Broken rubs suck. I got rammed by a bratty heifer with horns in Honduras while I was there. I was in agony. The family I was staying with offered to take me to the hospital. Option 1) a ride down the mountain on a dirt bike, on a narrow dirt track, at dusk, and then on unbelievably dangerous road, 4 hours to the big city to be poked and prodded by a doctor who almost certainly wouldn't speak English. Option 2) walk down the mountain, at dusk, (about 2 miles), catch public bus (literally a jam-packed old school bus, complete with Texas plates) to the nearest city, which by bus, would take at least six hours. I took tylenol and waited it out. Early this year I had to get chest x-rays for breathing trouble, and the radiologist person goes "Huh. Do you know you have a badly broken rib? It lookes like it healed crooked, or maybe not all all. . . " " Oh, yeah, that. It still hurts if I poke it." "When did you break it?" ". . . Ten years ago. . .?"