Would you have walked?

Sometimes the most mundane things can fascinate me.
I find often beauty in tiny details.
Examples of these are: the way a soft fabric, like silk, moves in the wind; the way a flame consumes a match stick; a bird floating effortlessly in mid-air; the ambience of a single candle in a dark room; lanterns on a veranda or walkway.

When I look at these now, it is evident that I have two common denominators within these examples: light and air.
It’s true.
I’ve always been fascinated by light and its rare capabilities. The amount of light that’s essential in creating atmosphere, the direction of light that’s important for creating visual images or effects, the quality of light that creates or removes ambience.
How often do we see the phrases: just follow the light; the light at the end of the tunnel; look into the light? Is it because, as opposed to darkness, light brings warmth and gives guidance? In daylight, we can see and know everything, but in the absence of light, we are vulnerable, alone and uncertain. There is no road ahead and the path you take will only be revealed to you when the morning comes.
Light also saves lives.
Lighthouses around the world have rescued many a wayward ship.
Also, in the middle of the night, when life is uncertain, light is a guiding star or a lit candle far away in the distance.
Light is hope, light is comfort and light brings clarity.

I need some light.

In a recent devised project that we performed at college, ‘The My(d)us Touch’, we experimented a lot with the notion of light being a beacon of hope for the future, a sense of security, a lasting legacy, an adornment to what seems almost ruined to begin with. We played around with the contrast of light in darkness; the ambient feeling of lanterns in a soft glow. Stark, bright lighting that reveals all details and even all flaws.
The lyrics to the song ‘Light’ have become a sort of anthem for what I am experiencing right now, in this space, in this time.

And slowly, I am realizing that I am drawn to light because I feel like I am lost.
I am without.
Light.
The cave of my mind has become an endless plethora of darkness and confusion, uncertainty and fear.
Without wanting to sound self-indulgent: I am lost in the caves of my mind and I’m afraid that if I continue walking in these circles, I may become too fatigued to want to find the answer.
And here is where I need the light.
I need something to guide the way.
Sure, I often light a lantern that helps me to see two feet ahead, but that is never enough.
Here is where I find that I need that all-encompassing light that reveals all, that answers all questions about the dark. This is where I need to see the light at the end of the tunnel. This is where I cannot walk around in darkness, possibly in circles, anymore.
Here is where I need direction and focus. To see the road that I need to walk, the route I need to take.
How have I come to find myself in this darkness you ask?
This is what happens when the little lights and lanterns that you used to have to guide you along the way, fade away or come to the end of the wick.
There is something worse than finding yourself in complete darkness.
Being surrounded by pure light and THEN complete darkness.
At the moment, sinking into darkness seems easy, manageable almost. Letting darkness absorb and consume me seems to be so much less trouble than trying to walk on.
I then started thinking of ways to ‘see’ the light.
A new career choice, perhaps? A new hobby? New friends?
What will enlighten me and make this journey easier?
And nothing is coming to mind. Nothing is offering any solutions.

So, I keep treading through swampy caves, step by step, with one or two lanterns to help me out, lighting two or three feet in front of me.
And as I’m walking, I’m suddenly reminded of the song ‘Light’ that has become my anthem.

“We need some light.
First of all, we need some light.
You can’t sit here in the dark, and all alone,
It’s a sorry sight.”

And I started thinking about the actual meaning of the lyrics, especially the opening line: “We need some light…”.
She never asks for all the light she needs. She asks for some.
Because, some light is all we need, isn’t it?
Maybe we are only supposed to be seeing two feet ahead of us?
Maybe it’s better for us not to know where the road may lead us ~ truth be told, if many of us had known the road we’d be walking, would we have continued walking?
I would argue, no.

I am going to continue walking.
My lantern in one hand, my faith in the other.
Yes, I won’t know the whole journey beforehand, but what’s the fun in that? Isn’t that part of life, finding your own path, step by step?
I will only be able to see two feet ahead of myself, but that’s okay.
Being lost is okay. Being uncertain is okay. Being worried is okay.
Sitting all alone in the dark is not okay.
So, my dear reader, I am walking, now until the day I die, as should you.
And I pray that one day, when we do find the light, it will be worth struggling through darkness to get there.

“People don’t drown because they fall into water, they drown because they stay there…”

"But then the earthquake hits..."

It’s been a while.
But, I’m back.

Back from the incessant tribulations and trials that is life as a student in 2011. Yes, I am studying what I am most passionate about, which is probably more than could be said for some, but even passionate flames dim in the mist that envelops our lives from time to time. And it’s that flame that lights the way for me in everything I do on a daily basis. It’s my guiding sceptre to cross through the valley of the shadow of death.
And it’s when that little flame dims that I start becoming unsure of where I want to go next, and inadvertently, I can lose sight of where I am, who I am and what I am.

The term “ruin” is one of my favourite words in the English language. Not only do I appreciate the phonetic quality that it possesses, but up until a month ago, I have always had a fascination with ruins of any kind. It has always interested me as to how they became the ruins they are today and I always try to imagine how they looked before they were ruined.

That’s not the right word, though, is it?
‘Ruined’?
Ruined refers to something losing complete means, position or hope.
And more often than not, this is not the case with most ruins, is it?

Life is a constant construction site. At any given time, we are building houses, structures, friendships, careers, relationships, children, finances, reputation and so on and so forth.
And from our Sunday School days we have learnt to always build our houses on strong solid foundations. ‘Build your house on the rock and you will prosper’, my teacher would say. ‘Don’t build your house on the sand like the foolish man’.
And so we would find the most fantastic mound of rock and we would start building on that firm foundation. Even heavy rains couldn’t knock us down. We weather the storms, we fight the hurricanes and we survive the tsunamis, because our house is built on the rock, like the wise old proverb teaches us.

But then the earthquake hits.

We run around our shattered dream of a sturdy structure and we yell and we scream and we curse and we wonder why we had never made provision for an earthquake – something so intense it has cracked and broken the core of what our structure was built on.
Maybe the earthquake in our life was the scandal we had thought no-one would find out about, the time we cheated on our spouse, the time and money we invested in the wrong enterprise, the time we became friends with the wrong person or even something as small as that time when we stayed quiet when we should have said something or that time when we said something when we should have stayed quiet.

And suddenly we are faced with the ruins of what once was.
And it’s heart-wrenchingly painful – to see the hard work of many years lying in ashes and dust in front of you.

Suddenly you are infuriated at the thought of all of the hurricanes and tsunamis and heavy rains and howling winds that you faced – all of which, now, seem so pointless.
And for a while, there is what is commonly called, the mourning period. The introspective look at how we built wrong, how we might have caused this. The amount of times that it is the fault of the builder is about equivalent to the amount of times it had nothing to do with the builder.

And then comes the big question: does one start afresh somewhere else or does one start rebuilding the ruins, fixing and mending and restoring to its former glory?

My dear readers, this is the question that has been the dagger in my chest for the past 3 weeks.

Sure, I used to love ruins, I loved admiring them. But they were other people’s ruins.
There is something so different about watching your own. It makes it almost impossible to not feel like the world has crashed down alongside your structure.

Therefore, for a while, the first option felt like the best choice. So we start on a clean slate of solid base, making sure that this base is stronger than the one before, and we build a bigger and better structure and we forget about the ruins, the lost memory of the former structure we used to have. Except maybe once a year or so, we go to visit it to remind ourselves where not to go wrong in the future.
We learn from it, but we move on, we start again.
It can be immensely difficult, because we have become so use to the comfort of the location where the ruins now lie, but we ‘suck it up’ and we go on.
I decided that this would be the best choice at first.
I was going to leave the ruins to decay into its own infinity and after that I would never allow it to remind me of its guilt, judgment, shame, dignity or integrity.
I am very good at getting up and moving on. This is something I have learned about myself. Life hasn’t gotten me down yet, it hasn’t pushed me down into its deepest dungeons of despair just yet, and for that I am thankful. But, if ever I should be pushed down there, I am sure I will find my way back again soon.
I might just stay there a while for a moment of indulgence, but that’s neither here nor there.

So, I resigned myself completely to starting the building process somewhere else, using the lessons learnt.

But after a while I realized a huge disadvantage to a new location.
With the old structure, at least I knew what I was up again and I had an approximation of where the boundaries to my structure’s strengths were. With the old structure, I knew that it would take another earthquake to break.
What was it going to be with this new location?
A heavy wind, some rain?
Was I really willing to go through every thing I did before just so I didn’t have to be faced with the mistakes I made on the previous construction site?

And it was then that the notion of ‘ruins’ and ‘ruined’ came to mind.

I was starting to think about the ruined building, the cracked foundation and the hopeless efforts of the house to rebuild itself. And I realized that what I had here was the remains of a once glorious structure, a majestic construction that took blood and sweat and tears to complete.
And it was in ruins.
But it wasn’t ruined.

Let me explain: to be in ruins means to be totally destroyed and unfit for the intended purpose. However, ruined means that is in decay without means, position or hope, right?

So it was then that I came to the realization that my building wasn’t ruined.
It had hope, it had potential, I would just have to pick up the pieces and start again, on the same location.
At least with my ruins, I knew what it could withstand. I knew its strength and I knew its weaknesses.
And maybe the ruins of my once majestic structure have taught me this: that every building has the potential to fall and to break. But it also taught me that, even after the toughest earthquakes, we can rebuild.

I have started picking up the pieces again, I’m not sure how long the building will take, but I know that when it is done, it will be a building that has been built, with the knowledge and experience from before, invested in its every fibre.

Here’s to you, reading this.
I hope it has answered some questions.

''So - deal with it...''

Me:

''Mr Q, the rhythm doesn't right – I sound like I am singing a different beat.''

Jeremy Quickfall:

''Yes Germandt, it's the way this song has been written. The rhythm that I am playing IS different to the rhythm you are singing. So, deal with it.''

Life can be arrhythmical. It tends to be, in fact. And as much as we try to keep up with it – we never do, because ultimately it's not the way it's supposed to be. It's not the way our life's music was written.
Sometimes life is playing an upbeat pop song and all you are capable of, or know how to sing is the blues. And sometimes it's the other way around. But altogether, I am a firm believer in the age-old saying that says: ''things happen for a reason.''

And life has a way of knowing exactly what we need and what could be potentially great for us.

So perhaps, Life, in all its infinite wisdom, knew that the best thing to throw at over-confident, arrogant and self-centred Germandt in his first year at this college, was a musical director who saw right through that and decided to break me down, piece by piece by piece.
Jeremy Quickfall (www.jeremyquickfall.blogspot.com) and I did NOT blend well from day 1, and a lot of this was of my own making. I refused to listen to advice, I refused to surrender to the process and I refused to be told that what I am doing is wrong.
I suppose this is the result of many years of praise and adoration combined with a family line of stubborn people.
Thinking back tonight on what I must've been in 1st year as a musical theatre student and what I am today as a 3rd year musical theatre student, I realise that I must've been a pain in the ass.
A BIG, FAT pain in the ass. (Perhaps I still am)

One day, in his office, Jeremy told me:
''Compared to what you have the potential to be, you are quite average.''
I never told him this, but I actually cried in my room after he had told me that.
And you would think that a hefty comment like that would make someone sit up and listen?
No.
In fact, if anything, it made me more resistant. I started disliking him altogether, disliking his classes, disliking the process, the college, basically: everything that had anything to do with singing or musical theatre, I started resenting.

But, those of you who know Jeremy, will know that: when you start fighting, Jeremy fights back even harder. When you resist, he pushes harder.
And he did.
He fought back and refused to let me rest on my laurels.
And, looking back on it today, I am so grateful that he didn't stop.

The great thing about Jeremy is that he believes in students, and this is evident in the progress my entire class has made from our first singing class to today's lunch-time concert for the Musical Theatre Department.
Once a year, every student entering a Trinity Musical Theatre Exam gets to ''show-off'' one of their songs to the rest of the college in a lunchtime concert format. It is probably the most prestigious concert for any musical theatre student in the year and therefore we all dress up, look our best, put our best foot forward and, accompanied by Jeremy on the piano, we show them what we've got.
This year was no different.
We showed them what we had.
I physically cried for almost every song in this concert, because they were all tearjerkers and all sung extremely beautifully.
''Don't cry for me, Argentina...'' sung by Kelly, gave me goosebumps, Shelani's ''I'd give my life for you...'' sent tears to my eyes.
Then there was Tarryn with ''Who wants to live forever?'' and Chloe with ''See, I'm smiling'', Robyn with ''There are no mistakes...'', Grace with ''Mama, who bore me...'', Emma with ''A fine, fine line...'' – all extremely emotional moments for me, not only as a performer and a member of the class, but also as a friend.
Listening to other people interpret songs so beautifully makes you forget about yourself and your own song, your own voice and your own perfromance.
Suddenly, you see the bigger picture – and you start seeing that first glimmer of the final product that we have been working so hard towards.

When my song came up, I was, unexpectedly, quite nervous.
''Along the way'' from Edges, is one of the most beautiful songs in musical theatre – and for once I felt incapable of singing this song and doing justice to it.
I walked onto the stage with very little confidence and this showed when I started singing an octave too low. A mistake I would usually never make.

And then, as if time had stood still, I suddenly started getting flashbacks of how Jeremy made me sing songs over and over in my tutorials – made me do less and less, made me sound less and less ''interesting'' – and, when the flashbacks were done, I knew what I had to do.
I finished the song – they applauded – and I walked off the stage, feeling strange. I felt as if I had been let in on a secret for the first time that everyone else had known for such a long time.

Just trust what Jeremy has taught you.

The result of this, was a performance that people really enjoyed. I even had a couple of people come up to me and tell me that they didn't know that I could act like that.
To be honest, neither did I.

For fear of sounding like a sycophant, I would like to dedicate this blog to Jeremy Quickfall tonight.
A man who has never given up on me, always pushed me to be better than I am and always saw through me when I faked it or tried to pretend that I was feeling anything.
You truly are a great man, an extraordinary teacher (albeit unconventional) and, it seems, an inspiring mentor.
I am sorry for not trusting you earlier in my journey. Watching the other people in my class today, I realised that I had missed out on so much.

And, by no means do I think I have reached my destination. I know there is still a long way to go – but thank you for how far we have come.

So - - -when it seems like you are out of rhythm with life, when things feel unnatural, strange and unusual, take Jeremy's advice: ''deal with it''.
Because, inevitably, it's in the moments when we feel like things are crashing down around us that we learn the most. That we grow the most.
Life knows exactly what we need and at what time we need it. So: ''deal with it.''
And who knows, perhaps this rhythm can yield something extraordinary.

Well, in my case, I certainly hope so.

A great day for failure...

I have fulfilled many roles in my life – I believe that life is essentially about fulfilling roles. And no, when I say this I am definitely not referring to roles in plays. I literally mean I have been son, brother, friend, sales person, student, babysitter, helper, manager and so many more. But this week I added a new one to my repertoire.

A couple of days ago I just had one of the worst days of my life – I felt emotional, moody, teary, angry and frustrated for the entire day. I had to give a performance in one of our classes – one I didn’t feel I was prepared for. It was an extract from the play “Decadence” by Stephen Berkoff and one that I felt was quite a challenge for me to do. A challenge that I wasn’t really ready to face.
It had just so happened that Paul Griffiths (my drama lecturer) had put my name down the previous week to do a performance - and this whole notion of going onto stage again after a very long time was scary.
I had not physically acted on stage again after the whole “Hello & Goodbye” debacle and going back to that “scary” place was like sending me to the stocks.
Anyway, earlier that morning, after I had literally broken down and felt like giving up everything, Natasha, friend extraordinaire, comforted me and told me to “stop fearing failure”. According to her I was “so scared of failing that I was resisting trying”, and I must say that in retrospect one does have to see the merit in her argument.
I had stopped performing for quite a long time because I was scared that it wouldn’t meet certain expectations and that it would be seen as mediocre.
This to me was quite a revelation within myself.

According to another (gypsy) friend of mine, my Indian Medicine Card Animal was the fearful Rabbit. When I read up on it, I found out that the Indians called Rabbit “the fear-caller”. This meant that Rabbit was so scared of what ‘might’ happen that it ended up “calling” that to him.
In a way, I understood what that meant. It meant ‘what you fear most you will become’ or ‘what you fear most will eventually happen’ – because I have given this fear so much power by thinking about it over and over.

But – before we sidetrack – back to the story. So I did the performance and miraculously it was a success. I had some great feedback: some calling it effortless, others saying it was so nice to see me putting my own spin on a piece.
The nicest comment, however, was that of a first year boy at my college, who said: “Germandt I look up to you as a performer and an actor.” And afterwards told me that he “aspires to be like me”.
This was enough to make me teary-eyed in class all over again.

Later that day I went to lunch with Natasha and we chatted about what had happened that day in class. I told her how happy I was that it went well and how touched I was that this first-year boy had said this about me.
Natasha kept quiet for a while and then turned to me and said: “Germ, can I tell you something as a friend.?”
“Sure.” I replied.
“You have got a huge responsibility on your shoulders now.” she said.
“I know…” I interrupted. “I have to make sure that I stay working hard so that I can keep on being a performer to look up to…”
“No.” she stopped me. “You have to make sure that you show this guy that it’s alright to try and fail sometimes. You have to show him that it’s needed as a performer and as a human being – to sometimes fail.”

And I stayed quiet.

Afterwards, I realized how true her words had actually been.
This made me realize that being a rolemodel, someone that others look up to, meant that it was my responsibility to show others that it’s alright to not get it right sometimes…
that it’s alright to sometimes fail.

I started to think about all the people I looked up to in my life and started realizing more and more that I had learnt so much from all these people about life – not by how much they had gotten right, but by how much they had gotten wrong and how they came out on the other side.

And suddenly the responsibility on my shoulders became a lot heavier.

I had to make sure that those who looked up to me saw me as “a human”.
And yes, sometimes it’s hard – sometimes, you want to only show the good, clean side of who you are – but it doesn’t work that way.
“Hou die blink kant bo” – perhaps this saying accounts for a whole lot of the problems Afrikaners face today.
A sermon that I heard once said the following and it really impacted my life: “The thing with going through the valley of the shadow of death is this – it’s a valley – which means you have to go through it at some point. And it’s this that counts – whether you come out a stronger human being than you went in.”

So, my message to you today is this: if there is someone looking up to you, (a little brother or sister, a friend, a child) make sure that you show them that one does not always have to be perfect – that we learn more from the mistakes we make. That it is alright to sometimes make mistakes and learn from them.
We live in a world where our rolemodels are actors, pop stars, musicians and socialites – all of which lead perfect lives – lots of money, successful careers, fame and admiration.
I personally think it’s time for some “real” rolemodels in this world.
“Real” people. People who fail. People who fall and get up again. Humans.

I’d like to dedicate this blog to my rolemodel: Natasha.
You haven’t disappointed me yet.

Who teaches who?

For most people, Saturdays are about relaxing, spending the day at home or shopping or going out. To these people I'd like to say: I hate you.

Saturdays at the Waterfront Theatre School are marked by kids screaming, Hannah Montana booming out of speakers and little children (young enough to be in diapers) doing tap-step, shuffle ball-change, ball-change, step, stamp. For those of you who think that this is remotely enjoyable: it's not.
For one day in a week, we become Sea Point's prime day-creche and get subjected to attitudes and teenage hormones like no-one has ever experienced before. I sometimes also get the feeling that we have a contract with the Juvenile Delinquents Club of South Africa - we train their kids in drama and dance and they promise to dose them high enough just so that they don't kill us.

Personally, I have always liked kids - I was a very important part of raising my little brother and sister - but on a Saturday, the last thing I want to hear is: "Dude, you have to put me into a group with the girls - they are super-fine!"
Or: "Ah, man! I got so trashed last night!"
Both comments I have heard from a 14 year old student of mine. Shocking, isn't it?

But, as annoying as it is to try and get a class full of apathetic teenagers to commit to any exercise or activity they are given, it has it's rewards.
There are days that I want to kill them with a steak knife and then there are days that I prefer a butter knife - but regardless of these encounters: I guess it's safe to say that I love teaching.

Someone once told me: "Remember, teaching is not about lecturing, it's about guiding."
And I remember thinking at the time: ya, right!
But, more and more I am seeing this in my lessons. Which begs the question: who is teaching who?

My class (the class that I teach) is made up of 20-odd teenagers ranging between 14-16 year olds and constantly trying to find oout who and what they are, where they belong, how they fit in and why life is the way it is...
There is always one clown trying (and often succeeding) in getting everyone else to muck about as well. And it's these kids that drive me over the edge.
But, I haven't fallen yet.

In fact, what I have learned is that I teach my students a lot more than drama - I teach basic life skills. Teamwork, acceptance, apologising, fair play. These are things that they still struggle with - in class even, and it's in this that I find most of my work-satisfaction. Not in the drama teaching.

"The mediocre teacher tells. The good teacher explains. The superior teacher demonstrates. The great teacher inspires." William Arthur Ward

These words are somewhat of a haunting for me - the last thing I want to be is a mediocre teacher, and yet, it's so easy sometimes to just "tell" your students. Perhaps my greatest teacher, Paul Griffiths, has taught me so much, but I would be lying if I had to say that the majority of what I have learned from him has been drama-related.
Could I be as great a teacher as he is?
How does he do it?

Inspire: (Dictionary) To infuse into the mind; to communicate to the spirit; to convey, as by a divine or supernatural influence.

Is this what I am doing with these kids?
Am I doing the right thing with them?

These kids in my class give me a first-hand taste of what fatherhood is like - suddenly responsible for (what seems to be) someone else's life.
Like any father, you want to be sure that what you are doing is exactly what they need at that stage.
I don't always know if what I am teaching them is useful.

But then I read a quote in a magazine by James Arthur Baldwin. He said: “Children have never been very good at listening to their elders, but they have never failed to imitate them.”
And I realized: how I live my life should be their inspiration.
Earlier, I said that PG taught me a lot - much of it not drama-related. But I would be lying if I said that what I have learned from him is from what he has told me rather than shown me.

Perhaps this is where the students start teaching the students - teachers are constantly reminded to be "better" human beings - because 20 pairs of eyes are watching us, because now we have to make decisions in life and in class that will be exemplary to our students... And it's in this that we start re-evaluating why and how we handle situations.
So - - - I need to "show" my students how I do things and perhaps they will be "inspired" and "imitate"?

Well, this is, perhaps, in itself an even more daunting thought.
But hey, at least now I know, I have something solid to work with...

''It takes a moose to change a life...''

Last night I had the honour of seeing one of the most profound theatrical productions I have ever seen on a South African stage: ''Karoo Moose''. I laughed incessantly, I cried uncontrollably and I was moved and affected.
Some of my friends were unaffected – but most of the people I spoke to were stirred by this beautifully crafted production by director Lara Foot.

It was showcased using a very simple, yet effective set, simple suggestive costuming and a variety of African sounds and imagery. Some of which I am sure will stay with me for a long time to come.

I must be honest – (Rule #1 of a blog: always be honest) – I was apprehensive about seeing the show when I heard the theme and what it was exactly about.
I find South African texts and plays quite stereotypical and discriminating sometimes and I have often felt victimised when I leave a theatre space – just because I am a white Afrikaans-speaking male.

This has made me very disconnected towards many writers, directors and actors who still perform these types of productions – because how are they relevant to me today?
I am not saying at all that I don't want to hear about history or what had happened – but I think the generation that I live in now has come to a point where we are ready to move on.
And it sometimes feels to me like the arts are not yet read to step out of that box because: it works, I guess. Or maybe they are not sure if there are any stories to tell in South Africa that does not have some form of political, historical connection?
In a way – without sounding offensive - I have come to a point where I don't want to hear how bad Apartheid was for black people and how white people were all to blame. I also don't want to be faced with white guilt every time I see a sculpture or a film or a play that depicts a black person being discriminated against somewhere, somehow.
Because, it was not my fault.
I was never there, remember?
I wasn't even born yet.
And I don't think I should have to apologise.

Sometimes - and I don't think I am the only one – I feel extremely un-African. I didn't grow up in extreme poverty, my parents didn't have to struggle to be treated as equals in society, I never wear loin-cloths or goatskins and I never chant and pray to any ancestors. Is this what it means to be African? Am I not African because I speak Afrikaans and I am white?
I grew up in this land too, I have also tasted the riches of this earth, I have also walked the dusty plains of this barren soil – isn't that essentially what it means to call a country your homeland? Not how many ancestors you had living there or who was here first. Whether you are African doesn't depend on what the colour of your skin is or in which language you speak and sing – you are African if what you stand for is equality, acceptance, teamwork and a deeply rooted love for every crack and crevice this country has to offer.

Here is where I think ''Karoo Moose'' has hit the nail on the head – we have so many beautiful stories to tell, but they are not told because we focus too much on what has happened than on what is happening now.
''Karoo Moose'' tells the story of a village of people and how their lives are affected by the coming of a very strange ''wild moose'' to the village. The moose, which was supposed to be transported to a zoo – as a gift to the President – had managed to escape and is now wandering the Karoo in search of somewhere to belong. But, the story doesn't centre around the moose at all – it tells the stories of the people who have witnessed the moose's coming. Beautifully crafted stories displaying the complexities of the human spirit and our amazing ability, as Africans, to be resilient and to fight for what we believe in.
In ''Karoo Moose'', suddenly I didn't feel like a foreigner watching a South African play – I could relate to the stories, the imagery, the hurt, the brutality of life without feeling like any of it was my fault. I saw a white family living harmoniously with a black family – no victimisation, no discrimination. I saw the South Africa that I have grown up in, not the South Africa that Athol Fugard and others have created for us. Not the South Africa that was shoved in my face by older generations. And suddenly, I could relate.

I would like to thank the director, the writer and the performers for opening my eyes again to the wonderful diversity that is our country and for making me feel like an important part of that diversity.
Before last night, I used to feel like a lost white boy running aimlessly, without a home, without somewhere that I can belong in this extreme diversity that is South Africa. (a bit like the moose, I guess)

But, now, I think that that has changed.
I feel in touch, now, with every grain of soil, every mountainside rock, every drop of ocean, every African and their story.
Perhaps now... it is time to tell my own story.