The mud huts of the small riverside village of Banghazi were not built to ward off the boiling humidity, you observe as you wipe a bead of sweat from your forehead with the fringe of your turban. You attempt to ignore the heat and focus on the task at hand, your hands gently ease the brown river clay into the rim of a bowl, you smooth the newly made bowl's surface and climb to your feet, stretching your cramped muscles. Your hut is cluttered with pottery, form dishes to cups and bowls, your careful hands have shaped them all. Bending down, you scoop up the finished bowl and leave your cramped hut, turning, you set the bowl to dry in the scorching Indus sun. You scan the village, children are playing down by the Khaj river, while men are herding cattle through the square. The sun peaks through the palms, bathing the village's square in sunlight and reflecting off of the cow's dull oranges hides. You lean back against your hut and smile, enjoying the little shade provided and observing the village, far off in the jungle somewhere you can here a distant elephant call above the chirping insects and laughing children.