15 YEARS AGO THIS MONTH

Published by Rick on Tagged Uncategorized

In what may have been my last venture into a truly foreign culture, I was booked for two weeks in January 2009, in Johannesburg, South Africa. This was an education for me since what had gone down there in the 70s wasn’t covered much by American news. This trip would turn out to be more eye-opening than any road trip I had ever taken before or since. It was a combination of relief that I never had to face what went on in this country coupled with my sorrow learning about what the people endured.

I was there to do comedy, so let’s talk about that first. I had shows on Wednesday through Sunday for two weeks, with shows in two different venues on Friday and Saturday. The club was in the Eastern part of the city, and there were local acts that went on, different ones each night, though the same emcee every night, who I got along really well with. One of the locals who performed went by a single (very African) name, and in his performance, he had a similar pop in his pronunciation of certain consonants that I remembered from the 1980 film “The Gods Must Be Crazy,” which centered around the African Bushmen. Most of the other acts went for pretty generic topics, and for me, the audiences were familiar with the all the acts I parodied.

On Fridays and Saturdays, I had an early gig in the Western part of Jo’burg, at a club where the act I had to follow was a revue with topless women on stage dancing behind a very gay crooner. The comedy show went on only a few minutes after the revue was done. It meant me standing waiting in the wings to go on (I was the only comedy act on the bill) while the dancers were changing only a few feet away. On one night I was admonished by one of their managers for being too close to the girls and I should move away. I thought this absurd, as they had just shown their boobies to a roomful of strangers, then in the presence of a single man with a guitar, they become shy (For obvious reasons, I’m reminded of Trump bragging about a teen beauty pageant that, because he owned the pageant, he felt he could walk into the girls’ dressing room whenever he felt like it, and regardless of what state of undress the girls were in). One night I needed to use the loo, and the only one close by was the one in the girls’ section. I had to do a long soliloquy as to how urgent this was, and that I didn’t want to piss myself on stage,  The crooner came in handy as he escorted me through the group of suddenly modest young ladies.

On those double nights, I had two guys driving me from one venue to the other, about 30 minutes each way. I was having a decent conversation with them, then one of them got a call on his mobile. When he spoke with the caller, he spoke in Afrikaans. It was only a few days earlier that I had a cultural day of finding out what really happened in the 1970’s, taking a tour of Soweto township. A lot of the troubles in the country came from the Apartheid government in 1974 declaring that Afrikaans, the language of White South Africa, would become the medium of instruction in black schools. The protests were intense, and students were shot and killed. My only recollection of any of that was seeing the one picture of a teenager cradling a younger teen who had just been shot. Somehow that was the only picture that went global. Seeing the picture in the full context made me cry. Hearing that guy in the car speaking in Afrikaans made me queasy to say the least. Especially since I had walked through the streets of Soweto and don’t think I’d ever seen poverty on such a grand scale.

As for comedy, the strip club crowd was very appreciative, probably about 200 people per show. What I found most interesting was at every show there were young aspiring comics who were there just to watch my act. Most of them were in their early 20’s, and overly impressed by me being American. Some of them had never met an American before. It floored me to look out on some nights and see them doubled over in laughter at almost everything I said or did. Also giving me support was a 74-year-old who emceed a couple nights and was born in England. I’m only 10 months shy of reaching that same age, but this guy looked like what I would have perceived as an old man. Certainly some look at me as elderly, as people often give up their seats on public transport for me and have for several years now.

The guy that emceed at the Eastern club respected me enough that he gave me a musical assignment of sorts. There was a newly elected president, Jacob Zuma, who would be taking office in May. He had some credentials that Trump would envy, e.g. father of at least 20 and married five times. While his politics were mostly to the left, he still was pushing for a song to become a national anthem whose title (I think it was “Chi Chi Ua) basically meant “load up your guns.” The emcee thought it would be funny if I wrote a parody of that song. I took it a different direction, interpreting the song as if it was done by Smokey Robinson, whose music and voice was probably the antithesis of anything even hinting at violence. It didn’t kill (wrong choice of words) but didn’t bomb either, considering it was something I knew little about.

This may be the first time I’ve told this story because as soon as I got back to England, my wife basically announced “Welcome home, I’ve met someone else, get out,” but I paraphrase. I couldn’t talk much about South Africa because all that was on my mind was my domestic troubles. 15 years have passed, we have become friends again, and I finally got the chance to talk about one of the most interesting and informative road adventures I’ve ever experienced.

January 22nd, 2024



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