Walking in my Neighbourhood

I live in a bubble – a rather picturesque one, nestled at the foot of Table Mountain, with breathtaking views, lofty fences, and dogs that are meant to guard but, let’s face it, are more like fuzzy family members. This bubble comes complete with a greenbelt, its only crime being the occasional dumping of bin remnants. These aren’t just any leftovers, mind you, but expired Woolies delights that didn’t make the cut, pushed aside in favour of a Codfather feast, Bagels from Kleinsky’s, or Bacini’s pizza – inevitable after an evening of sundowners and waiting for the offspring to stumble home from their latest revelry.

The trash problem looms of over the neighbourhood’s image

Still, the unsightly dumping among the alien pines, which clack like castanets in the wind, presents a small worry. These trees, by the way, seem ever poised to drop branches on our heads – were they not all tangled up, much like our community. The trash problem, while minor, does rile up pet owners who fear for their four-legged companions. And let’s not forget the unsettling implications for the neighbourhood’s image. After all, what starts as a bit of litter might just be the herald of something more insidious – a looming squatter threat on our otherwise blissful sanctuary, cocooned in the midst of an unjust, unwell society.

Resident Rastafarian at odds with the neighbours

Speaking of which, there’s our resident Rastafarian, a vibrant soul who does not have an official address yet adds a splash of life to our otherwise predictable landscape. When he sets up camp, alternatively at the top and then, when chased by PPA or ADT, at the bottom of the greenbelt – generally a mere twenty-five metres down the slope from my house – his bright red top contrasts brilliantly against the fallen pine tree stump, a casualty of a recent South-Easterly storm. The lush greenery surrounding him would have made for a stunning shot during my days as a photojournalist traversing across Southern Africa. Now, in this upmarket suburbia, I find it impossible to ignore the aliveness he infuses into our neighbourhood, the odd leftover heroine and all, that has our street – and especially the MediClinic doctor who lives up the road – up in arms for fear of injury.

Recently, his presence transformed the stoep of the dilapidated coach house along our street – a lonely leftover from the times of the Dutch East India Company and later Jan Smuts’ era – into a makeshift gathering spot, breathing life into the old structure, currently laid to rest as a deceased estate, awaiting better times. He had the audacity to invite his friends to share stories and laughter, the air thick with the unmistakable scent of marijuana. The party lasted until one of our neighbours returned home late and alerted the local security companies, who quickly responded, in no uncertain terms. The next morning, the new owner erected a bamboo structure reinforced with barbed wire to prevent any more uninvited invasions, before the approved plans and renovations transform the old heritage structure into a contemporary, affluent residence. Yet, for one starry eve, a hint of unruly adventure disrupted our homogeneous midst.

War zone on our stoep?

This was not the end of our neighbourhood’s story, come to think of it: just the other night, a trio of explosions rudely shattered the peace of an otherwise gentle spring Monday. Towering flames and rising smoke danced through the treetops, just 100 metres from my home. It could have easily been mistaken for a scene from the evening news, the kind featuring war zones most of us only ever witness from the comfort of our living rooms. My startled brain, seeking logic, immediately assumed a gas explosion.

But no. As it turns out, it was the Hyundai i20 – the freshly minted 18th birthday gift of our neighbour’s daughter – that decided to go out in a blaze of glory. Poor thing, parked outside and left to its fiery demise, all because there was no room for a third, or fourth, vehicle in the main garage. Ah, the tragicomic realities of suburban life…