The Saga of Preparing the Alpaca Fleece…La Saga del Manto di Alpaca

Suri Fleece

Suri Fleece from Champagne, I accidentally split it into two pieces trying to find the right way up.

So today I thought I would tackle a job I’ve been putting off.  Since the shearers came in April the shorn fleece has been sitting in the garage in plastic bags, three per alpaca divided into first, second and third quality. I know storing in plastic bags is not good but I couldn’t for the life of me think of where to get big paper bags, until a friend suggested hessian potato sacks.

GETTING THE SACK(S)

I went to the local Conzorzio Agrario who already know me through my (unsuccessful) attempts to buy alfafa pellets. “They’re not in yet,” said the man as I walked up to the counter. He looked stressed and distracted, constantly tapping a computer keyboard and saying things like: “Madonna! What am I going to do now?”

“OK,” I said. “Have you any idea when – no never mind. Em – I was wondering about sacks for the alpaca wool. Maybe potato sacks?”

“Just a moment. If I don’t do this it’ll never…” he stabbed at the keyboard. “Done!”

He then insisted on accompanying me the ten paces to the potato sack area. “How many do you need?” I did a quick calculation. I didn’t really need sacks for the “third quality,” so eight should do.

“There are only seven small ones and the rest are bigger,” he said, his brow furrowing in concern.

“Well, I’ll take the seven small ones and one big one,” I said, as this seemed to be a good compromise.

He counted them out slowly. “Madonna! There are only six small ones.”

“Well how about I take six small ones and two big ones?”

“Really? Well, alright, if you’re sure.” He seemed greatly relieved at how flexible I was being and I wondered if there had been some terrible Potato Sack Incident to make him so stressed.

FLEECE IN THE BATHROOM

I had Googled how to prepare (skirt) an alpaca fleece. Many videos I watched on You Tube involved a skirting table with mesh, which I didn’t have, so I thought the downstairs bathroom floor would be OK. The people in videos talked about spreading the fleece cut side down and then removing any hairs and debris and anything that was a significantly different colour. It sounded simple enough and so I tipped out the first black plastic bag labelled “Diana firsts”.

Well, all I can say is that there seemed to be far more fleece in the bag than I remember being on Diana. Mountains of the stuff came cascading out. Because she is a huacaya (fluffy, springy hair) I couldn’t even tell which side the cut side was. As I examined it closely, peering at it myopically, it stuck to my clothes and in unentangling myself parts of the “one piece”  fleece came apart until I was surrounded by a sea of alpaca fibre. There was no way on earth I know which was hair, which was the right way up or even which part of her it had come from. The ladies of the American Alpaca Shearing Association or whichever the hell video I had watched had swiftly spread, pulled and rolled their fleece in a matter of minutes. Diana’s took me an hour and a half, a lot of swearing, and several swiss roll bundles with increasingly more burrs and twigs in them as time went on and I grew more and more pissed off.

SENDING OFF THE FIBRE SAMPLES

The shearers had handed me small samples from each of the alpacas to put in separate envelopes. these were for fibre testing, done in Wales. They had been sitting on the dresser for almost a month so I thought I had better send them off. I taped up the envelopes, wrote a short explanatory note to the Fibre Testing people and then taped up the brown envelope and addressed it. Then I braved the Post Office.

Our Post Office is very nice, with friendly staff but it always takes several millenia to get served and I still don’t know which counter I’m supposed to go to. Finally I handed over my envelope and despite a growing queue behind me decided to ask about the most efficient method of sending off fleeces. This was a spontaneous and rash decision on my part, particularly since I don’t know the Italian for fleece (as in the whole thing). I began with my usual well-worn phrase:”I’ve got four alpacas…”

“Oh, my goodness!” said Mauro the clerk, looking a mixture of impressed and perplexed as to why I was sharing this.

” I need to send the wool to England. It’s maybe two kilos per alpaca. I wanted to know the best way to send it?”

“Ah,” he said, relieved to be asked a postal question. He indicated some quite small looking shiny cardboard boxes perched on the top of a filing cabinet. “Would it fit in there?”

“Em… I’m not sure,” I said, trying to imagine the Atlantic Ocean of Diana’s fleece inside the teeny box. So Mauro helpfully got the box down and together we examined it.

“Will it squash down?” he asked, gesturing compressing what he imagined to be two kilos of fleece into a small pencil case sized bundle.

What could I say? “Yes, I’m sure it will, how much would that be?”

I was bright red, conscious of the absorbed queue behind me and what they were making of my transaction. Maura was as laid back as ever and proceeded to write down every conceivable combination of box dimensions and weight possible. The cost went from very high (Euro 20) to astronomical (Euro 75) per 2kg. Finally he handed me the piece of paper and I thanked him profusely and fled, deciding that I would spin the bloody stuff myself with a stick rather than have to send it off via the Post Office.

So now I have a garage full of hessian sacks and a choice to make. Handspin? Send to the UK? Find a mill here? Make some nice hessian cushions stuffed with alpaca fibre? Decisions, decisions!

Suri Lana

Il Manto di Champagne, il mio suri alpaca.

Da quando, in aprile, sono venuti i tosatori, la lana tosata è rimasta in garage, in grossi sacchi di tela per le patate.

Ho cercato su Google come si fa a trattare la lana degli alpaca. In molti dei video che ho trovato su You Tube la dimostrazione veniva effettuata usando una speciale tavola con griglia, che io non ho. Perciò ho pensasto che il pavimento del bagno di sotto potesse andare bene. Nei video si suggeriva di spargere la lana sul pavimento con il lato tagliato in basso e di rimuovere qualunque corpo estraneo e qualunque cosa fosse di colore evidentemente diverso. Sembrava abbastanza semplice, perciò ho rovesciato il primo sacco, quello con l’etichetta “Diana prima” (prima qualità).

Beh, devo dire che nel sacco c’era molta più lana di quanta credevo Diana avesse addosso. Dal sacco sono rotolate montagne di quella roba. Dato che Diana è una huacaya (con pelo soffice ed elastico) non riuscivo neanche a capire quale fosse il lato tagliato. Cercando di esaminare il materiale più da vicino, ha cominciato ad attaccarmisi sui vestiti e per cercare di liberarmi, il manto “tutto di un pezzo” si è disgregato e io mi sono ritrovata circondata da un mare di fibra di alpaca. Non avevo modo di sapere quale fosse il lato tagliato, e neanche da quale parte del corpo fosse stato tagliato. Le signore sul video della American Alpaca Shearing Association avevano tirato via e sistemato la lana in pochi minuti. Per quella di Diana mi ci sono volute un’ora e mezzo più tante imprecazioni, e sembrava che ricci e rametti nel manto andassero ad aumentare, man mano che li toglievo e mi arrabbiavo sempre di più.

LA SPEDIZIONE DEI CAMPIONI DI FIBRA

I tosatori mi avevano dato piccoli campioni di fibra per ogni alpaca, allo scopo di effettuare degli esami in Galles. Erano rimasti lì per oltre un mese, quindi ho pensato che fosse ora di spedirlo. Ho messo il nastro sulle buste, ho scritto una breve nota ai signori del centro esami, e poi ho scritto l’indirizzo sul pacco. Infine mi sono avventurata all’ufficio postale.

Consegno il pacco e decido di chiedere qual è il metodo più efficiente per spedire del manto di alpaca. Parto dalla mia frase ben collaudata:”Ho quattro alpaca…”

“Oh mio dio!” dice l’impiegato, che non capisce per quale motivo gli stessi rivelando una cosa del genere.

“Non ho mai inviato lana in Inghilterra. Saranno forse due chili per alpaca. Qual è il metodo migliore per inviarla?”

“Ah”, dice lui, sollevato dal fatto che la mia fosse effettivamente una domanda di carattere postale. Mi indica delle scatole di cartone lucido piuttosto piccole, in cima ad un armadietto. “Entrerà lì dentro?”

“Em… non sono sicura”, dico, immaginandomi quell’Oceano Atlantico di lana di Diana dentro quelle scatolette. Lui tira giù le scatole per farmele esaminare meglio.

“Sarà possibile schiacciarlo?” chiede, mimando lo schiacciamento di quello che lui immagina come due chili di lana dentro una scatoletta per matite.

Che posso dire? “Sì, sicuramente si schiaccerà. Quanto costerebbe?”

Ero rossa come un peperone, ben conscia della fila che si era formata dietro di me e di quello che sicuramente pensavano della mia transazione. Molto gentilmente l’impiegato mi scrive una lista di tutte le possibili combinazioni di dimensioni e pesi dei pacchi. Per 2 kg i prezzi andavano da molto alti (20 euro) ad astronomici (75 euro). Lo ringrazio sentitamente e me ne scappo, chiedendomi se ma riuscirò più a sopportare l’imbarazzo di tornare in ufficio postale.

Allora adesso ho un garage pieno di sacchi di patate e una scelta da fare. Filare a mano? Mandare nel Regno Unito? Trovare un cotonificio qui? Realizzare dei comodi cuscini di tela, ripieni di lana di alpaca? Quante decisioni!