I found this man in a tiny village, an oasis dried up by years of drought. If not for the few wires one could see hanging outside some adobe homes, the sensation was of entering a warp to a time when history began. The man's potter wheel was run by pedals dug into the sandy ground. I found his kiln outside the workshop. It consisted of a cave-like sandy cove fired by old burning tires. I worried about his child breathing in the fumes but I knew there were no other sources of heat which could reach the optimal temperature of the kiln.