capped peaks glistening in the high-altitude sun like ancient sentinels. Terraced fields, carved into the slopes by the hands of the Inca, cascaded down, filled with quinoa and potatoes. Beyond the city's ancient stone walls, nestled in a valley, a community of Quechua weavers worked in the shadow of a crumbling Inca ruin.
Their leader, 60-year-old Tia Rosa, looked up from her loom, her face weathered by the mountain winds and her hands calloused from decades of working with fiber. She wore a traditional pollera skirt, its layers of brightly colored fabric embroidered with symbols of the sun, moon, and puma. "This is our wayanaq, our living art," she said in Quechua, her voice carrying the weight of centuries. "It binds us to the land, to our ancestors, and to the spirits of the mountains."
Wayanaq fabric making, an art passed down through generations, is a testament to the Quechua's deep connection to nature. The wool comes from alpacas and llamas, which graze on the high pastures. The herders, dressed in ponchos and wide-brimmed hats, sing to the animals as they shear them, believing the songs infuse the wool with positive energy. "We shear during the Inti Raymi festival, when the sun is at its peak," Tia Rosa's niece, 22-year-old Carmen, explained. "The alpacas' wool is at its finest then, and we offer thanks to Inti, the sun god, for his warmth and light."
The wool is spun into fine threads on hand spindles, a task often done in community gatherings. Women sit around a fire, sharing stories and gossip as they work, their hands moving deftly. "The spinning is like a meditation," Carmen said, showing a spindle with a carved wooden whorl. "It calms the mind and connects us to the rhythm of the earth."
Dyes are sourced from the abundant plants of the Andes: mauka roots for red, chuchuhuasi bark for brown, and llareta moss for green. The dyes are prepared in large pots over open fires, with the women chanting incantations to the spirits of the plants. "Each plant has a spirit, a apus," Carmen said, stirring a pot of simmering dye. "We must treat them with respect, for they give our fabrics their life."
The weaving is done on backstrap looms, which are simple yet versatile. The weavers sit on the ground, the loom attached to their waists, and use their feet to tension the threads. The patterns are a complex language, with each design carrying a specific meaning. "This k'intu pattern represents the Inca's knowledge of astronomy," Carmen said, pointing to a geometric design. "It shows the constellations that guided our ancestors."
Su Yao's team arrived after their Morocco project, drawn to the Wayanaq fabric's vibrant colors and cultural significance. They brought samples of seaweed-metal threads, hoping to add a new dimension to the traditional craft. But when Lin displayed a machine-spun sample with synthetic fibers, Tia Rosa's husband, 65-year-old Tio Pablo, a respected elder with a long braid and a face like a mountain rock, scowled. "Your machine has no soul," he said in Spanish, his voice firm. "Our Wayanaq is made with love, with the breath of the mountains and the dreams of our people. This thing is a mockery."
The tension escalated when a sudden landslide came crashing down the mountainside. burying alpaca pastures and destroying fields of dye plants. The community was thrown into chaos, with the weavers facing a shortage of raw materials. "The apus are angry," Tio Pablo muttered as men and women worked to rescue the remaining alpacas and salvage what they could of the dye plants. "They punish us for allowing this foreign metal to enter our sacred craft."
That night, Su Yao sat with Tia Rosa in her stone house, where a fire crackled in the hearth and a pot of pachamanca (a traditional stew) simmered. The walls were decorated with Wayanaq fabrics, each one a story of the family's history. A small shrine held offerings of coca leaves and chicha (a fermented corn drink) to the mountain spirits. "I know these fabrics are more than just cloth," Su Yao said, sipping the warm stew. "They are your identity, your connection to the past. We want to help you preserve that, not destroy it."
Tia Rosa sighed, passing Su Yao a piece of choclo (roasted corn). "My abuela used to say that even in the darkest times, there is hope," she said. "But we need to find a way to make our Wayanaq relevant to the younger generation. They are drawn to the cities, to modern clothes, and they forget our traditions."
Over the next few weeks, the team worked closely with the weavers. They helped rebuild the alpaca pastures, using modern techniques to strengthen the fences and improve the grazing areas. They also introduced new ways to cultivate dye plants, sharing knowledge about sustainable farming practices. "We can learn from each other," Su Yao said, as she and Carmen planted new mauka roots.
Lin experimented with blending the seaweed-metal threads with the alpaca wool, using a traditional technique of interweaving to ensure the new material didn't overpower the natural feel of the fabric. "It needs to be a harmonious blend," she said, showing Tia Rosa a swatch. "Like the different elements of nature coming together." Tia Rosa examined the swatch, running her fingers over the threads. "This has potential," she said.
Fiona collaborated with Carmen to design a new pattern that incorporated elements of the ocean, reflecting Su Yao's travels. The pattern featured waves that merged with the traditional Quechua symbols, with the seaweed-metal threads adding a shimmering effect. "It's a way to show that our worlds are connected," Fiona explained. Tio Pablo, who had been skeptical at first, nodded in approval. "The ocean is a vast mystery, like our mountains," he said. "This Wayanaq tells a new story."
As the first rains of the season came, bringing life back to the land, the community celebrated. The weavers, inspired by their collaboration with Su Yao's team, worked day and night to create a new collection of Wayanaq fabrics. On the day of the Qoyllur Rit'i festival, a celebration of the snow-capped mountains, the women paraded through the streets wearing the new fabrics. The fabric shimmered in the sunlight, the traditional patterns and the new ocean-inspired designs creating a stunning display.
Tia Rosa draped a new Wayanaq shawl over Su Yao's shoulders. "You are now part of our wayanaq," she said. "You have helped us find a way to keep our traditions alive while embracing the new."
As the team prepared to leave, they could hear the sounds of celebration and the rhythmic beating of drums. Su Yao's phone buzzed with a message from Morocco. Amina had used the new carpet techniques to create a line of home decor items that were selling well in local markets. Su Yao smiled, typing back: "We've added new threads in Peru. Your turn to create something that bridges cultures."
Somewhere in the distance, the sound of traditional Andean flutes blended with the voices of the Quechua women singing, a harmony that echoed the spirit of resilience and innovation.