Running barefoot through African bush is an awful idea, unless you have, like I did, 300 good reasons. Thorns, rocks and shells cut into my civilized butter feet.

Though Madagascar has no apex predators other than humans I expected to be eaten at any moment. Perhaps some giant fossas had survived human colonization and were now waiting in the bushes to take revenge on the hated two-legs. At night, wilderness gets to your heart.

No fossas showed.

In the distance, up a slope, a small yellow light flickered. Local herders or farmers, I hoped, not armed thugs or friends of 300Pounds. After a while I made out a hut with a fireplace. A man huddled there, lazily stoking the fire. No car. A good sign, I thought, thugs have cars.

"Manao! Help! Friend!" I tried French, English and Malagasy.

The man jumped away from the fire and into the dark. I raised my hands. It was still a long way to limp. Dogs bolted from the hut, barking furiously as I slowly moved on.

Smaller shadows and another adult rushed from the little hut. A family! I was so relieved.

Hesitantly the man came closer, shushed the dogs and stared me in the face.

"Vazaha!" he called back to his family.

The kids squeaked with excitement and wonder. The man looked around and then asked in French, "What are you doing here?"

"I am lost. I am thirsty."

"Come, come!" He was a Sakalava with a tall, slender, and narrow face.

I limped toward the fire. The kids hid behind their mother, peeking past her skirt.

When I stepped into the light the kids began to cry. They know Vazaha