"Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 33"
The high plateau of the Altiplano stretched endlessly under a sky so blue it hurt the eyes, as Su Yao's vehicle crawled along a dirt road, leaving a trail of dust in its wake. In the distance, the snow-capped peaks of the Andes glinted like diamonds, while closer by, clusters of qullqas—ancient Inca storehouses—clung to the hillsides. At the edge of an Aymara village, where adobe huts with thatched roofs huddled around a central plaza, a group of weavers sat on woolen blankets, their fingers moving with lightning speed over backstrap looms. Their leader, a woman with braids wrapped in colorful yarn named Mama Rosa, stood as they approached, her traditional pollera skirt—heavy with layers of fabric and embroidered with geometric patterns—swishing around her ankles. "You've come for the agüayo," she said, her Aymara language mixing with Spanish, as she held up a rectangular cloth covered in vibrant designs.
The Aymara, one of the oldest indigenous groups in the Andes, had been weaving agüayo—multi-purpose carrying cloths—for centuries. These textiles were more than mere accessories; they were portable altars, their patterns encoding the Aymara mundo (worldview) which centered on the pachamama (mother earth) and inti (sun god). A diamond shape might represent a mountain, a series of lines could symbolize a river, and tiny crosses often denoted sacred sites. Each agüayo was tied to specific rituals—used to carry offerings to the pachamama, to wrap newborn babies, or to lay the dead to rest. Su Yao's team had traveled here to merge this spiritually charged craft with their seaweed-metal blend, hoping to create a textile that honored the Aymara's deep connection to the land while introducing their traditions to a global audience. But from the first interaction, it was clear that their understanding of "spiritual" and "commercial" was as different as the high plateau and the ocean depths.
Mama Rosa's grandson, Juan, a 22-year-old weaver who also worked as a tour guide in nearby Lake Titicaca, spread an agüayo across a stone wall. Its red and yellow threads formed a complex pattern of chakana (Inca cross) interwoven with llama figures. "This is not just a cloth," he said, his voice reverent as he traced the design. "It is a map of our universe. My grandmother wove it during the kollasuyu festival, when we thank the pachamama for the harvest. Using it for anything else would be sacrilege."
Su Yao's team had brought digital cameras and design software, intending to document the agüayo patterns for a sustainable fashion campaign. When Lin showed Mama Rosa a mock-up of a handbag featuring the chakana design, the weavers gasped in horror. Mama Rosa's husband, Don Felipe, a yatiri (spiritual leader) who performed ceremonies to honor the pachamama, stood abruptly, his hands trembling with anger. "You want to turn our prayers into purses?" he shouted, his voice echoing across the plaza. "The pachamama will curse you for this disrespect!"
Cultural friction intensified over materials. The Aymara sourced their wool from llamas and alpacas that grazed on the high-altitude grasses, which they believed infused the fiber with the animals' spiritual energy. They dyed the wool using natural pigments: cochineal bugs for red, mollis leaves for green, and quinua seeds for yellow. The dyeing process was accompanied by rituals—burying coca leaves in the earth as an offering to the pachamama, burning incense to honor the inti—to ensure the colors carried spiritual power. The seaweed-metal blend, with its industrial production and synthetic components, was viewed as spiritually empty. "Your thread has no soul," Mama Rosa said, after examining a sample with a frown. "It cannot communicate with the pachamama."
A more practical crisis emerged when the metal threads reacted with the high altitude's intense UV rays, causing them to fade and become brittle. "It's falling apart," Juan said, holding up a swatch that had been left outside for just two days. "Our agüayo should last generations. This won't survive a month here."
Then disaster struck: heavy rains, unprecedented for this time of year, caused flash floods that swept through the village. The weavers' stored wool was washed away, and their dyeing supplies—including a batch of rare cochineal bugs collected from the hills—were destroyed. With their materials ruined and the planting season approaching, the village faced a severe economic crisis. Don Felipe, performing a despacho (offering ceremony) to calm the pachamama, blamed the team for upsetting the natural balance. "You brought something from the saltwater to our freshwater lands," he said, as he burned a bundle of coca leaves. "The pachamama is angry, and she is punishing us."
That night, Su Yao sat with Mama Rosa in her adobe hut, where a clay stove simmered with chuño (freeze-dried potato soup). The air smelled of smoke and mate de coca, and outside, the rain continued to beat against the thatched roof. "I'm sorry," Su Yao said, her voice heavy with regret. "We came here thinking we could celebrate your traditions, but we've only shown disrespect."
Mama Rosa sighed, passing Su Yao a cup of mate de coca. "The floods are not your fault," she said. "The pachamama is changing, just like the world. My grandmother used to say that she speaks to us through the weather—sometimes with kindness, sometimes with anger. We must listen, not blame." She paused, then added, "But your thread—maybe it is a test. To see if we can honor our traditions while still moving forward. Our young people leave for the cities because weaving doesn't pay. Maybe we need new ways to keep our culture alive."
Su Yao nodded, a spark of hope in her chest. "What if we start over? We'll help you recover the wool and restock your dye supplies. We'll learn to weave agüayo the way you do, by hand. We won't use your sacred patterns for commercial products—we'll create new designs, together, that tell the story of the pachamama and the sea. And we'll include your rituals in processing our metal thread, so it has the pachamama's blessing."
Juan, who had been listening from the doorway, stepped inside. "You'd really learn to perform the dyeing rituals? To offer coca leaves to the pachamama?"
"Of course," Su Yao said. "If that's what it takes to show respect. This isn't about making money. It's about preserving your culture."
Over the next three months, the team immersed themselves in Aymara life. They helped rebuild the weavers' storage huts, their hands calloused from mixing adobe and thatching roofs. They trekked into the hills to collect new cochineal bugs, guided by Don Felipe, who taught them to leave small piles of quinua as an offering to the pachamama at each collection site. They learned to spin wool using traditional drop spindles, their fingers numb from the cold but determined as Mama Rosa showed them the proper technique. "The wool must be spun with a prayer in your heart," she said, her breath visible in the cold air. "Otherwise, it will be weak."
They sat on woolen blankets in the plaza, weaving agüayo on backstrap looms, their bodies swaying in rhythm with the mountains as Don Felipe chanted blessings over their work. "The pachamama sees your effort," he said, as Su Yao struggled with a particularly complex pattern. "That is more important than perfection."
To solve the problem of the metal threads fading in UV light, Lin experimented with coating them in a solution made from llama fat and quinua extract—used by the Aymara to protect their own clothing from the sun. The mixture created a protective barrier that reflected UV rays while allowing the metal to retain its shine. "It's like giving the thread a sun hat," she said, showing Mama Rosa a sample that had withstood a week in the harsh 高原 sun.
Fiona, inspired by the symmetry of Lake Titicaca, suggested adding patterns of waves and fish to their collaborative design, merging them with the Aymara's traditional mountain and llama motifs. "They represent the connection between the highlands and the sea," she said, and Don Felipe nodded, saying it honored the pachamama's many forms.
As the floodwaters receded and the sun returned to dry the land, the village celebrated with a pachamama ceremony, where they buried offerings of food, coca leaves, and a piece of their collaborative fabric in the earth to thank the pachamama for her mercy. They unveiled their first completed piece: an agüayo with a design that merged Aymara mountain patterns in traditional red and yellow with sea-inspired waves in the seaweed-metal thread, creating a visual dialogue between the high plateau and the ocean.
Mama Rosa wrapped the agüayo around Su Yao's shoulders during the ceremony, as the village chanted ancient Aymara prayers. "This cloth has two spirits," she said, her eyes shining. "One from our mountains, one from your sea. But they are both children of the pachamama."
As the team's vehicle drove away from the village, Juan ran after them, waving a small package. Su Yao rolled down the window, and he tossed it to her. Inside was a skein of alpaca wool dyed with cochineal, tied with a piece of seaweed-metal. "To remember us by," read a note written in Aymara and Spanish. "And to remember that the pachamama connects us all."
Su Yao clutched the package as the Altiplano stretched out before her, its vastness humbling. She thought of the hours spent weaving in the cold, of the way the metal thread had finally learned to withstand the 高原 sun, of Don Felipe's blessings and Mama Rosa's wisdom. The Aymara had taught her that true sustainability wasn't just about materials—it was about respecting the spiritual connections that bind people to the land.
Her phone buzzed with a message from the Berber team: photos of Ahmed standing beside their collaborative kilim rug, which now adorned the entrance to a community center. Su Yao smiled, typing back: "We've added a new design—Aymara highlands and sea, woven as one."
Somewhere in the distance, a group of llamas lifted their heads, their cries echoing across the plateau. 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 reverence for its traditions, the tapestry would only grow more meaningful, more beautiful, more connected to the earth that sustained them all.