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Mr Morrison’s Garage is on the Waltham Park Road, just opposite a shanty town with high corrugated iron fences lining the yards which are sealed off and invisible to me. It borders a gully, Jew Gully, filled with litter and dirty water. Mr Morrison is a friendly man, full of wisdom. His daughter is successful and works as a secretary for the British Embassy. Together with a mechanic and a “Dukaman” who fixes dents and bumps, he runs a little garage yard. Wrecks and repaired cars stand parked in a rough line along the gully fence. The house at the centre of the yard, used to be residential and has now become clogged up with oil, paint, and bits of motor vehicle, which lie discarded everywhere. The ground is black, the ackee tree to the side, to be pitied. Scrawny dogs, too thin for existence, but determined nevertheless to give it a go, sniff around the place, keeping close to the walls as they trot by looking for food and danger, licking the inside of orange juice cartons. I watched archaeology in motion: bits of engine were slowly becoming embedded in the ground.



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