We visited a family-run pottery workshop where a man demonstrated his methods. There wasn’t wet clay—no rivers for miles—so he started with a literal pile of rocks, about the size of driveway gravel, that he pounded with a big stick, and then made clay by adding water to the sifted dust.
He did a combination of wheel throwing and coil building, using a car wheel and a tagine base (baking dish) to create his pottery. Emily, Petra, and Kendall all took turns trying it out.
He fired the pots in a mud and brick kiln, fueled with some kind of woody shrub collected from the desert.
The potter told us he is a fourth generation craftsman. His work was beautiful, but shockingly labor-intensive. We bought some cups from him for our friends who watched our cats back home.
The experience was a truly special one, a highlight of this amazing adventure. I just loved this guy and the pride he took in his work, his kindness and patience with us. And his adorable daughter—maybe a fifth generation in this artisan family?
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