In Conversation with Marc Lottering
Marc Lottering is among South Africa’s most recognisable stand-up comedians.
He says his way of making people laugh isn’t about cracking jokes, but rather about observing what goes on around him and telling true stories in all their hilarious glory. His new show gathers some of his most loved characters in the places any well-travelled comedian spends a lot of time: airports and aeroplanes. Fasten your seatbelt as he talks about terrifying traffic, 8 am selfies with strangers, and how humour connects us to our culture.Where it All Started
I’m sometimes taken aback by how big a part of our culture humour is. When foreign comedians perform alongside us, their jaws drop at what we say. Our history has made us race-obsessed, so we talk about it a lot. There are very few South African comedians who don’t let race creep into their routines. When I first started performing, every sketch began with the words: "As someone from the Cape Flats..." That was funny for five years. But I’ve grown up, I’ve matured, and I’ve realised I don’t need to hold onto that label to make people laugh.
My late father was a pastor, and being in the church where there was always a congregation meant I felt comfortable going up to the front to sing. By the time I decided to do stand-up, I found it normal being in front of an audience, and enjoyed making people happy.
Growing up, stand-up comedy wasn’t exactly a career choice. Back then, South Africa’s established comedians commanded diva status. You had to be Soli Philander or Pieter-Dirk Uys. Many of them weren’t strictly comedians, but were also doing serious theatre, they were capable of occupying both worlds. I started at the Armchair Theatre in Observatory, more or less when stand-up was starting to take off. We were just guys interested in doing comedy, not trained actors.
As a novice comedian, my first trip abroad was to perform at Celebrate South Africa in the late-1990s at the Royal Festival Hall in London. It was alongside Hugh Masekela, Pieter-Dirk Uys, and Sibongile Khumalo, and I was this upstart comedian. I was too awestruck by the show to take in much about the city at all. Now I perform there so often, I know it like the back of my hand.
The SA Connection
South Africans have a way of connecting when they’re abroad. It’s the way they look into your eyes. You’re in Times Square, and a total stranger will lean forward and look at you in a special way. When South Africans hear my accent, they turn around and share a moment. There’s a sense of belonging together. And inevitably you take a few moments to catch up with strangers, because we’re from the same place.
I regularly perform overseas for expat South Africans. After the show, they often insist on speaking to me in Afrikaans, even if they don’t quite grasp Afrikaans. After the second glass of wine, they take particular delight in swearing in Afrikaans. They love doing that in front of their non-South African friends.
Many expats tell me that, ten minutes into my show, they’ve been close to tears. Because even after being away for 20 years, the humour takes them straight back to what it means to be a South African.
Fond Travel Memories
My parents believed Durban was Disneyland, so I have many fond memories of long childhood road trips. I looked forward to those holidays, because we would stay on the beachfront, and they’d take us to the beachfront funfair. We did that trip religiously. It was a drive – with warm Cream Soda and boiled eggs – that we looked forward to. Now I hate driving. I panic when I’m in Joburg because, like any decent Capetonian, I believe driving more than 20 minutes to get anywhere is insane. I’ve recently fallen in love with Paternoster. We went for two days and ended up staying four, it’s that pretty. The problem with quiet places is that while they’re fine for romantic getaways, they don’t allow me to write or create new work. I need the hustle and bustle of the city to be creative. I need to be where there’s a lot of traffic or a street fight or two. I feed off people for the stories I tell in my shows, and those stories only happen when there are people on the move. That’s why I love supermarkets; I can watch shoppers roaming the aisles for hours.
Nothing can prepare you for the craziness of India. It must be experienced to be believed. After a day, I realised if I was going to get in a car or onto the back of a motorbike, I had to close my eyes, otherwise I’d risk having three strokes and a heart attack before getting to the corner. Nobody gets hurt, everybody seems to know where they’re going and everybody’s going in every direction, dodging monkeys and cows and old ladies in saris at high speeds. It puts any James Bond chase scene to shame. Johannesburg isn’t far off. Climbing into a car there is the start of an extreme adventure for me.
Capetonians drive differently to Joburgers. In Cape Town when you’re changing lanes, you first look over your shoulder, lift your Ray-Bans, and mouth the words: "May I move over?" Then you indicate and pull into the gap. Afterwards you flash your hazards to say thank you, and by the end of it, you’re swapping phone numbers. Johannesburg drivers don’t understand that kind of foreplay. They drive like New York cab drivers. The thinking is: "There’s a gap, now take it, take it quickly and get to your meeting. I’m not here to be your friend."
In Joburg, travel instructions always begin with: "Get on the highway and drive for 35 minutes." No man! In Cape Town 12 minutes is already a journey. The Gautrain is my new best friend in Joburg. Even if I’m offered a chauffeur-driven lift, I turn it down and go on the train.
Just Plane Annoying
I have no sense of direction, so generally I’m much happier on a plane. My new show draws on the fact that I spend a lot of time in the departures hall and on aeroplanes. There’s always some kind of heightened situation or weird moment, like people who haven’t bothered to introduce themselves, but feel it’s fine to nod off on my shoulder.
People think that because you’re a comedian you’re up for a chat all the time. On planes, especially, I believe you shouldn’t speak unless spoken to. I even have to watch how I shuffle past people to get to my seat. If I make eye-contact, or appear too friendly, they think it means I want them to have my baby.
Inevitably, when I sit down, the woman next to me starts fiddling with her phone. I always know what’s coming next. Once the message sends, she’ll nudge me and, in a hushed giggle, say: "I just told my sister I’m sitting next to Marc Lottering!" I don’t have a comeback for that, so I just say: "Oh, I hope that made your sister happy."
But it doesn’t end there. She soon nudges me again and as I look up, she’ll have her cell phone held up in front of me. Then she’ll lean in and say: "Sorry, but I just know she’s not going to believe me." And – click – she’s included me in her selfie.
I think God sends these people into my life. Because God knows I only like flying in the morning, and I can’t fly with a hangover anymore because I can’t afford to look terrible in some stranger’s selfie. So now I drink less because I have to be ready for an impromptu selfie at eight in the morning whenever I’m flying.
**Following a run at London’s Soho Theatre, Marc’s new one-man show, “This is Your Captain Speaking”, opens at the Baxter Theatre in Cape Town on 2nd September. Tickets are available from www.computicket.com.**
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