Daniel Baylis of The Conversationalist is just your average dude who decided to go and wander around the world. In 2011, he’s visiting twelve countries, spending one titillating month at each of his chosen exotic destinations – doing a bit of volunteering, eating a ton of local cuisine and perhaps even becoming worldly-like. Please enjoy this varied week-in-the-life of Daniel as he settles into Cape Town, South Africa.
This post was originally published in 2011. It has since been updated for accuracy of links and content.
The Conversationalist Day One – Sunday
9 AM – I hear someone’s alarm righting. It’s some cheesy guitar riff. “Fuck dorm rooms,” I say in my foggy mind. Last night’s Argentinian Malbec is this morning’s headache. I pull the covers over my head.
11 AM – I’m up. I pack my backpack. After seven nights in this hostel, things are scattered and I’m wondering if I’ll end up leaving something behind. Meh. I shower. I eat the shitty hostel breakfast. I log on to my Facebook.
2 PM – Sitting in Plaza Dorrego Bar, I write a letter to my nephew. Outside, the street is bustling with people wandering through the San Telmo Antiques Fair. In the corner of the window, I can see one of Buenos Aires’ most famous tango couples, Pochi y Osvaldo, entertaining the culture-craving crowd. My café con leche is hot and bitter. The letter I write brings tears to my eyes. I’ve been on the road for four months now, and I’ve missed my nephew’s first steps.
6 PM – I transfer to the airport with a fellow named Jonathan who was staying at the same hostel as me. Turns out that he’s an Israeli who, after his military service, has just completed 7 months traveling. Jonathan tells me that he is sad to leave and happy to return home. I understand.
11:30 PM – Board my Malaysian Airline flight bound for Kula Lumpur, with a stop inCape Town. I will deplane there.
Day Two – Monday
10 AM (Cape Town time) – The breakfast cart begins to circulate. I sit up for six minutes to eat, and then reassume my stretched out position across the four center seats I have somehow managed to snag for myself. The gods of international travel have smiled upon me.
12 PM – The plane lands. I breeze through customs. Find the hostel shutter. Transfer. Sitting at a red light, I look over and see a man selling newspapers. The headline reads, “OSAMA IS DEAD!”
“Woah. Things have changed since I leftSouth America,” I jokingly say to myself. The significant news aids in the sensation that I am somewhere new, that the world might be different here. I arrive to the hostel. Check-in. Verify the world news. Check my email. Shower.
4 PM – I go for a stroll to acquaint myself with my new setting. A man namedKatanga approaches me. I’m leery at first, knowing my status as a traveler is quite obvious (and leaves me vulnerable to scams). He seems relatively nice, so I offer to buy him a coffee. It turns out thatKatanga is a refugee (of sorts) fromTanzania. He left his country because he didn’t want to join the army. We talk for an hour. Then I head back to the hostel.
8 PM – I order a veggie burger and a beer at the hostel café. It’s bland, but I haven’t had this type of “American” food in months, and on some level it’s satisfying. Then I crawl into my bunk to do some video editing. I tell myself it’s a bad idea to sleep. Within eight minutes, the bed and the beer have me defeated. I fall into a deep REM sleep.
Day Three – Tuesday
1:30 AM – Wide-awake. Spend two hours on the computer, writing, editing and emailing. I wonder if the clacking of my keyboard is annoying the others in my dorm. I continue as subtly as possible.
10 AM – A Newfoundlander in my room wakes me unintentionally, energetically explaining last night’s debauchery to an American friend. Maybe this is karma for my insomniatic computer usage during the night. I rise, and stumble into the hostel café and log onto the Internet. I learn that the Conservatives have won a majority in the Canadian Election. My gut churns a bit.
1 PM – I wander aroundCape Town, feeling a bit foggy from jetlag. I mail the letter to my nephew. I take some photos. The sun feels bright and unforgiving.
7 PM – Shit. Shower. Shave.
7:30 PM – I get some “Girl Talk” playing on my iPod and start walking towards a café that a friend had recommended. I subtly dance and sing along to the music. I am fun, I tell myself.
7:40 PM – Two men approach me. They grab my wrists and in low voices say, “Gimme your fuckin’ money.” I am being mugged. They steal my iPod and approximately 800 Rand (100 USD).
7:41 PM – A man comes out of his shop, tells me to go in, shut the gate and wait there. He takes after the thieves, but returns without luck. He introduces himself as Dawie, and proceeds to feed me dinner and wine in his shop “Seventies 80s.”
9:30 PM – Dawie and his friend Moses walk me home. For the past two hours they have told me stories ofSouth Africa. Despite having been mugged, I feel energized and grateful.
Day Four – Wednesday
10 AM – I awake and force myself out of bed. Jetlag is still punching me in the gonads. I order coffee and granola with yogurt at the hostel café, and read the Cape Times newspaper. I discover that the city has been named the #1 destination in the world by Trip Advisor readers.
1 PM – I wander down to the boutique to spend more time with Dawie and Moses. I inquire about possibly renting a room for the month, and assess their openness to me hanging around the shop to help out. Dawie seems excited about this.
6 PM – For dinner, I head to the restaurant where I wanted to go the previous evening – Café Manhattan – a friendly restaurant owned by Russell, a friend of a friend. I order a burger and iced tea. The burger arrives. It’s bigger than my face. I eat about half of it. I get the server to call me a taxi. I’m not taking any chances.
9 PM – Back at the hostel, I get on Skype and explain the ‘mugging’ situation to my family back in Canada. They are sympathetic, but agree that it makes a great story.
Day Five – Thursday
9 AM – I awake. I’m still tired. But the time changes and the jetlag are becoming less pronounced. It’s raining in Cape Town. I have my breakfast, and then curl up to read “Long Walk to Freedom.” Yes, I’m inSouth Africa and reading Nelson Mandela’s autobiography. It’s cliché and perfect all at once.
1 PM – I arrive at Seventies 80s to meet up with Dawie. He’s agreed to possibly sublet his apartment to me for the rest of the month. We catch the bus, and spend 30 minutes in transit. The apartment is fine, but seems further away from the action ofCape Town than I’d prefer. I question, “As a poor traveler, am I allowed to be picky?” I settle on “yes” as my response. I’ll stay shacked up at the hostel for the moment.
9 PM – At the hostel bar, over a glass of South African wine, I chew the fat with a couple fromIreland. They unpack the complexities of the Catholic/Protestant divide. I can’t say I arrive at a decent understanding, but I feel happy that I’m out in the world, having these conversations.
Day Six – Friday
9 AM – I’m up and breakfasted and ready to go. After a couple of emails and scheduling the day’s tweets, I head out to catch the über-dorky, red, double-decker tourist bus. I’m able to get on and off throughout the day, but I stay aboard and ride the whole loop to get a better understanding of the city. Driving past the Southwest beachside neighbourhoods ofCampsBay andClifton, it’s clear that, despite my preconceived western notions, not all the people ofAfrica are struggling financially. Everywhere I’ve traveled to this year, I’ve seen economic discrepancies.
1 PM – I return to Café Manhattan for lunch, and casually eat a smoked salmon salad while chilling out with Nelson Mandela. Russell suggests that I chat with the real estate/vacation rental folks across the street about housing options for the month. I inquire with limited hope, due to the petit-ness of my budget. She says she’ll make some calls and get back to me. I head back to the hostel.
6 PM – Seventies 80’s is hosting their weekly “Love and Jazz” party tonight, and I’ve agreed to bartend. So after a quick shower, I make my way down to the shop. Each time I visit Seventies 80s, I must walk past the place that I was mugged. I have a lingering feeling of hesitancy, but the desire to be engaged with the world is currently trumping any major fears. The music at the event is great. I leave feeling inspired.
Day Seven – Saturday
11 AM – Edit and upload video. Send emails. Write blog post for The Conversationalist. I feel terribly unexciting.
3 PM – I visit a different hostel to inquire about a weekly rate. If I’m going to stick around, I need somewhere affordable, with free WiFi. The folks at Zebra Crossing offer me a single room for the same price that I was paying for a dorm room at the previous hostel. And I get unlimited free WiFi. I confirm my reservation. I wish I wasn’t such a cyber-whore, but I am.
4 PM – In need of some personal hygiene products, I find a local health food store and scour the isles for something good. I purchase natural mint toothpaste and some organic tea tree oil body wash. This is the backpacker’s equivalent of renovating the bathroom. I’m looking forward to a shower.
5 PM – I walk downtown to Bob’s Bar to meet up with a local woman named Ruth. She’s a friend-of-a-friend back in Canada and is excited for me to watch the Cape Town Stormers rugby team play against a New Zealand club. I love Ruth’s welcoming energy. She facilitates introductions to each friend that enters the bar, “This is Daniel. He’s from Canada, and he got mugged on Tuesday night!” I recount the tale a few times, and discover that pity is a wonderful icebreaker. Three beers and a shot of sambuca later, the rugby match has ended and The Stormers have lost. I accept blame for this unfortunate defeat to my newCape Town friends. My head is woozy. I grab a taxi and head directly back to the hostel.
10 PM – After a sub-par chicken burner and stale fries from the hostel café, I crawl into my bunk and think about doing some work. Instead, my eyelids become impossibly heavy and I fall asleep, spooning with my laptop.
It has been a week of changing continents, getting mugged and making new friends. It’s a lot for a small-town boy like myself. But it’s no coincidence that I end the week clutching my laptop. I take comfort in my computer, and the social networks in which I access through it. It is a constant during this year of international wandering, ever-changing settings and unknown adventures.
I love how Daniel took such a positive outlook to being mugged in South Africa. Travel has many faces and experiences; and his enthusiasm in the aftermath illustrates how you to truly make the best of what you have, and it ultimately led to some great experiences. I had a similar experience in Cusco, Peru, when my purse was stolen.
Right now he’s working on a renovation project on an XIIIth century monastic farm in Ayvernon, France. You can share the quirky adventures of Daniel Baylis on his travel blog: The Conversationalist.
