One of my fondest memories growing up was our annual holiday to my uncle’s game farm, right on the edge of the Kruger National Park. There was always something special about those trips—wildlife during the day and, in the evening, the whole family gathered around the campfire as the African sun dipped behind the horizon. It was during those evenings that I had my first real taste of what it meant to be an adult.
The ritual was simple but important. Every evening, as the fire crackled and the night air cooled, we’d all have a “sundowner.” For us kids, that meant a Fanta Grape—our version of a grown-up drink. But as I got older, the real rite of passage was being allowed to trade that sugary drink for something far more significant: a beer.
I was 13 when I had my first sip of beer. I can still remember it clearly. There was something about that moment—the crack of the can, the smell of the hops. I watched the adults carefully, mimicking their slow sips, and then I took my first taste. And, if I’m being honest, I didn’t enjoy it. But I was determined. So I forced myself to keep sipping, swirling it around in my mouth, hoping to get used to the bitterness that was so different from the sweet Fanta I was used to.
Back then, beer brands like Castle and Lion Lager were the norm in our household. Occasionally, someone would bring back an Amstel or even an Ohlsson’s Lager from their travels, but Castle and Lion were king. And yet, even though the taste didn’t grab me right away, I knew that this was a significant moment—my first real step into adulthood.
What made it even more special was the atmosphere. Sitting around the fire, beer in hand, listening to the grown-ups talk about life, politics, and, of course, beer. The stories were endless. I remember my uncles and their friends talking about trips to Germany, where every village seemed to have its own brew, each served in beautifully branded glasses. At the time, that seemed like such a foreign concept to me—different beers for different towns. Little did I know that one day, I’d be exploring those very towns and tasting those very beers myself.
Occasionally, friends or relatives would return from trips to Germany, telling us stories of the vast array of beers served in beautifully branded glasses served on matching coaster—each village with its own unique brew. It seemed so foreign, yet fascinating, to me.
That first beer may not have been the most enjoyable thing I’d ever tasted, but it planted a seed. It was less about the beer itself and more about the connection it represented. Being part of that moment, sharing a drink with the adults, was something that stayed with me. It was my introduction to beer—not just as a drink, but as a culture, a tradition, and something far bigger than I could have imagined at the time.
Looking back now, it’s funny how that one sip at 13 was the start of a journey I never expected. From that first hesitant taste around the campfire to a lifelong passion that led me into the beer industry, it all began with that one small step.