One of the things I miss about modern life is a sense of community.
I grew up in a rural area where we all knew each other. Businesses were mostly run by families, not companies. Mr Roux had inherited the general dealer’s shop from his dad and his son was expected to take over the business one day.
The bank manager and the postmaster were members of the tennis club and the garage owner played the accordion at local parties.
When you walked down the main road, people greeted you and knew about you. “Morning Mr Webb, how’s your daughter after her operation? Did you hear Eric’s son was selected to captain his school cricket team?” People cared.
When you went away the neighbours kept an eye on your property. If Mrs Johns was sick, a neighbour would bring her a pot of nourishing soup. We were almost a family.
I used to feel that way when I moved to my little corner of Cape Town many years ago. The clothing store staff knew what size shoe I wore and the newsagent would keep the latest issue of my favourite magazine for me.
We belonged to the same clubs and teams. Our children knew each other from school.
Sadly, much of that has changed. We don’t know the bank manager because we do our banking at an impersonal ATM machine.
We don’t share train rides to work because the trains are unreliable and dangerous. Even the lady barber who has trimmed my hair for 25 years sighed and said, “We’re having to close our shop because the rent’s gone up too high for us to survive.”
Several other old, established businesses have closed because of rent increases and have been replaced by little foreign-owned shops selling cheap oriental tat. I’m beginning to feel like a stranger in my hometown.
I suspect this is one of the causes of the huge increase in violent crime across the country. We don’t live in communities any more, so we don’t look after each other. Instead we isolate ourselves behind burglar bars and alarm systems.
Robbers know nobody will rush to help when our windows are smashed. There are exceptions of course. My neighbours always warn me when I’ve left my garage door unlocked, for example.
And as I get older I’m doing it more often. Thank goodness for my own tiny community.
Last Laugh
The boss said to his secretary, “What do you mean you think I’m wanted on the phone? “Either I’m wanted or I’m not.”
“Well sir,” said the secretary, “the caller just said, ‘Is that stupid old idiot in his office yet?’”
* "Tavern of the Seas" is a column written in the Cape Argus by David Biggs. Biggs can be contacted at [email protected]
** The views expressed here are not necessarily those of Independent Media.
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