One of my goals in coming to Colombia was to do standup comedy. I figured I had already conquered the American scene and felt I should challenge myself before my Netflix special.
Hearing that I was a comedian, someone in the hostel recommended El Chorro. A public square where clowns perform. Also, for the record, everyone I have told that I am a comedian has been unsurprised. Which could mean I monologue a lot or am very funny.
I had seen the performance the day before. It was way bigger than I expected. Maybe 150 people packed into a tiny amphitheater. I saw it on Friday and decided I would perform on Saturday. So I went about preparing my material. In Spanish.
Two brave men volunteer to accompany me to my performance. Brian (no relation), a giant ginger Australian, and Dan, a bearded Englishman from somewhere in England.
“You seem like you’re funny enough to do well,” Dan says as we walk to the plaza.
“At least in English,” Brian adds, voicing my own doubts about my ability to perform in Spanish.
We turn the corner, and there it is. A man speaking into a microphone, a crowd listening, occasionally laughing. The ultimate rush. My favorite activity in the world. The thing that my Grandma suggested maybe I don’t do with my life.
“Why don’t you be a teacher?” She asked. “You’re good with kids. And also, well. Comedians don’t exactly have the best lives. Do they?”
She’s not wrong.
Although when I told my students I was leaving, they fake cried. And then one kid started real crying, and they all stopped and were like, are you okay? Cause we were pretending. Like it’s sad, but not that sad.
I walk around to the side of the show, where I see a man that looks vaguely funny.
“Are you a comedian,” I ask.
“Yes?” He says.
“You think that I could do a few minutes?”
“Um, well, yeah. I guess, come back in like an hour?”
With time to kill Dan, Brian and I walk down a narrow cobblestone alleyway.
“Coca?” A man asks.
“Marijuana, roca(crack?)?” Another asks.
Based on that, you know it’s a pretty hip place. On the other side is another plaza with another performance. A man struts from one side to the other wearing thigh-high, high-heeled boots, booty shorts with tears in all the right places, and a checkered top that left little to the imagination.
“Necesito tres chicos y tres chicas,” the man says. Meaning I need three girls and three guys.
One guy volunteers, and then the man in the checkered shirt sees us. Three tall gringos. Ripe for entertainment.
“You guys!” he says in English. “Where you from?”
“Australia,” Brian says.
“England,” Dan yells back
“United States,” I say.
“Get up here,” he orders.
Brian is the first to go, handing me his water bottle, which is fairly bold since he speaks no Spanish. He was on his way the next day to Medellin to take classes in Spanish. If only he had learned before he got here.
Dan goes next, handing me his sweater.
The crowd cheers. Why didn’t I go up? Aren’t I supposed to be a performer? I didn’t feel like one.
Although, if I was more charitable, I might mention the fact I was going to get on a stage that absolutely no one had asked me to be on.
“Ahora, bailas con Maria,” the man says into the microphone, pointing at a 20-something Colombian girl.
She walks out to a guy strutting towards her. He grabs her, pulling her in and grinding on her to raucous applause from the crowd.
The last woman is probably in her forties or fifties and she walks timidly towards “Maria.” This is going to be awkward, I think. And it was, until the last step, where she leapt forward, wrapping her legs around him and waving her arms like she was riding a bull. The crowd’s approval was deafening, almost to the point where I expected a Roman emperor to come out with his fist wavering between up and down before sticking it out into a thumbs-up.
All while this is happening, Dan, Brian, and the Colombia guy just stand there watching, perhaps wondering if they too, will be expected to wrap their legs around this guy.
The queen at the center has the crowd voting for which girl did the best. Of course, the oldest lady won. And she deserved to win. She gave it everything she had.
The ladies are dismissed from the stage.
“Baile como yo,” the host starts to dance wildly around the plaza, twerking his way around, landing his butt right in the face of an incredibly embarrassed Colombian man.
“Baile como marica,” the host says to Brian. Brian looks blankly back and then turns to look at me.
The host turns to me. “Hablas español?” He asks.
I shake my head, perhaps too quickly for the idea that I don’t speak to be fully believable.
“Show gay,” the host says to Brian.
Brian proceeds to dance around the square like an idiot. The crowd loses it as Brian shakes his money maker.
Dan goes next, shaking his own moneymaker with wild abandon, backing up into the face of the very same uncomfortable Colombian man. The crowd roars. Dan strutting back to the center, pauses, turns to the man, looks him up and down, blows him a kiss, then turns back and resumes his strut as the crowd hollers around him.
It was so much better than anything I could do as a comedian. How can I reach this fever pitch of laughter and shock? Do I even want to? Is it different than what I do? Should I incorporate twerking into my act?
“Did you have any idea what was going on?” I ask Brian.
“Not a clue,” he says. “Were they being mean to me?”
“Nothing that wasn’t warranted,” I say.
When we finally make it back to standup comedy, it feels emptier than before. I find that I’m not even that sad that the show is behind and I don’t get to perform.
It would have been interesting to do comedy in another language. You have time. 😆