The Alpaca Farm – Part 1: Fleece

"He will spit," said Marisol.

"Who?"

"Don Pedro. He spits at people he does not like."

"What if he likes me?"

"Then he will spit only a little."

Kate stared at the large cream-coloured alpaca on the other side of the fence. Don Pedro stared back with long-lashed, haughty eyes and chewed slowly, with his lip curled. They were standing in a high green pasture in the Peruvian Andes, at four thousand metres, under a sky so blue it looked polished. Snowy peaks glittered on every side.

Kate was thirty-one, a primary teacher from Wellington, on a month's volunteering placement, in a woolly hat and borrowed poncho. Marisol was thirty-three, the farm's owner, small and strong, with a long black braid, a bright red skirt and a grin that creased her whole face. Her family had kept alpacas on these slopes for four generations.

"Today we shear," said Marisol.

They sheared forty animals. Kate held legs. Marisol worked the clippers with quick, sure strokes. The fleece fell away in soft creamy sheets, and the shorn alpacas stood bewildered and thin, like wet cats. Dust and lanolin clung to Kate's clothes. Her arms ached. She was happier than she'd been in years.

In the afternoon they washed the fleece in a stream, and laid it to dry on rocks in the sun. Marisol taught her to card it, to spin it on a wooden spindle, the thread forming between her fingers in a soft, uneven line.

"Like this?" said Kate.

"Gently. Let the wool decide."

"It's a mess."

"It is a beginning." Marisol covered her hand with hers. "Feel how it wants to go."

Kate's breath caught. The thread slid smooth. Marisol's hand was warm and calloused.

"Can I ask you something?" said Kate, that evening, over bowls of quinoa soup.

"Yes."

"Do you ever want to leave? The farm?"

"No," said Marisol. "The mountains are my family."

"Green?" said Kate, a hill, a thread.

"Green," said Marisol, laughing. "Very green. Come. Don Pedro wants to meet you properly."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Spinning.