So Glad to be Older

When I hear people talk about their high school years as being the best years of their lives I worry about them. A lot.

I wouldn’t wish high school days (or primary school for that matter) on even my worst enemy. Those were years of severe trauma.

Now don’t get me wrong, I had a pretty comfortable youth. I wasn’t abused or made to work in a sweat shop or anything like that. In fact I had a very cushy and privileged time of it. But I was an angry, depressed, little and insignificant (with pimples and braces) brute.

It is a wonder my family still love me and I still have some amazing friends from those days. In fact the reason I am writing this now is because we were talking about those days recently, and I got to thinking that I have some people to thank and lots to apologise to.

In Grade 9 (when boys smell worse than their attitudes) at the age of 14 turning 15, the only person or thing I hated more than everybody and everything was myself. Now, those of you who are reading this, may think this a typical Jared ‘over’ statement, but do yourself a favour – just try and think about your Grade 9 year. Yes, that year you beat up your siblings relentlessly and drew anarchy signs on your space case; that year when you thought your parents were the most pathetic creatures to roam the earth; that year that you would have killed for a pair of jeans with the right brand name. You remember? It was awful.

I think I was a particularly nasty little thing. And now I want to apologise to a few people – perhaps too late. To my parents and my sisters, I am so sorry. It must be such a hurtful thing to have your own flesh become such an angry little creature. I think it is because of this that I am so very scared of ever having children myself. To all my little cousins – you guys had to deal with a lot of nasty too. I am sorry.

I am not sure how they all managed to survive me during those years, but somehow they did.

Two Falls and a New Addiction

The Chaeli Campaign Double-and-Again

I have the dubious honour of being the only guy to fall – TWICE – on the epically magnificent Double-and-Again cycle weekend.

On the weekend of the Argus Cycle Tour, The Chaeli Campaign organises a cycle that starts in Hermanus at the Old Harbour on the Friday. The cycle goes through Kleinmond along the coastal road to Strand for lunch then on to Zevonwacht wine estate in Kuils River for the night. The Saturday cycle goes through Durbanville and Milnerton to the clock tower at the V & A Waterfront. Then the Sunday is the actual Argus Tour race. That is a total of about 315 kilometres in three days. Epic!

So about my two falls. We had the most perfect start to our Friday. No wind, no harsh sun and fantastically quiet roads. We were sent off by the mayor of Hermanus as well as Chaeli and the gang, and were given an escort by the traffic cops all the way to Betty’s Bay.

We were going along at such a beautiful pace when the support vehicle joined us at about the 60 kilometre mark. We decided to take our first break just after Rooi Els. We all pulled into one of the view points and there, right in front of the support crew and all the riders, I pulled my first smooth move. I couldn’t get out of my right cleat. Yip, I was stationary. And I smacked into the paving with all the grace and honour of a stone falling from Chappies.

There was blood. But far more damage was done to my ego. There were a few giggles and the odd outright guttural laugh (thanks Warren). This kind of fall normally doesn’t receive too much sympathy.

Fall two was a little more spectacular. On day two, on route to Durbanville Hills, due to a slight navigational issue, we wound up on a dirt road. Anybody who has ridden a racing bike on dirt road knows that it is NOT fun! Those little tires don’t do well.

The rough and hard corrugation was beginning to really rattle my cage and scramble my brains when I hit a nasty pile of soft sand. At about 25kms I spun out. Going down in a cloud of dust – fortunately I was at the back of our group and didn’t get a bike over my head. I lay there for a bit as the dust settled. I did feel that this fall was more ‘genuine’ than the last, but I still wasn’t enjoying myself too much.

Warren turned back to help me pick up the pieces. Thanks Warren for not laughing at this fall like you did at my last one!

Falls aside, I would have to say that this event was one of my more memorable sporting events. I was reminded of what it means to pull together and work towards a common goal. No matter what each individual’s abilities are, the whole group works towards finishing together. And achieving that goal, together.

A special thanks to all the guys: Warren, Gerhard, Johan, Peter, Carl and my dad (Nico) for being a part of the team. Johan and Peter your guys helping hands were particularly incredible along the way. Thanks.

Having one of my heroes – Chaeli Mycroft – there in the support vehicle as part of the team was also very special. I don’t think she knows just how inspirational she is to so many people – and especially to me. I hope that she enjoyed the event as much as me. At least she was concerned about my bloody knee after my first fall.

I am not the most confident cyclist, but I think I might have new addiction. I can’t wait to do it again next year.

Lost and Found

George got into my heart. They have an uncanny way of doing that. George (a name I gave the little guy) was wandering around the neighbourhood – terrified. Clearly he wasn’t meant to be a street kid and his well kept coat and clipped nails indicated his life was a safe life.  A stable life. A life behind the walls of a comfortable suburban home.

We asked him to come on in, you know, within the safety of our walls. He came, cautiously. He visibly relaxed once we’d closed the gate. We gave him some water and encouraged him to settle down. We gave him a little sustenance too. He couldn’t tell us where he was from – where he had been. There was no form of identification on him that could help us piece together a bit of story about dear George.

The only thing to do was to get the word out. Somebody must have been missing the little boy George. We live in what people call the information age. Ours is the day of easy communication. But how does one spread the word about a lost soul? Where do you put it? The authorities of course!

‘He’s mostly white, with some black. He’s about two years old, I’d say’

Descriptions. Time of finding. Location. And of course our contact details.

It looked like George was going to be spending the night with us. I wasn’t sure how he would be with our other children, especially the youngest one. How would they feel? How would they react?

We continued as normally as we could. We made dinner – with wine of course – and managed through the eating part with relative ease. Sleeping was the next big thing that needed doing. George seemed pretty cool with most things, as long as we weren’t out of his sight at any stage. This meant he needed to be near us when we slept. So do our other children. This was going to be a problem.

After some debate, it was decided, I’d move into the spare room for the night and George could settle there. While my partner and our kids stayed in our room.

You know that sleep, or not-sleep, where you have one eye on your charge the whole time? While that was me. The little guy slept through though, which was an indication of just how tired he was from his crazy adventure.

I was rather panicky the next day about this poor little fella’s future.

Thankfully, his mom called at 9:00 – distraught.

Turned out his name was really Duke and he went on a little stroll when their gate was left open by their forgetful tenant. His youth and inexperience didn’t help him to keep track of where his home was. He got lost.

I did enjoy George though – in fact I was rather sad when he left. And I have changed my opinion of pitbulls now.

George AKA Duke

Theatregoers (some of my article for iafrica)

The theatre. That thing that so many of us slot boldly into the "interests" section of our CVs and under the "activities" page on our Facebook profiles. Ah yes, "the theatre" has a certain sophisticated ring to it, doesn’t it?

The Gordon Institute for Performing and Creative Arts (known as Gipca) is a body that offers a space to collaborate, debate and better their trade. Recently, Gipca held a Directors and Directing conference which saw a great deal of big wig theatre people coming together to talk about the state of theatre in South Africa. Loads of things were said, but for me, the most important thing to come from this great event, were the questions. The most significant question posed was: where the hell is the audience?

Go to http://lifestyle.iafrica.com/events/747049.html and read the rest.

Lisa and Frank - a scene

LISA and FRANK – a scene

By Jared Kruger

Lisa:       Completely. Perfectly. Completely and perfectly miserable.

Frank:   Ah, babe it’s not that bad. This isn’t SA. We’ll improve it as we go along.

Lisa:       (standing in the kitchen area) There isn’t even enough room for a tea cup in here.

Frank:   We’ll just have to have the kettle and tea stuff in the lounge. (moving towards the tiny couch)

Lisa:       Doesn’t matter we can’t afford tea anyway.

Frank:   Of course we can. (picks up the two grocery bags from next to the front door. Puts them on the tiny counter and starts to unpack – starting with the wine) No more SA wine for you – Chile.

Lisa:       I hate wine.

Frank:   You’ll learn, it’s an acquired taste.

Lisa:       I don’t want to acquire it.

Frank:   (taking out the box of tea) I will take you to Paris and you’ll fall in love with the stuff – you’ll see.

Lisa:       Paris? Perhaps a job first.

Frank:   Babe, you’ll find something.

Lisa:       Recession and all?

Frank:   You’ve got a qualification from Stellenbosch, that’s something and...

Lisa:       Tea?

Frank:   Here you go (throws the box towards Lisa – she drops it)

Lisa:       Frank, stop fooling around.

Frank:   Sorry babe.

Lisa:       (‘jokingly’ and seductively) Make me some tea.

Frank:   Okay, but don’t think that I am going to be your ‘help’ here.

Lisa:       In that case I should be heading straight on back to SA on the next flight.

Frank:   So, the first thing we need to do is sell my bed. And get us a double.

Lisa:       Typical boy – thinking about the sack already.

Frank:   Well... (moving towards her – tries to kiss her)

Lisa:       (Steps back) tea.

Frank:   Right, okay. Not even just a...

Lisa:       How much does a bed cost, about?

Frank:   About a thousand quid.

Lisa:       That’s, 10 000 Rand. Fucking hell.

Frank:   Don’t think in Rand terms. It’ll only make you mad.

Lisa:      You know, I have a perfectly good bed back in Cape Town – perhaps I could ship it out – perhaps it’s cheaper.

Frank:   No, no. Let’s get our own babe – kinda cool to get our own bed – don’t you think?

Lisa:      Stop being sentimental and all mushy. (pause) I suppose my sister needs it – with her kids getting bigger now. (sits on the couch and sighs) I left them. 11 000 kilometres between us now.

Frank:   Skype.

Lisa:      Little Alice is going to grow up so quickly, they do you know. They learn new things everyday and they add centimetres with each hour they sleep. You know, at the airport.

                (Frank tries to caress her, perhaps grabs her bum)

                Hey. You’re going to have to earn that. Get you cold hands off of me.

Frank:   Fucking hell.

Lisa:       What?

Frank:   I thought that. It has been like 4 months Lisa and I’m going a bit crazy.

Lisa:       (taking her mobile phone out) I need to call my mother.

                (Frank drops, and kicks he box of tea and leaves) 

2 Questions about Theatre now

Directors and Directing

A most intimidating and marvellous collection of people in conversation for a whole weekend, and I was there to listen to the conversation. How wonderful!

Jay Pather and GIPCA, thank you. Directors and Directing was a wonderful experience for me. It made me: angry, worried, sad, energised, mobilised and inspired. Today I have a head full of questions. And I truly believe that questions are more important than answers, so I am rather happy then with this head full.

And since I have this head full of questions I thought I’d sift through them all, decide on two of the more important and difficult ones and write them down here. Perhaps putting them down will allow us to continue the conversation. I can’t answer them easily. I need to think, but I wanted to put them into words and out there. So here they are:

Is it possible to try and develop new, young and a strong patronage to theatre in South Africa? And what is the practical role of the director in doing this?

There is no doubt that there is a crisis in theatre, and that crisis lies in the economics of it all. For whatever reason, the ‘bums on seats’ issue is an issue! Why are people not going to see theatre? What can we do, practically, to make things change? And more importantly, after the weekend’s topic, what is the role of the director in doing this?

Then the big one...

Is the weight of race too heavy for the South African stage?

It was clear, that there was tension in the room around this question for most of the weekend... 

Reflection on these questions to come in future writings – time is required for some thought.

Selfish, Yes.

As I look out of this incredibly tiny window on this impressively cramped aeroplane (or is it airplane?), en route to Lanserisa, I am overwhelmed by the sheer number of people on the ground in Cape Town. All those thousands upon thousands of roofs, of cars, buses and streets. Gaining height as quickly as one does in a plane provides a surreal perspective on how vast the human spread is.

And what did I glean from this feeling of being overwhelmed? If there are so many of us; then surely there is enough energy, brain power, goodwill – and all that fuzzy stuff – to make things better down there on the ground? Cliché? So fucking what?

Then I let my brain wonder, which is not difficult to allow. And you know what I thought? What if I could get each one of those people on the ground to want to read my blog, to see my show, to pay me R5 – I’d be rich. Precisely! I just answered my own question... people are too damn selfish to stay with the thought of another for more than three minutes! Our energy is all about ourselves, our brain wants to be an “I” specialist. And goodwill, well that would be good if I can score from it. So the fuzzy stuff seems to be a dream...

Icky, isn’t it?

But, why then do we every now and again have these realisations, these ‘fuzzy’ thoughts, even if only at random moments – like taking off in an aeroplane? We, as humans, do have moments when we aren’t selfish and we think, ‘Gee, what can I do to make this place better?’ I think that it is because we do, essentially, want to do good, to make things right. However, it isn’t easy to be selfless and as humans are essentially lazy, we quickly go back to thinking about ourselves, because it’s so easy. Maybe it is because, just like any really challenging thing, there is effort involved. We procrastinate, and what better way than to spend time satisfying your personal needs, after all, they’re obvious.

And here is the next cliché: we should make the effort! The world needs to be less lazy. We need to try have the realisations more often; and then realise the realisation. Do something! Actually act on the fuzzy stuff.

So, when I get off this plane I am going to...  I hope that there is a coffee shop close to the exit to the airport, I am dying for a latte.

Sigh.