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I can't tell what's louder - the pounding of my boots on the paved road leading to the Table Mountain trailhead or the pounding of my heart as I eye the gaggle of teenagers coming my way. It's day two of my planned semester abroad in South Africa, and my psyche is still rubbed raw and tense from day one. The activities of day one included getting robbed at knifepoint by a dynamic teen duo in broad daylight, so please forgive my suspicious demeanor. I eye down the teens as I get closer, thankful that I've hidden the bulk of my cash in my shoe and resigning myself to having my camera stolen. But, as no man's land closes, we exchange a curt nod and the group parts like the Red Sea. I pass with relief. As I reach the trailhead, I spot another potential human hazard clothed in a fluorescent neon yellow vest. It is one of South Africa's ubiquitous "car guards," who fall on a spectrum between entrepreneurial citizens filling a needed public service and small-time extortion artists. "Hey, bru! Howzit?" he greets me in a thick Afrikaans accent as he saunters over with a grin. The man's skin is leathery reddish-brown, and he sports a thick mane of bleached blonde dreadlocks to match a set of metallic chompers intermixed with teeth. "I'm good, thanks," I say as I keep walking. "Oi, American? Welcome to South Africa! They call me Yellowjacket" he sticks out a hand which I curse myself for shaking as I'm pulled into a conversation and given advice on the quickest trail to take up the mountain and what I should do with the rest of my time in Cape Town. I bid him thanks and farewell and have to admit that he seems like a pretty nice guy. Then he hits me with it, "Hey Bru, could I ask a favor before you leave?" "I'm just a student I don't really have any money," I say instinctively after an awkward pause. "No, no, not that," he laughs and continues hesitantly. "It's pretty hot out here today, and I've run out of water. I was wondering if I could have a sip or two?" I look sheepishly at the half-empty water bottle I've been holding in my hand. "Oh. Yeah, man, I've got plenty. You can have the rest." With that, we part ways. Yellowjacket guzzles down the water with his thanks, and I head up the mountain with my faith in humanity, mostly restored and resolving not to be such a judgemental bastard next time. Flash forward three months. I return to Capetown with three friends I've made from my study abroad program (including a girl from Nepal who I have a rather large crush on), and we set out to climb Table Mountain. I, of course, am relishing in the opportunity to show my travel companions that it's my second time to scale the mountain and kind of know what's what. This time, I have the taxi driver drop us off directly at the trailhead, so we don't have to worry about being waylaid by any groups of bored sixteen-year-olds. We get out, and I see an unforgettable head of hair. It's been three months, and I'm wearing a hat this time, I highly doubt he'll recognize or remember me, but he does. "Oi! Welcome back, my friend!" Yellowjacket embraces me in a high five, which folds into a hug. My friends are giving me the "you know this guy?" look and seem to be either impressed that I've befriended such an interesting individual or are strongly reconsidering following me as a guide. "Your friend, here's a good guy! He saved my life the last time he came through!" I try to be modest as I refuse his high praise, but I'm 21, somewhat vain, and loving it. I then introduce my friends to Yellowjacket, who takes some pretty good pictures of us, which I still have to this day. As we head up the mountain, I turn around, and he gives me a big wink and thumbs up while the girls aren't looking. Yellowjacket, you're a legend. Thanks for the beautiful memory.