In 1970, long-haired, with backpack and guitar, I was hitch hiking through South Africa.
At one time I got stuck in a very conservative farming community where the occupants of the few cars that passed would show rude signs and hurl insults at me; ugly kids would pull faces and stick out their tongues from the rear windows.
I had been waiting for hours in the blazing sun when a farmer stopped and said I could ride on the back of his pickup truck. Relieved, I clambered aboard and after about half an hour he suddenly stopped and indicated that I should alight because he was turning off to his farm.
So there I was, in the middle of nowhere, flatness extending from horizon to horizon; no water or food, sun beating down relentlessly and not a shady tree in sight.
I decided that the only way to save myself was to start walking and after an hour or so, I came upon a corrugated iron shack. Feeling desperate, I approached the hovel and I could see that the occupants were living in abject poverty; they had nothing but the basics.
I greeted and asked them for some water. I was surprised when, after a few minutes, a ragged woman emerged from the shack and gave me not only a bottle of milk to drink, but also a bowl of maize porridge.
That was probably one of the most satisfying meals I've had in my life.
Before leaving, I offered them the few coins I had in my pocket but they refused to take them.
I will never forget this act of kindness from people who had virtually nothing, but who were so willing to share what little they had with a stranger.