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Kaks garaaži

It is a mixture of  “Kreisiraadio”, “Top Gear”, “Nurgakivi”, Uncle Heino humor and other uncle’s deep filosopical thoughts.  It is funny. It is very funny. Also a bit sad, because we all know at least one guy who is like this. On this case there is four of them. Two from Estonia (Simeoni Sundja and Karl Robert Saaremäe) two from Latvia (Matīss Budovskis and Agris Krapivņickis.)
During the perfromance you could find out quite many answers to important questions. Like how to make something useful from old plastic bottles? How to quit smoking? Who thinks faster – Estonian or Latvian? How to win a woman’s heart if you have just a piece of paper?  What is the philosophy of empty toothpaste tube?

NB! Performance is in Estonian and in simple English or in English. It is suitable for non-Estonian speakers!


  • Director Elmārs Seņkovs (Latvia)
  • Set designer Illimar Vihmar
  • Lighting designer Emil Kallas
  • Composer Edgars Makens (Latvia

On stage :  Simeoni Sundja(EST), Karl Robert Saaremäe (EST), Matīss Budovskis (LV), Agris Krapivņickis (LV)


Director Elmars Senkovs says:

My father had a garage.

My father repaired washing machines.

My father fought with the racketeers.

My father drank.

My father sang loudly. When he was drinking. Sometimes even when he wasn’t drinking.

When I found a condom in my father’s pocket and asked what it was, he was silent for a long time and then said it was headache medicine.

My father taught me how to punch someone in the face when abused.

My father didn’t play with me when I wanted to, but he took me to the circus. He liked clowns. My father gave me money when I needed it. That is, if he had anything to give.

My father once travelled to Estonia and brought me a refrigerator magnet. I still have this magnet.

My father’s garage was full of plastic bottles, and I have no idea why he collected them.

My father used to tickle me. That’s how he expressed love. Then he stopped tickling, and began showing tricks with packs of cigarettes instead.

My father disappeared… and then came back when no one was no longer waiting for him.

My father broke up with my mother.

My father also collected beer cans… I don’t know why.

My father always smoked, even at home. The smell of cigarettes still reminds me of my childhood.

My father didn’t teach me to drive because he didn’t have a license. And maybe it was good thing, because he really drank a lot.

I don’t know what he thought about. I don’t know what he dreamed of.

I used to be ashamed of him. Now, I’m saying I no longer care, but I probably still do.

My father is not someone you would direct a play about.  He is not a hero, although he fought. With himself. With time. All the time.


I too, have a garage. It’s called the theatre.

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