The Artisans At Altitude In The Peruvian Andes

The Incas believed the vicuña had special powers. Killing one was forbidden. Only royalty could wear its wool—so fine it floats off your palm, so rare it was called the Gold of the Andes. Even now, it can take four wild vicuñas to make a single scarf. Each one, roaming the Andean highlands in high altitude, produces just 150 grams of fiber per year. Shearing happens only once every three years, still sometimes done by hand, in silence, as it has been for centuries.

Before spinning, the raw fibers are often laid under the sun, said to soften them and honor the mountain spirits. The dye is pulled from regional fruits crushed between fingers. In this part of Peru, the past is not a place you visit. It’s worn. Felt. Stitched. Slept in. It’s those threads—of hair, of wool, of memory—that reveal the texture of the region better than any guidebook could. And that’s what I came to see for myself: how artisan traditions endure in the Colca Valley, a remote region in the Andes, and meet the people still keeping them alive.

The Route That Changed Everything

The 3-hour drive to our hotel, PUQIO, begins in Arequipa, Peru’s second-largest city and our jumping-off point into the Colca Valley. We’ll return to its stone churches and textile studios later—but for now, we climb. As we head into open country, the air thins and the light sharpens. Our driver, Nadel Chambi, steers with one hand and gestures with the other, painting stories into the windshield—about volcanoes, vicuñas, and the canyon that sits at the heart of the region.

More than 3,000 meters from rim to river, the Colca Canyon is one of the deepest in the world. But it’s not just the depth that stuns. The valley is carved with pre-Incan terraces still in use today, and watched over by Andean condors with wingspans nearly ten feet wide. In the horizon, snow-capped volcanoes keep quiet vigil—this region holds the highest chain of active volcanoes on earth, though most seem content to simmer in silence.

We pass trucks barreling toward the coast with copper in tow, heading for coastal ports that will ship the region’s precious resources to China and beyond. The landscape changes with the passing of every few songs on the radio. Cacti turn into scrub brush. Reds smash into blues. Clouds race sideways. Rain, sun, and wind cycle through. It is the kind of terrain that makes you feel small, in a good way. At 5,000 meters, we pull over for mate, a tea infused with cocoa leaves, muña, and herbs to fight off the nausea that’s just starting to creep in.

Before the highway was built for mineral transport, you couldn’t get to most towns without a mule, a guide, and a lot of patience. The Colca Valley didn’t appear on tourist maps until the 1990s. It feels largely untouched by rush, despite being one of the oldest continuously inhabited regions in the Americas. Still today, much of the region’s know-how lives off the highway.

When we finally reach PUQIO, the wind is pushing hard against the hillside. It tears through the stalks of purple quinoa growing near the main tent and whistles through the property’s paths. But inside, it’s all stillness. The lobby feels like a warm embrace—cowhide rugs, antique maps, glass decanters filled with unfamiliar tinctures, a vintage National Geographic from 1934 that rests beside sketches pinned to the wall.

Luxury at Altitude

PUQIO sits quietly on a hillside, with views of towering Andean peaks. It’s remote by design: eight thoughtfully spaced accommodations—four canvas tents and four adobe roundhouses. Inside, you’ll find wood-burning stoves, curated artworks, and cozy sitting areas. The canvas tents, inspired by the original explorers of the Andes, feature outdoor bathtubs and both indoor and outdoor showers, allowing guests to soak in the valley’s expanse under the open sky.

Amenities are designed to enhance the experience: soft alpaca-wool slippers await after a day of exploration, and warm water bottles are tucked into your bed each evening to ward off the highland chill. Each room includes a writing desk, encouraging guests to reflect and connect with the surroundings.

“PUQIO is about awakening that raw, childlike curiosity—canvas, light, earth, silence. We wanted it to feel elemental, as if it belonged to the valley rather than being placed in it, ” notes Sandra Masias, Product and Experience Manager at the hotels’ parent company, Andean.

Meals are a bountiful affair, shared in the main lounge or served on your private terrace. Breakfast arrives in perfectly-sized courses—fresh mango, avocado, eggs cooked in the horno, local cheeses, house-made granola, and herbal teas—all sourced from nearby farms. Dinner is served by candlelight. Each night, a different ingredient is sketched on the front of the menu; turn it over, and every course is built around it. The cooking is incredibly thoughtful, simple in preparation yet powerful in flavor.

There are no televisions or required excursions at PUQIO, although plenty are on offer; the focus here is on presence and connection. The valley itself—designated a UNESCO Geopark in 2019—is integral to the experience. The canyon stretches for miles in either direction, with centuries-old villages dotting its edges. Each one, our restaurant host Marco Florian tells us, “preserves its unique stories through dishes, rituals, and dance”, a living archive of Andean culture.

Where Craft Is Still a Way of Life

Families of the Colca Valley pass down their looms like heirlooms. Textiles are made for dowries, burials, and beliefs. Natural dyes come from moss, bark, and other flora. The weft is spun by hand. The warp is sometimes stitched with llama bone. The process is slow, sacred.

On the first day, our guide at PUQIO, Yulisa Oxa, took us to see some of the local weaving cooperatives. At Centro Artesanal Mallqui Pallay Colca, blankets can take weeks to make. A complex one can take far longer. You won’t find duplicates. Tomasa, an artist and designer, spun yarn as she spoke. Her husband, Antonio, explained the meanings stitched into each pattern: diamonds for protection, zig-zag lines for water channels, the chakana for cosmic balance. Nearby, their ten-day-old llama, Flor, wandered around the courtyard. Handmade tools and natural dyes—22 shades sourced from the land—lay scattered on the floor.

The global alpaca industry runs through this valley. Arequipa accounts for nearly all of Peru’s alpaca fiber exports, and Colca is where much of it begins—on the backs of animals raised at altitude. The best of it—baby alpaca—is soft enough to rival cashmere, but warmer and more durable. It often ends up in local studios or the cutting tables of European fashion houses.

Yet still, weaving remains a form of identity. Each community has its own motifs and methods. While major brands like Sol Alpaca and Michell have built global supply chains from this tradition, the knowledge itself remains rooted in place—passed through generations, preserved in calloused hands that know exactly how much tension to pull through a loom.

Artisans don’t just sell textiles. They live in them. Yulisa has been saving up for a full traditional outfit of her own, which can cost nearly a thousand dollars. Each layer—from skirt to shawl—signals something: marital status, regional origin, season. Even hats may carry ridges to represent sacred mountains. Braids are woven with colored yarns and sequins, and hair itself tells a story. “In the Colca Valley,” Yulisa told us, “women only cut their hair once in their lives—at age five or six, by the hand of their godfather.” After that, it grows long and thick, washed with cactus pulp, braided daily not for beauty but to hold up to the wind.

On our last day, we walked through Coporaque, a village with the oldest church in the valley. It happened to be a day of festivities, the celebration of La Virgen de Chapi. Devotees decorated the streets. Women danced in intricate skirts. Men played percussion in the plaza. The parade moved like a slow procession from house to house—breakfast at one, lunch at another, music all around. In some towns, there are bull races. In others, feasts and firecrackers. But everywhere, there is reverence—for the Virgin, but also for the land and the rhythm of the seasons.

The City That Sends It On

Back in Arequipa, the contrasts are immediate. Volcanic stone archways frame cellphone shops. Centuries-old churches cast shadows over Korean coffee and Turkish kebab joints. Antique stores sit next to bodegas selling SIM cards and knock-off sneakers. The BBVA looks like a museum, and the Dollar City store appears to be adorned in ancient etchings. The White City, as they call it, is anything but colorless.

CIRQA sits in the middle of it all, inside a UNESCO-protected 16th-century monastery turned hotel. The building has been restored with restraint—even the original religious paintings in the guestrooms were left beautifully untouched. An olive tree anchors the courtyard, where alpaca blankets are draped over modern, low-slung furniture. The rooms are luxurious and warm, with exposed brick and tiled floors. The public spaces hold carefully considered details: palo santo in buckets, light linens, and antique mementos scattered like clues. The hotel doesn’t feel like a break from Arequipa, but an immersion into it.

“At CIRQA, we worked to honor Arequipa’s volcanic stone architecture with a monastic serenity—pared-down textures, vaulted ceilings, and shadows that breathe with history. The elegance lies in what we choose not to add or change,” says Sandra Masias.

The city’s historic center, also a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is built almost entirely from sillar, the white volcanic stone pulled from nearby quarries. The Santa Catalina Monastery, founded in 1579, is a labyrinth of painted cloisters and vivid frescoes—burnt reds, ocean blues, sunlit yellows—that rival any museum. Inside the Church of La Compañía, Baroque altars drip with gold leaf, while the ceilings are carved with indigenous iconography layered beneath Christian motifs. Art isn’t something you seek out in Arequipa. It’s embedded in the walls, drawn onto doorways, and laid into the tiled floors you walk across without thinking.

It’s easy to romanticize craft until you see what it actually requires—weathered hands, raw material, time, and repetition. In Arequipa and Colca, craft is a function of geography, survival, and belief. It is knowledge passed between generations, not through textbooks, but through motion: the twist of a spindle, the weight of a dye pot, the rhythm of a loom.

You come here thinking you’re going to see how things are made. You leave realizing you’ve been watching how they endure.