Tetouan

I sit in a small room somewhere between the first and the second floor. Behind the window voices whisper the melody of Maghreb. I live over one of the Medina's tiny streets. Dormitory is simple. Two beds, one small cupboard. In the corner someone put the pottery lamp. Again it makes me thinking why I am here. Why I have already met all those extraordinary people on my way. Why since the beginning in this realm I have been offered help from Abraham and Mohammed and one hour later just cheated by local guide - Mustafa. Why while crossing Gibraltar I could have felt more like in Norway. Why instead of reflections of ancient Greek's, Rome's or Arab's ships I had image of little Island on the North Sea. Why I situated myself with dogs in fully covered snowy mountains, in the kitchen where after work we used to eat the common food and drink Mack Ol to ease us falling asleep. Why I could have seen all beautiful people that I had met and felt them so strongly inside my heart. Why?

Maybe there is no answer, maybe I will never learn how to make pottery or ceramic. Maybe I will never become the master of clay. But already I know for what reason I am here.

To discover my passed life again and look with smile into the future. Understand peoples behavior and unity that I believe in so much – exists. I am here because I dreamed about the Sun and summer.

But when I was getting closer to my infinitive aim I saw the snow and Northern Lights. All world so much connected. Each place so unique. Each moment so important. And some may say: - I would like to be there, there is so beautiful. The World is beautiful in itself. Either Tromso, either Brussels, either Bielawa, either Granada, either Tetouan. All of them are beautiful in their only unique sense.

And now I go outside on those obscured little streets where the roofs sink in bright blinding light, where the people hide themselves inside their long monks suits where I stay open and hopefuly ready.


- Parlez vous francais? I wanted to ask anglais but the vision of getting closer to the teacher of pottery was so fascinating that my mind just switched the words. I am in Artisan School. Young boys study handcraft professions. It is warm morning. The clouds still hanged over the mountains are frightening with density. I try to explain to Ali that I want to learn pottery. After few sentences Ali disappeares in unknown direction. I remain with the young scholar. The boy is mixing the clay. Now he can use the hammer and large pieces of material, instead of collecting the little ones as before he was told by the teacher. It provokes the whole process to be done much much more faster. I observe him with curiosity. After he finished he showes me the works of Art Students. By accident he brakes one piece of minor art product. Aware of his did but with sparkles in his eyes he startes to repair two pieces looking from time to time by the doors whether the teacher is not approaching. Few minutes later smile is coming back on his face and he begins to color his drawing. I decide to act. I find Ali and talk francais to him. Finally he understands what I am looking for and he calls his friend Abderkala – my future teacher. We discuss the rules, dinero, managna and I become a scholar.


- Bsaha, Bsaha, Bsaha!!!!!!!! I try to sleep but Nordil is shouting his appreciation of delecting tea. Disadavntage of my room is that I live close to so called ”living room” of the house. Smoking kif and drinking tea are major activities of Nordil daily life.