Dan Hirshon is a Brandeis Univeristy student studying abroad in South Africa. He recently jumped at the chance to go onstage in Cape Town, South Africa.

I used to think Maine was a foreign country. After my one and only trip from Boston to Portland, ME, I was sure I’d seen my last days of driving hours just to bomb at a five-minute open mike spot. Now, after an eighteen-hour flight across the world, I’m testing material on my first South African audience. I'm thinking I’ll do just about anything for stage time.

Boston is a supportive comedy community. They never miss a chance to provide constructive criticism. Before liftoff to the Cape Town I’m instructed, "apartheid jokes are hack" and "The HIV/AIDS bit probably won’t fly." Luckily, I’m not an insensitive racist, so only half of my set has to be cut.

I arrive. I call and book a spot at the club. I freak. What if they don’t understand the words that are coming out of my mouth? Have they heard of ecstasy? What about junior high school? And pubic hair? That’s the staple of my act. Is there a South African equivalent to this material? Will I have to find a substitute word to describe my curlicue hairdo? Two weeks pass and I’ve finally got a date for Cape Town’s Comedy Warehouse. Thank God. I’ve getting fed up with working inanimate bedroom crowds. My pillow and sheets are starting to know my act inside and out and I don’t think they were all that amused to begin with.

Outside my door, my housemates must think I’m the bastard child of Andy Kaufman and Virginia Wolff. Tuesday is Open Mike Night. My American housemates are here to support. The only fear that terrifies me more than a silent crowd is the distinct echo of my housemates’ forced laughter piercing an otherwise silent crowd. Well, it’s the thought that counts.

Joe Parker, the comedy club owner, is here tonight. Luckily our taxidriver is running according to African time, showing up 45 minutes late. I’m all about first impressions... and pathetic excuses. Stepping in, I see the Comedy Warehouse doesn’t just talk the talk. It’s the Kmart of humor, what I would’ve imagined Noah’s Ark to resemble, except there is no crazy 600 year-old geezer barking outside, pleading for two of every kind to come watch tonight’s comedy. I’m used to bars and speakeasy gigs, stages made of broken tables and crates, crowds varying in number from six to thirty, depending on how many drunks decide to engage in obnoxious conversation during my set. Running a long hall of stadium seating, the warehouse resembles blueprints for a Roman Basilica. I feel like I’ll be addressing Parliament or a church congregation. A rowdy and raucous horde of 250 surround and strangle the long stage like a python. Massive pillars slice through the center aisle, supporting the ceiling and successfully obstructing the views of the buzzed and baked upstairs, whose vision is probably already blurry. The culture and the language barrier won’t be the only new feature for tonight.

Apparently it’s Axess night. Axess appears to be some privileged society out of Durban that only the hippest youth can join if they pay for the Axess card. Music videos play on the theater-size movie screen on stage and a random motorcyclist stunt man to races up the entrance ramp and along the center aisle of the Warehouse. How am I gonna top MTV and Evil Knievel? Pacing through the bar, diving around trays, drinks, and irritated waitresses, I contemplate another bathroom visit, but soon find my trip postponed by the host’s welcoming introduction. "Your next comedian is all the way from the states, but don’t hold it against him. Give it up for DAN!!!" The audience laughs, and then holds it against me. There are two things South African comedy goers love to hate-- Australian athletes and the American government. If George W. played cricket in Sydney these guys would probably assassinate him.

There’s a good deal to hate America for, according to an audience member who later approached me. I’m sure he could have begun the history lesson earlier, but in 1975 or so, the U.S. abandoned South African troops in Angola. Then there was apartheid. America had put the most money, for the longest period of time, into South Africa, to ensure that the Communists didn’t take over. When the U.S. finally decided to pull their financing, apartheid crumbled and a lot of rich, white people quickly saw their country club lifestyles crumble. Most of these rich, white people often attend comedy shows. In addition, the impact of 9/11 didn’t hit Cape Town exactly the way it hit in the States. Some comics even tell me they wrote material about the plane crashes the night it happened. Eventually I’m graced with some of this material. Another comic, Riaad Moosa, joking about the situation in Afghanistan asks, "Why would they bomb a country that looked the same before the way as it did after the war." South Africans are even less enthusiastic about the situation in Iraq, and many posters can be found, supporting Saddam as less of a threat than George W.

My legs become cast iron, pounded into the stage. My uncomfortable laugh meets uncomfortable silence. Despite endless bedroom rehearsals and comedy workshops in the shower I have little to show for Cape Town material. How do you write jokes for a culture of English, Afrikaaners, Blacks, Indians, Coloreds, and closet bigots? Do they like each other or do they hate each other? What’s funny? What’s offensive? Why should I care? Does any of this really matter? About 145 of the 150 people in the audience are of the rich, white, upper class anyway. Hundreds of eyes float in the dark around me like those Loony Tunes cartoons where you can only see two black pupils sticking out through the dark. My cast iron legs melt to Jell-O. If only Bill Cosby were here to help.

I'm at a loss as to figure out another way to start my set and I'm culture shocked by the room. I throw out my big opening line. "Heyyy, everybody, check it out, I’m a stupid American." (For every line that sounds funny in my head, I can recall a disaster onstage. I prove, over and over again, the importance of trying bits out loud before performing them for grandstands filled with people.) Luckily my regular five minutes of rants about family and the fortunes of my gene pool are sufficiently funny to get some laughs. Settled in, I end on a decent note with a cheap joke that I’ve South Africanized. It’s amazing how a bit about "the name game" can get laughs just about anywhere in the world. I’m not sure about Antarctica though.

After a barrage of U.S. political and celebrity impersonations from the other comedians, I realize that I must have befuddled the audience being an American without a sluggish Texan accent or suave Hollywood persona. Flooded by CNN and overseas sitcoms, South Africans seem to be under the impression that everyone in the United States either spends his entire day in a coffee shop with five of his best friends or else bombs the adopted country of wealthy terrorists with too much facial hair.

As I slink offstage, Joe gives me key advice: "The jokes were okay, you seemed confident. Just try to localize the set more." My friends inundate me with slightly more comforting yet idiotic remarks soon after. "Wow, you were great. I thought you were the best comedian tonight. None of the other comedians were very funny." I especially like "Their jokes didn’t make any sense. They were stupid."

So it goes when half the punchlines are told in Afrikaans, a language derived from Dutch and other languages. During the reign of the National party and apartheid, Afrikaans prevailed over English among South Africans. Today, it’s not unusual to find Afrikaans sprinkled through the material of most comedians here. Even traces of tribal dialects like Xhosa sometimes pop and click up. While my friends waste hours studying foreign language, I’m learning how to say, "Your mother’s a pussy" in three different languages. Walking out the door, I secure two more gig dates, Friday and next Tuesday. Hopefully I’ll have my native tongue sorted out by then.

My mind wanders as I attempt to localize my set. Somehow I find time to enroll in classes at the University of Cape Town. Contrary to the beliefs of friends back home, none of my classes are taught by Bushmen, and spears are not provided in lieu of a meal plan. However, UCT is the king of kings for fitness and bodybuilding since the main campus is located on a mountain. "You know you’re taking a challenging course load when your daily hike to school is a thirty-minute climb up a place called "Devil’s Peak." So far so good. Now for some more material. "With the brutal summer heat of February, I sweat oceans while walking up the mountain." "Whales migrate to me. I have my own aquarium and seafood restaurant. I have wave pools and waves of girls... moving away from me." "I’m planning on selling my sweat to buy an escalator for the school." "The 300 stairs just aren’t doing it for me. It’s like stairway to heaven. By the time you reach the top, you’re dead. Even Rocky, champion of the world, couldn’t handle it. "Yo, Adrian, I know I’m training and all, but this is bullshit." "Driving isn’t much of an option on campus with the current parking situation. I had to park in Mozambique before walking to class."

Working through more material, I realize how much I miss public transportation. The Green Line on the Boston subway, known as the "T," offered immaculate train cars running every five minutes taking me anywhere for a buck. Inspiration for new material is everywhere. Cape Town’s equivalent to mass transportation is a road reckless minivan that’ll grab you on Main Road and spit you out whenever you’re re-tasting your breakfast. Overstuffed by about 30 people, the van feels more like a mosh pit than a taxi ride, and I’m fairly certain that none of the three Rand (40 cents) I toss the driver goes toward gear replacements or car washes. I miss the Boston nightlife as well. Not the $30 clubs and the $5 beers as much as the safety and security I felt walking around Boston at night. Here, several of my friends have been mugged just outside our house and others have been pick-pocketed, swindled and/or chased throughout town. With magnetic barbed wire fences and several gated doors around my place, I find myself carrying eighty or ninety keys just to reach my room in this high-security prison. Clinking and clanging around, like maracas in my pocket. And this is supposedly laid back compared to Johannesburg. "Crime just ain’t what it used to be. It’s not like taking candy from a baby since even the babies are ripping you off."

"The security is no help either. Decked out in gray khakis, carefully sewn sweaters, and highly polished shoes, these guys look more like catalog models than protection. The average guard seems to be five feet tall with a twenty-four-inch waist. I don’t know who’s idea it was to recruit at the circus, but I think the bearded lady would’ve been more effective than the midgets and munchkins."

"I’ve already gotten a taste of how these guys work. The other day four hoodlums threw me against the wall, demanding everything I owned. Suddenly security came to the rescue." "Freeze!" "Who the hell are you?" "I represent the lollipop guild, the lollipop guild, the lollipop guild."

So there’s the new routine: UCT, public transport, and security. Not a shabby set list. It’s Friday. Showtime.

Cokey Falkow rips into the cordless mike, introducing himself as the host for tonight. Actor, filmmaker, radio personality, surfer, and national headliner, Falkow is the Leonardo de Vinci of South African Comedy. His carefree surfer cut packs neatly beneath a baseball cap that he slaps sideways. With a twisted love for American pop, Falkow’s undone jean jacket exposes his T-shirt’s testimonial statement, "Avril Sucks." He later makes himself comfortable, removing the jacket and revealing that "Brittany Swallows." His tattooed forearms and long metal chain run from pockets to knees, parallel with his baggy jean pants that overflow across his skater shoes. Upon charging the platform, Falkow is morphed further into cartoon-hood. His spastic twitches juxtaposed with unusual voice effects pose the question of whether he suffers from schizophrenia, Tourette’s or both. His brain stretches like silly putty, pulling and placing puns in between every breach imaginable. Only occasionally, however, does Falkow seem to tell an actual joke. Sometimes the crowd is there. Sometimes the silent room reeks of brain-fart. Falkow doesn't falter in either case. Like many other South African comedians in the "alternative" scene, Falkow is concerned with edge and outlook, not easy laughter. While this doesn’t raise eyebrows in the U.S. or U.K., the alternative mentality is still new in South Africa, just like the fall of apartheid. The link between the two is more than coincidental.

Time for my set. I’m suddenly met by the heavy distortion of Blur’s "Song 2" exploding through the ceiling speakers in surround sound. They’ve given me my own theme music. I feel like a WWE wrestler, just a bit bigger. I start with my string of university mountain jokes, which break the ice nicely. Even audience members who haven’t taken classes at UCT have seen the mountain, and my helpless self becomes a good time had by all. The minibus bit falls flat and seeps through the floor. The security guard material chases it down like bad tequila, so I flip back to impersonating my family on a good day. Ah, old material is so comforting yet so unsatisfying. If only I could write five great new minutes a night. I’d become a South African legend within a month. I end with "name game" and thank the audience for being so wonderful tonight. A local comic, Paul "Snoddy" Snodgrass is waiting for me at the bar. "No one’s heard of Wizard of Oz here. The ‘lollipop guild’ gag was funny, but they don’t know what you’re talking about." "What about the minibus stuff?" "Hack. Overdone. They’ve probably just heard it before. Minibuses have awful drivers. They’re all over crowded, dirty and dangerous. Most guys here could probably come up with 20 minutes just off that." "So what else is hack?" "It’s different for you. You’re giving your perspective from the States. Of course its gonna be new for you. But if you do it for a couple years here you get all this material over and over, about car guards and stupid Australians, black guys steal and have no teeth. A lot of it’s just racist. Alternative comedy’s only been going for a couple years here, but already there’s South African hack topics." I need more explanations and I soon get them.

In the balcony office overlooking the Warehouse, I relive flashbacks and seek explanations. Dimly lit by desk lamps, it's like a police interrogation room-- some are in the light, some in the dark, and some amongst shadows. Falkow moves in and out of the shadows, waiting for the tomato sauce that he plans to send drown his fish and chips in. Snoddy and Al Prodgers, a headliner from Johannesburg, sit nearby. Falkow leans forward and the three comedians begin talking stage history. Alternative comedy for South Africa started in 1970’s England. England? South Africans didn’t watch standup in the States till later. English comedians were experimenting with observational and improvisational humor. And the ‘guy walks into a bar,’ gag comics weren’t getting the big gigs anymore. From there the memo for new comedy trickled down to Johannesburg and eventually to Cape Town. The end of apartheid and the elections in 1994 made it all possible. Prodgers says, "Before, you could get killed for saying the wrong thing, but now you can say what you want."

"Younger comics started leaving the mainstream-- the racist and sexist jokes-- jokes that got passed around for everyone to use. You got guys like John Vlismas, Sean Briggs, and Alyn Adams constantly writing new material, comic monologues, observational humor.

"John Vlismas was the reason I got into comedy," Snoddy tells me. "In 1998 a couple of us at Cape Town University got together and opened a venue in the basement of Barney’s." Soon after, things began rolling. The Cape Comedy Collective soon formed and in March 2001 Joe Parker opened the Comedy Warehouse.

"More new clubs were opening. The old guys were working with new. Sometimes it’d be like having Bob Hope and Bill Hicks doing the same room. It wasn’t always pretty. Five years ago an open miker was told to go out and learn as many jokes as they could. Now you got guys writing their own material and they do it so well you can’t steal it if you wanted to. Guys are either changing their material or moving to the background. But different audiences are bringing different responses. Sometimes I gotta do a gag about Australians or rip on the tourists to get the crowd on my side cause that’s what they’re still used to. Likewise, some black comics think that they have to characterize and play to their stereotypes to get the laughs. I’ve seen black comics do just as well, challenging those stereotypes. It can be like performing heart surgery with a chainsaw," says Prodgers. "We’re giving them a glimpse at something new."

Joe Parker has a different take on the situation. "People politicize comedy too much," he argues. "It’s not about making a moral stand. Audiences here aren’t biased toward traditional or alternative comedy. They just come here to laugh and that’s what I make them do."

Initiated into comedy in Port Elizabeth, 1971, Parker first played guitar parodies in the Navy, eventually hosting events and moving into standup. After over 30 years in comedy he draws from both the old and the new comedy and is still dealing with some of the changes in the scene. Once government censorship ended, the limitations of political correctness began. According to Parker’s website "ever-anal press critics may have difficulty" with his "cheeky defiance of all things politically correct." He explains, "White comics are typically expected to have a box, limiting what they can say. Anybody should be able to perform what they want. Hanging onto separate cultures is what keeps us divided, but when we joke, confront stereotypes, apartheid, we’re involving all races."

Changing the subject to my set, Joe sounds positive. "You got a lot of material that you could do anywhere you go," he tells me. "That’s what a lot of comics here are missing. Their stuff is very South African-oriented. If you watch guys at the Smirnoff Comedy Festival, they’re making it happen because they’re writing bits that can be pulled off anywhere. You know, everyone can laugh at your jokes about childhood cause you act dorky."

"Thank you," I think.

"Well that’s how you make yourself out to be."

"Thank you." Whatever I’ve got, I use it. I guess getting beat up from ages 8 to 16 was a godsend after all. I’m sure there could have been a better alternative, but God works in mysterious ways. Because of Him, I have material I can do not only in Cape Town, South Africa, but even as far away as Bangor, Maine.