Good fences make bad neigbours

"Non, Non, Non! Non pick up carr today! I tell you ees falling aparrt. Ees naked on the floorr now." I'd taken my blue Peugeot in for a little Nip-Tuck over a week ago. It still hadn't been returned to me. A three hour service had transformed into a long-running nightmare as , typical to all things French, a pretty cool exterior was revealed to be concealing, well; a death-trap. This as a result left me carless , stranded, and with shit to do. After considering my options, I decided  to go the conventional mini-bus taxi route.

Now, I live in leafy Bryanston. It's not really constructed with the efficiency of our public transport system in mind, and the nearest taxi-stop is easily a 6km uphill walk away. There are no walkways, and the manicured pavements sprout exotic greenery that make it impossible to walk anywhere else but on the street. And then there's The Wetland. Only referred to by this title because at some point in time, many years ago, it was a lush area populated with indigenous wildlife and green freshly cut grass.Now used by resident Bryanstonians as car and dog park; it's a little less green, a little less clean and wholly unsafe. It's also the best way to get to the taxi stop from my house.

John looks up at from his chair by the boom gate with slight amusement, splitting his focus between the slap chips dripping oil on his lap, and this coconut model-c girl who was going to soon attempt to walk through the wetlands and catch a taxi. "There's tsotsi's there in the wetland," he says through his grin. "I'd walk with you mara if the boss comes and I'm not here, he'll fire me!'
"Its fine," I reply, " I'll be safe."  I subconsciously shift my bag to feel the weight of the my camera, wallet and phone.

Every other day, someone is mugged in the wetlands, every other month a woman( a helper)is raped.Police cars occasionally patrol the area. By patrol, I mean they drive along its perimeter with their lights and sirens on. Even they don't dare to go inside.

Its strange. Fancy high walls engraved with insignia to show much money we have to spend on our safety. Electric fences and expensive pure breed dogs. Boom gates, security guards and camera's in the street, but crime runs rampant in The Wetlands on the other side of road. Literally. And nobody gives a damn. Myself included, because beyond the boom gate, the electric fencing and the Great Danes, we're not really involved in that side of the world.

I made it out on the other side of the wetlands intact; walking past dog shit, beer bottles and discarded panties. My mind however, was racing. Has our need for self-preservation resulted in us being completely detached and unconnected from the people around us? Do good fences really make good neighbours?

I know nothing about the people who live on the other side of the fence.I see them, on occasion as they walk their dogs, and sometimes, given my mood, I'll give a courtesy hoot and wave. They don't really like the hooting. It disturbs their peace, but apart from from the chance encounter when we're both reversing out our respective driveways at the same time, and the gossip spread by the ladies who work in their kitchens, they could disappear without me even knowing.

We know longer live in communities. We live in houses, on streets, in suburbs and cities, but we are no longer a social unit. Just people on their own. All out at sea.