CANAS PROVINCE, Peru – About 70 people are waiting for us in the courtyard of the community center when we arrive. Many have walked for miles to be here, some with small children on their backs. We’re not sure what the community center staff told this crowd to get them to show up, but we’re here, and we’ve got something useful to share.
I say “we,” but I'm not one of the presenters. I hover in the background, taking pictures and trying to understand what’s going on. The proceedings are in Spanish and Quechua.
The attendees are llama herders, farmers and weavers. The presenters, husband-and-wife team Francisco Seufferheld and Jeannine Koninckx, are part of the University of Illinois’ Marketplace Literacy program. They’re here to ask the weavers about their products and processes, and to talk about how markets work. They’re also going to show the weavers some new machines for processing their wool.
Seufferheld talks about the steps involved in wool production – care of the llamas, shearing, cleaning the wool, carding (binding the fibers together for spinning), spinning and, finally, weaving. The value of the wool increases with each step, he says.
Not everyone needs to be involved in every step of this “value chain,” he says. They can divide the labor and streamline the processes for all.
Different products have different values. The most valuable wool comes from vicunas (vi-COON-yas), the wild cousins of alpacas, Seufferheld tells me.
“One kilogram of vicuna fiber could sell for $500 in the international market,” he says. “In the community of Quehue, one of four in Tambo Perccaro, they shear about 800 vicunas each year for the government. Each vicuna sheds 250-300 grams of the finest fiber in the world.”
The government takes all of the wool, paying each household the equivalent of $10 plus breakfast and lunch for this work. It also vaccinates the community’s llamas.
Seufferheld tells me ahead of time he doesn’t want to stir up trouble, but he does tell the weavers how much money the vicuna fiber fetches on the wider market. After it’s processed and dyed, the soft, luminous thread is worth even more.
Then Seufferheld pulls out a pair of electric animal shears.
“Some of the weavers use shearing scissors,” he tells me. “Less fortunate ones may use pieces of glass bottles with sharp edges, or even knives. The problem with these methods is that fiber obtained is of different lengths, and the quality of the weaving decreases.”
He tells the group what he paid for his Chinese-made shears. They say they could probably afford to buy one or more of these shears to share. And yes, they have access to electricity to power the shears.
The weavers keep glancing at the other machines: a tiny, portable electric spinning wheel and a larger, manual carder. One woman, Tomasa Ayma Zeccharro, smiles at me and gestures toward the carder. She’s ready to see it in action.
Seufferheld says something in Spanish, and suddenly everyone in the room is reaching into their bags and pulling out wool. He asks for a volunteer and Zeccharro lunges forward.
With Seufferheld’s help, she learns how to feed wool into the carder. She cranks the machine, transferring the fiber from a small spiky spool to a larger one. With each rotation, the wool becomes softer and more cohesive.
Next, she tries out the spinning wheel. It’s a tiny apparatus, designed for affordability and ease of use. She and the other weavers normally use wooden drop spinners called husos, which are elegantly simple, but slow.
(The electric spinning wheel is from Dreaming Robots. The carder is from Brother Drum Carder. Both companies gave Seufferheld a substantial discount on the items.)
Soon, more and more weavers are surging to the front of the room to try out the machines. In no time, they have taken over. Koninckx gently assists them.
Later, some of the women invite us to partake of a feast of potatoes roasted in a pit behind the center. The women laugh as I try to pronounce the Quechua and Spanish names of the different potatoes. Later, I notice that Zeccharro is staring at me and smirking. I ask Seufferheld to ask her what’s on her mind.
“She wonders why you’re not eating,” he says.
Embarrassed, I reach for one of the smaller “rojo” potatoes that I like. I hadn’t wanted to be greedy.
The woman gestures at me abruptly.
“No. She says you should take the big one.”
Someone hands me the biggest potato on the pile. Everyone laughs, and I feel, for a moment, like I'm a part of this remote community.