Barbara.

I met Barbara one Saturday sunset at the most desirable place to be in Cape Town at this time of day in summer.

La Med was, and may more than likely still be, a great place to have a cold sundowner with a bit of kick, and a tasty seafood snack. You could depend on live music wafting to the airy tables outdoors, a spectacular view of the sun setting over the ocean, and a high probability of bumping into people you know, like and may even care about.

Barbara, a petite, blond, tanned, and blue-eyed German girl was a friendly cocktail waitress who brought our gin-and-tonics, and lingered to chat. When we revealed ourselves to be a bunch of bar and nightclub workers, she charged us only for the alcohol, not the soft drinks, and removed the cover charge from our bill.
Although new to the job, she had quickly learned we were all part of a unspoken club that granted each other favors and special privileges on the infrequent nights we were not working long, hard hours serving revelers to pay our bills.

We stayed until dark, and reluctantly left when the party was ratcheting up for the raucous evening groove. We had clothes to change, comfortable shoes to pull on and floats to count. I waved goodbye, and told her to come by my place of work after her shift for a drink - I would put her on my staff guest list, and the bouncer would wave her in and usher her to the depths of the VIP lounge, a privilege for which social wannabes vied.

She appeared at midnight, her boyfriend, Mike, accompanying her. He was also blond, blue-eyed, sunburned with a very wide smile, and a heavy German accent. They were charming. They were traveling the country together, and had decided to spend some extra time in Cape Town in the summer.

A few days later, she called me early in the morning and asked whether I wished to explore the city with her. It sounded like fun, and I arranged to pick her up in my battered light yellow VW Jetta, which made up in attitude for what it lacked in youth and vigor.

We drove up cobbled, forgotten back streets of Cape Town City, unfashionable and seemingly ordinary. We walked for miles. Up rickety staircases careening up impossibly steep hillsides, and into garishly painted tiny corner cafes which sold spicy, deep fried snacks I was sure were going to poison us.
We sat on an old church wall, and ate ice-cream while talking about unimportant things, and watching the passing lives scuttle by.

Barbara had an incredible eye for minute detail, pointing out quietly ornate architecture made mute in the noisy city. She noticed absurd behavior in people, parents blindfolded by rushing, children protesting the pace and more aware than their protectors. We pulled faces at toddlers, who returned them more ghoulishly with glee and enthusiasm. We bought dates in a paper bag and spat the stones out under a tree in the empty botanical rose garden. It buzzed with insects, and the heavy scent of a thousand roses in full bloom made talk unnecessary. We had a good day.

Barbara told me stories of her travels. She and Mike hailed from a small, conservative town in Germany. She had yearned for the hodge-podge of cultures, colors and tongues of Africa, and the two of them had packed their rucksacks, pooled their savings and landed up in South Africa. They also arrived armed with legitimate, big-rig eighteen wheeler truck driving licenses. They had transported paper plates and plastic cups from coast to coast, industrial printing paper and printing press ink from North to South. They drove the country's vast landscape in the slow trucker's lane, with the truckers' radio and each other for company. They took breaks at friendly truck stops, and bought snacks and supplies at approved rest areas on the company's expense account. On long trips, they curled up tightly for the night in the big-rig's little sleeping cab, their big truck dark and still under some trees in the pitch black of the empty, long highways far from town. She said she heard the soul of the earth in those nights. And the safe voice of a dispatcher was just one button-click away.

She and Mike remained in Cape Town for the summer, and when the weather cooled, they packed their rucksacks, kissed us all goodbye, and bought air tickets to Kenya with their trucking wages. A small German girl had changed my perception of Cape Town forever -- and of course, of truckers.