The very first time I visited friends at Dainfern Golf Estate and Country Club in Fourways, scrutinised by high-security fort personnel, my sister and I laughed and squirmed alternately. Never had we imagined that we would one day end up on the local set of The Truman Show. I too wanted to jump on a bike, ride up Hempton Avenue across the Juskei river, past the college, duck the lovely big sky-liner sewage pipe and wave to the entire gentle neighbourhood, “Good morning everyone,” to which they would punchily respond, with bright toothy smiles, “Good morning, Mphoentle!” But then there is the little concern, that Dainfern and The Truman Show have too many things in common.
Truman was a great and tragic figure, unaware that he was the starring act in an illusion of magnificent proportions, watched by millions of nameless faces and produced by faceless names on the first reality TV show, long before Big Brother. He got up every morning, cheerfully dedicating himself to the task of being a good citizen in his perfectly manicured village-town.
His grasp of juxtaposition was bare, insulated from the harsh realities of life, until of course he realised that he was set up purely for the entertainment of people who did not consider their own lives worth watching. Even the waters he plotted his escape around led to, well, the end of the set. Heroically he claimed his freedom and renounced the absolute safety of his life-long confines. He wanted to be free to experience the consequences of his thoughts and actions.
People actually go to great lengths to buy a piece of heaven, and then one day they just want to be free again. Sitting around a boardroom table with associates, a male colleague shared that his friend woke up one day, looked at his beautiful wife and the mother of his children and knew that he “just wanted more”. He politely told her so and left them. He must have moved to Dainfern because few of the men I know that live there moved there with their original wives. I am not kidding. The poor wives suddenly didn’t comply with the image requirements of a la-di-da existence. Instead, in move the young and sprightly concubines that fit into those ridiculously tight Diesel hipsters. To this day my colleague’s friend is still wandering about, looking for “more”.
In a funny sort of way, so are others. A close friend of mine who has seen the ins and outs of many a relationship is in a situation where she recently parted with a really swell guy. It was all a big misunderstanding. She did not want to get committed, but didn’t want them to date other people either. He figured that because she didn’t want them to see other people, she would soon desire greater commitment and consider moving in or marriage. She just wanted to chill. Where he got impatient, she got complacent and the camel’s back snapped.
Filling a male friend of mine in on the juicy details, he explained the most amazing thing to me: Women and men have a completely different idea of what commitment is. For a man, not being in a committed relationship implies the opportunity to see other people. Women on the other hand can be monogamous but not necessarily be in a committed relationship.
Apparently, a man does not understand the notion of a non-committed monogamous relationship. Assuming this is true, I wish someone had told me that earlier, which then begs the question: What is commitment and who in the world is doing it properly?
Truman discovered that his dedication and commitment were being abused. His emotional “safety” was guaranteed only if he continued to play to the gallery. Dainfern residents only really enjoy their relative physical safety as long as they stay on the club grounds (and I hear they’re considering building a residents-only shopping mall), and even then, one hears there are people’s ancestors buried beneath their homes.
I bet if I sought Truman’s counsel on happiness he would grin and declare that happiness is a state of mind; not a person, a place, or the latest security technology of the Northern suburbs.