"Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 34"
The dense rainforest of Papua New Guinea's Sepik River basin loomed like a green wall as Su Yao's motorboat cut through murky waters, passing villages where stilted huts with thatched roofs clung to the riverbanks. Men in tapa cloth loincloths paddled dugout canoes, while children shouted and waved from the shore. At the edge of a Kaluli village, where a large haus tambaran (spirit house) with carved crocodile motifs dominated the settlement, a group of weavers sat beneath a banyan tree, pounding strips of bark with wooden mallets. Their leader, a man with a face painted in red and white clay named Yawari, stood as they approached, holding a piece of bark cloth decorated with intricate black patterns. "You've come for the tapa," he said, his Kaluli language mixed with Tok Pisin, as he gestured to the weaving area.
The Kaluli people, indigenous to the Sepik region, had been making tapa—bark cloth—for centuries, using techniques passed down through male and female lineages. Women harvested the inner bark of the mulberry tree, soaked it in the river, and beat it into thin sheets, while men painted the cloth with designs using pigments made from tree sap and clay. These patterns were deeply spiritual, representing ancestral spirits, crocodile totems, and stories of creation. A tapa cloth might be used in initiation ceremonies, as a shroud for the dead, or as a gift to seal alliances between villages. Su Yao's team had traveled here to merge this ancient craft with their seaweed-metal blend, hoping to create a textile that honored the Kaluli's connection to the rainforest while showcasing the versatility of their sustainable materials. But from the first encounter, it was clear that their understanding of "sacred" and "innovative" was as different as the rainforest and the open ocean.
Yawari's sister, Mana, a skilled tapa maker with scarification patterns on her arms indicating her mastery, laid a large piece of bark cloth on a bamboo mat. Its surface was covered in swirling black designs that resembled crocodile scales and river currents. "This tapa is for the initiation of my son," she said, her voice low with reverence. "The patterns were taught to me by my grandmother, who learned them from hers. They call the ancestors to watch over him. Strangers cannot learn these designs."
Su Yao's team had brought high-definition cameras and digital editing software, intending to document the tapa patterns for an exhibition on global textile art. When Fiona displayed a digital photograph of Mana's initiation tapa, the villagers grew visibly upset. Yawari's father, Kimi, a big man (village leader) with a headdress of bird-of-paradise feathers, stood and raised his voice. "You take pictures of our spirits?" he shouted, his hands trembling. "You think you can put them in a foreign exhibition? This is not art—it is our life. You are stealing our ancestors."
Cultural friction escalated over materials and methods. The Kaluli believed that tapa making was a dialogue with the spirits of the forest—each step, from harvesting the bark to painting the patterns, required offerings of sago and kava to ensure the spirits' blessing. They viewed the seaweed-metal blend as a profane intrusion, its industrial origins and synthetic components incompatible with their spiritual practices. "Your thread comes from the saltwater," Mana said, dropping a sample into the mud. "Our spirits live in the freshwater river. They will not speak to it."
A more practical problem emerged when the metal threads reacted with the tree sap pigments, causing the paint to crack and peel away from the bark cloth. "It destroys the tapa," Yawari said, holding up a ruined piece. "Our cloth should last for generations. This will fall apart in months."
Then disaster struck: a tropical storm swept through the region, flooding the river and uprooting dozens of mulberry trees—the primary source of bark for tapa making. The village's stored bark sheets were soaked and rendered useless, and their pigments, stored in clay pots near the river, were washed away. With their materials destroyed and the rainy season preventing new harvesting, the weavers faced a crisis that threatened their ability to perform upcoming ceremonies. Kimi, performing a ritual to appease the river spirit, blamed the team for disturbing the natural order. "You brought something from the deep sea to our river," he said, as he threw a carved wooden crocodile into the water as an offering. "Now the spirits are angry."
That night, Su Yao sat with Mana in her stilted hut, where a fire burned in a clay pit, filling the air with the smell of smoked fish and sago pancakes. Outside, the rain drummed on the thatched roof, and the river roared in the distance. "I'm sorry," Su Yao said, picking at a piece of sago cake. "We came here thinking we could learn from your traditions, but we've only shown disrespect."
Mana sighed, passing Su Yao a cup of kava. "The storm is not your fault," she said. "The river is always hungry. My grandfather used to say it takes trees to feed itself, so new ones can grow. But your thread—maybe it is a test. Our young people leave for the mines, forgetting how to make tapa. Maybe we need to find new ways to keep our culture alive, without losing our soul."
Su Yao nodded, hope flickering in her chest. "What if we start over? We'll help you plant new mulberry trees and collect new pigments. We'll learn to make tapa the way you do—harvesting bark, beating it by hand, painting with your pigments. We won't ask to learn your sacred patterns. Instead, we'll create new ones together, that tell the story of your river and our sea. And we'll include your rituals when working with our metal thread, so the spirits accept it."
Yawari, who had been listening from the doorway, stepped inside. "You'd really learn to beat bark with a mallet? It takes weeks to make a single sheet of tapa."
"However long it takes," Su Yao said. "And we'll help with the offerings, with the rituals. Whatever is needed to show we respect your ways."
Over the next three months, the team immersed themselves in Kaluli life. They helped clear the riverbank of debris and plant new mulberry saplings, their hands blistered from digging in the wet soil. They learned to harvest bark at dawn, following Mana's instructions to ask the tree's permission before cutting and leaving a small offering of sago at its roots. They sat beneath the banyan tree, pounding bark strips with wooden mallets until their arms ached, as the village women sang traditional songs to keep the rhythm. "The bark must be beaten with love," Mana said, demonstrating the proper technique. "Otherwise, it will be rough and weak."
They learned to mix pigments from tree sap and clay, following Kimi's guidance to offer a cup of kava to the spirit of each tree before collecting its sap. They painted simple patterns on practice tapa sheets, their hands unsteady at first but growing more confident as Yawari corrected their strokes. "The crocodile's tail must curve like the river," he said, adjusting Su Yao's brush. "Straight lines belong to the sea, not our river."
To solve the reaction between the metal threads and tree sap pigments, Lin experimented with treating the metal in a solution of river water and crushed kava roots—a mixture the Kaluli used to purify ceremonial objects. The kava compounds created a protective layer that allowed the pigments to adhere to the metal without cracking. "It's like giving the thread the river's blessing," she said, showing Mana a sample where the paint now stayed fast.
Fiona, inspired by the Sepik River's meandering course, suggested adding patterns of river currents that gradually merged into ocean waves in their collaborative tapa, using the seaweed-metal thread for the wave sections. "It shows how all waters are connected," she said, and Kimi nodded, saying it honored the river spirit's journey to the sea.
As the floodwaters receded and the first new mulberry shoots appeared, the village celebrated with a feast to thank the spirits, where they roasted pigs and shared kava while displaying their collaborative tapa. The cloth featured Kaluli river patterns in traditional black and red, merging seamlessly into ocean waves rendered in seaweed-metal thread that shimmered like sunlight on water.
Kimi draped the tapa over Su Yao's shoulders during the celebration, as the village sang ancestral songs. "This tapa tells a new story," he said, his voice booming with pride. "Of our river and your sea, of our ancestors and your people. The spirits are pleased."
As the team's motorboat pulled away from the village, Yawari stood on the riverbank, waving a small package. Su Yao caught it as they passed: inside was a piece of tapa cloth painted with a small crocodile, tied with a strand of seaweed-metal. "To remember us by," read a note scrawled in Tok Pisin. "Remember that all water is one."
Su Yao clutched the package as the rainforest faded into the distance, the Sepik River winding like a silver snake through the green. She thought of the hours spent pounding bark, of the way the metal thread had finally learned to coexist with the tree sap pigments, of Kimi's laughter as he taught them to sing the bark-beating songs. The Kaluli had taught her that tradition wasn't about isolation—it was about deep connection to place, a connection that could embrace new elements as long as they were treated with respect.
Her phone buzzed with a message from the Aymara team: photos of Juan holding their collaborative agüayo cloth, standing beside Lake Titicaca. Su Yao smiled, typing back: "We've added a new chapter—Kaluli river and sea, woven as one."
Somewhere in the distance, a bird-of-paradise called, its exotic cry echoing through the forest. 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 an open heart and a willingness to listen, the tapestry would only grow more extraordinary, a testament to the beauty of human connection across cultures and continents.