It never fails that when the boys come over, they always wind up with a hose.

This time it just so happened that there was a bucket nearby that they filled with water,

carried down the hill

and then poured it into a hole, which became their stomping grounds.

They said that they were from the Mahafaly tribe of Madagascar. I don’t know how they remembered that word, but I looked it up. Mahafaly means ‘those who make taboos’. After about ten minutes, one of the natives tripped on a piece of flagstone. At first,

the extent of the damage was unclear.

Then we washed the mud off his feet and came inside. He was missing a little skin on his toe, but there was certainly nothing wrong with his mouth. He kept saying,

“I need to go to the doctor! I’m dying! I’m dying! When will I ever be able to walk on two feet again!

About thirty minutes later, the other native said, “Well, you must be feeling better, you’re not complaining”; a statement which I quickly came to realize was taboo…..because then…it began again. “Oh, it hurts so bad! Would you get me some plain milk? That always calms me down.”