Ras Potter of Melrose Hill

It was just about midday on a Tuesday when I found myself on Melrose Hill in Manchester, recently. A lonely place by anyone's standards. The only sound I heard other than my shoes hitting the ground was that unmistakable symphony of chirping crickets.

I had been walking along the roadway for quite some time. On both sides of me were a few small, wooden homes and lots and lots of bushes. It seemed it had rained quite a bit there recently. There were still some small puddles of rainwater on the road and the big blue drums set outside a number of homes were overflowing with water.

I noticed a small shack of sorts painted in red, black and green just ahead. When I got closer, I realised that a number of clay pots were stacked outside. I stopped to peep inside. There was no one in there but the shack was full of even more clay pots, some huge bags full of what looked like mud and a white bucket.

"Oy, sah!" someone yelled behind me. I froze, then whirled around. I didn't see anyone there. I looked up at the side of the hill to a house where a goat, tied to a tree, was grazing silently.

Someone stuck a hand through a window. "Ah coming! Just give I two second!"

Less than a minute later he came running. A slender, dreadlocked man with a bushy beard. He wasn't wearing a shirt but sported a big, bright smile as he darted out of the house and down the hill.

"Blessings and guidance!" he said as he ran toward me. He stopped just short of running me over and extended his hand for a shake. I obliged and asked if he had made the pots stacked inside the shack.

"Yes, man. Is just a natural thing from creation. We do dis from ever since yuh know," he said.

The dreadlocked potter, who goes by the name Ras Potter (what else?) said he has been making clay pots by hand for decades.

"Well it start from before mi have youth, and now mi have grand youth," he said.

Mechanic

Ras Potter is well known in the Melrose Hill community, not only for his hand-made clay pots, but because he has become something of a resident saviour to motorists whose vehicles develop mechanical problems along the lonely roadway.

Ras Potter said this happens more often than people would think.

"Almost every day yuh know. Yeah man. Sometime even two time inna one day," he said.

As if on cue, a dark-skinned man with a scar on his forehead appeared out of nowhere.

"Ahm. Yuh have any wire boss? Mi truck stall out pon di flat and mi need fi clean out a filter," he said.

Ras Potter looked at me, chuckled, then turned to the wire-seeker.

"Yes man mi bredrin. See di wire heng up over deh so," he said. The man walked over to the wire wrapped around an iron rod on the side of the shack. He turned back to Ras Potter. "Eem, mi might need a big piece yuh know," he said.

Ras Potter laughed. "Teck what yuh need bredrin, is dat mi have it there for yuh know," he said.

"We haffi keep dem likkle tings around because di driver dem need dem ting deh more time," Ras Potter told me.

Meanwhile, the stranded motorist had taken what wire he needed and was headed back in the direction from which he had come.

I told Ras Potter it was nice of him to lend a helping hand.

"No bredrin!" he shouted. "Dis is a natural way fi mankind to live wid mankind. Is because people get wicked why someting like dat look strange, but is just a natural ting," he said.

I asked Ras Potter if sales of his pots were going well.

"Well not really yuh know. Not like one time, but fi tell yuh di truth, we just give thanks fi what we sell," he said.

"Mi nuh use wheel or nothing. Mi do everyting by hand just like inna ancient times. Mi meck flowers pot, teapot, anything. Tings slow now but it will get better," he said, grinning.

I asked him how he found life in Melrose Hill.

"Well is just a peaceful life yuh know. I used to live inna Kingston town yuh know. But I couldn't badda wid di rat race," he said.

"I just come hold a place inna di hills yah weh mi did have some land and just start over. Sometime it hard yuh know, because we haffi meck di likkle money stretch, but as dem say, from yuh have life, yuh have everyting."

Not long after, the sound of a truck struggling up the hill interrupted us. It was a small blue truck that looked like a miniature version of the ones that are used to collect garbage.

"Honk! Honk!" The driver stuck his head out the window as the truck slowly rolled by.

"Mi get it start!" he yelled, grinning. It was the same man who had earlier got the wire from Ras Potter.

"Tenk yuh bredrin! When mi ah pass back mi carry a ting fi yuh!" he yelled.

Ras Potter waved him off.

"No worry yuhself. We deh yah fi help. Guidance!" he shouted. The truck disappeared out of sight.

Where should Robert go next? Let him know at robert.lalah@gleanerjm.com


Feedback

The following is some feedback received to last week's edition of Roving with Lalah.

Dear Robert,

I just recently moved to Colombia and I'm depending on your articles to keep me in touch with home. I read them every Tuesday back home and being here is no different.

- Tanya

Dear Robert,

Beautiful picture. I remember when Alley was a thriving town, when the market was up and people from rural Jamaica came to the market to sell their goods.

- Penvet

Dear Robert,

Love these stories, man. Dem sen mi right back home to Jamaica as a little girl visiting relatives a country where it always looks as though time stood still. Keep up the good work!

- Patrice

Dear Robert,

Thanks for those wonderful, hilarious stories you give us. Keep up the good work.

- Cabaker

Dear Robert,

This was a wonderful story as always.

- Collin