English standup - in South America?

We didn’t go to Colombia with the express intent of doing standup - it just happened. The seed for the trip was actually planted two years earlier, back when I hadn't even stepped on stage. I was working in clinical research and one of the international offices was in Medellin. Staff from the Colombian team routinely visited the U.S. for meetings and we built a good rapport.

The idea for this trip was hatched when one of the guys from the Medellin office was visiting the states. His name was -- you’ll never guess -- Dan. We’re all Dan’s here. Even you can be a Dan if you try hard enough.

We were at Dave and Busters for team building when Dan (Danny from here on out to avoid confusion) and I decided to grab some drinks. It was a chill Saturday and we were off the clock. We bought a huge beer tower thinking everyone would want some, but we thought wrong. Everyone was being fucking boring, so Danny and I were stuck with a huge vat of beer to ourselves.

There was a moment of “Maybe we shouldn’t drink all of this. We’re outside of work but we should probably maintain a modicum of professional behavior”, but as soon as Danny and I locked eyes, that thought was replaced by “Fuck these pussies. If they don’t want to drink, good. More for us. Buncha goddamn Sober Sallies”. With a clink of glasses our friendship was born.

Origins

Sometimes the best friendships are born of conspiratorial or mischievous beginnings. This instance with Danny was one in a line of similar friendships for me. The first happened in late 2012. I had just finished college and moved to China for work. My new coworkers came from all over the globe and had the varied personalities and accents to prove it.

One day early on, I entered the staff lounge to find a large contingent of the new group embroiled in a debate about cultural appropriation. Who better to weigh in on such an issue than me?

What do you think?

I missed 95% of the discussion but found out a sorority in the U.S. was in hot water over a Mexican-themed party where people wore ponchos, sombreros, and fake moustaches. A former sorority girl from Texas, and thus closer to the whole debacle, asked me to weigh in.

I could have (should have) politely remarked something equivocal like “If something could potentially offend someone, it’s best to err on the side of caution and not do it”. But I had a whole year with these people ahead of me. We still were all getting to know one another, and I didn’t want people to like me under the false pretense of being nice.

I wanted to find out who did and didn’t have a sense of humor. When I was hit with “What do you think?” I replied “That sounds like Juan hell of a party” and instantly divided the room -- hard. Most sat goggle-eyed in stunned silence, appalled that I could be such a cretin. But a small group laughed out loud and I knew I just made some tight friends.

Dividing the room

A similar watershed moment happened again two years later in Tokyo, Japan. It was day one of a two-week training program for my new job. I was teaching English to business professionals and the company had a reputation as an industry leader for their use of technology and sophisticated instructional aids. Classes cost a small fortune and students expected the best.

One of the main instructional aids at our disposal was an illustration book that provided drawings of everyday situations. The illustrations were meant to help students use target language from the lesson. For example, if the lesson was about giving directions, the illustration book had a corresponding street map drawing so the student could ask where things were. Sounds great - only the illustrations were fucking horrific. They looked like the scribblings of a lobotomized four year old with parkinson's. Every illustration looked like photocopy of a polaroid of hieroglyph.

At the end our first day of training, everyone was in the elevator talking about how impressed they were with the training and the company in general. They were still in that artificial “I’m a go-getter, a real company man!” mindset that comes with being new at a job and fizzles out after a week. Listening to all this shit, I couldn’t help but roll my eyes internally (probably externally, too).

When the nauseating wave of positivity found my corner of the elevator, someone said “this company is great, don’t you think?” and I said “Yeah, you can clearly tell they’re committed to excellence. I mean just look at that illustration book -- clearly they spared no expense commissioning the very best artists”.

Most clammed up immediately, shocked that I had the gall to talk shit on day one. Others appeared to be stifling laughter -- as if someone would tell on them for laughing and they’d lose their job. Three people laughed out loud and we’re still good friends to this day.

Back to the beginning

When the group at Dave and Busters split and it was just Danny and I, it was a familiar feeling. After taking down the beer tower, I knew he was cool. After taking down a second tower, we were already planning a trip to Colombia. It took two years for everything to line up and actually go, but we were going, goddammit.

Strangers in a strange land

This was Dan C’s first time leaving the country and he was especially excited to be an exotic bird in a faraway land. He imagined being an American force of nature; a sexual magnet that women couldn’t keep their hands off of.

It didn't shake out that way. When we stepped out of the taxi and onto the crowded street, I lost him immediately. I’ve never seen anyone blend into a crowd that quickly. He was like a hairy chameleon. When we walked into shops, staff addressed him in Spanish.

Not only did Dan look the same as every other dude, he bore striking resemblance to figures that provoked negative feelings in the general populace. The first unfortunate resemblance was to a famous mathematician named Baldor. Apparently this dude wrote the standard algebra textbook used by everyone in South America - which meant whenever ANY women looked at Dan, they had immediate, instinctive dislike. There’s no quicker method of unsexification than looking at someone and immediately recalling your dry, wrinkly old math teacher in the sack.

We figured a worse lookalike couldn’t exist, and we were wrong. Danny informed us that having a big beard in Colombia is associated with left-wing extremism. As soon as Danny said this, his friend who barely spoke English and had been quiet all day shouted “Ohhh ja, he look like Hipster Fidel Castro!” Danny’s girlfriend laughed so hard I worried we might have to call for an ambulance.

I, on the other hand, drew every eyeball everywhere we went. I was an utter spectacle to behold. I was easily the palest person in the country and no one had ever seen such a fiery red beard. People walking and talking with their friends literally stopped dead in their tracks and stared when I walked by. At one point we passed a street food vendor making pancakes and when his eyes fell upon me, he froze like a statue and I swear to God even the pancake stopped flipping and hung mid-air.

¿How did you find it?

We searched Google and Facebook for shows but weren’t having any luck -- English comedy nights were few and far between. We either found shows that had happened long ago or were scheduled well after our departure. We were about to give up when suddenly an event popped up like a lightning strike. It was held once every six months and happened to coincide with our visit.

Danny, being a native Spanish speaker, called the venue to ask about the show and confirm the details. Although Dan and I studied spanish for six weeks prior to the trip, we hadn’t quite mastered the language.

Luckily the owner of the bar was from England, so communication was really easy.

We were put in contact with the host - a Venezuelan comedian that was surprised and excited that we found the show. He joked that we must be CIA -- how else would two random Americans find him and request to be on the show. It was a funny joke, but it couldn't be further from the truth.

The host said he could definitely put us on the show but he couldn’t pay us. He was super apologetic, explaining that the other performers on the show had been booked in advance and thus the budget was already spent. We really didn't care - a lot of shows we do are unpaid. We're just grateful for stage time.

Having said that, a part of us wanted to fuck with the guy a li’l bit and say something like “We are famous American comedians! We don’t get out of bed for anything less than ten grand!” but of course we didn’t. As anonymous mic'ers, we're happy to just get on shows and meet other comedians.

Showtime

All acts were performed exclusively in English and the bill was diverse. There were two Venezuelans, two Colombians, one Nepalese woman, and one American in addition to Dan and I. We were worried about our jokes getting lost in translation, but the audience comprehended almost everything -- everything except what they should have understood.

All week long, Dan C had been introduced to Danny’s Colombian friends as Baldor, and it brought the house down every single time. It was an insta-laugh. Dan was sure that if nothing else, the Baldor joke would crush on stage. The whole week he looked forward to cashing that check at the show and when he finally did, it bounced. When he mentioned looking like Baldor, it got squat. Crickets. Everyone looked at him like “Ok … good one, I guess. Who the hell is that?”.

Inexplicably, the crowd represented the 0.00000001% of the population that didn’t know who Baldor was but aside from that, Dan did great and the material translated seamlessly.

Adios

We got one final nights ‘rest’ at our hostel before flying home. Rest is a relative term. Our hostel was under construction, so basically it was perfect if you hate sleeping. Beginning at 7 a.m. every day - even on Saturday - a symphony of belt sanders, table saws, and bench grinders roared to life - ensuring we didn’t waste ANY time in bed.

Heavy bamboo stalks were dropped at random each morning, sending thunderous reverberations throughout the entire hostel. Nail guns filled brief interludes with a staccato “pop!-pop!-pop!” and screaming workers rounded out the chorus. Right when we thought it possible to steal a single wink, the cement-footed foreman clomped around on the tin roof dropping paint cans and bocce balls.

We flew home bleary eyed and delirious but once we saw the van, a sense of calm washed over us. With the van parked in a secluded long-term lot at the Miami Marriott, we knew that rest and refuge awaited us.

Something's not right ...

When we got to the van, those good feelings were dashed immediately. The moment the door slid open just a crack, our nostrils were assaulted by an atrocious stench. Words like ‘putrid’ and ‘vomit-inducing’ fail to convey just how foul this odor was. After ten sleepless nights in Colombia and a long day traveling back, the last thing we wanted to do was tear the van apart.

We tried to lie to ourselves like “I don’t smell anything weird. It’s probably coming from outside ... I think there’s a dumpster nearby”. We didn’t even acknowledge it. To acknowledge it would make it real. We tossed our bags in the back of the van and decided to drive somewhere for food. We drove with the windows down to get some fresh air but the odor was like fire; oxygen made it stronger.

After driving around for 30 minutes it was clear not only did the smell exist, but it was here to stay. Both of us were still unwilling to bring it up - it was like playing a game of chicken. Neither wanted to be the one to make it real.

Breaking point

I could take no more. I finally broke, but did so in a way where I could worm my way out of identifying it. “Do you smell something?” I asked. “Yeah, it’s fucking awful” Dan answered.

We pulled into a Walmart to finally identify what we were up against. We slid the side door open and as soon as we hopped in, a sickening squish sounded beneath our feet. The rug was fucking soaked. Every step unleashed a toxic cloud of rancid meat essence.

We don’t have a refrigerator in the van -- we use(d) a cooler and ice to keep food cold. We forgot to empty it before our trip - leaving lunchmeat and milk to rot away. During our absence, every bit of ice melted and blew the lid off. The noxious fluid soaked into the rug, and the powerful Miami sun baked it in good and deep.

Drying the rug was out of the question. Even we got it bone-dry, the odor was too deeply ingrained in the carpet fibers to ever come out. Our only course of action was to treat it like cancer and cut out the malignance.

A rare honor

Walmart is known for having crazy clientele. People screaming, fighting, and walking around half naked are daily occurrences. To win the Craziest Customer Contest is no easy feat but on that night, we took it home.

We looked insane. Here were two sleep deprived guys with feral hair, bloodshot eyes, and exacto blades violently cutting strips of rug out of a van. It didn't help that from within the van wafted the odor of a decomposing walrus carcass. People probably thought were cutting out a carpet coffin to dispose of a corpse we just Eiffel Towered.

Our next stop was New Orleans.