The good-byes have begun, and I’ve found myself cycling all over our area the past two days trying to make sure I’ve visited my friends just one more time before I go. I’ve told myself this year that it won’t be difficult to leave, but then I arrive at people’s homes and the long faces appear, the special pre-departure treatment begins, and the lump in my throat returns.

I’ve never been good at good-byes. Just ask my parents what it was like leaving my cousin’s house every year when I was a child, driving away from the Colorado Rockies with a little girl in tears for no explainable reason except for having had to say good-bye to people she loves.

This morning Bapa came during breakfast and sat across from me with Manu, my constant friend, meal companion, bodyguard, and trusted translator. This photo shows how much they two enjoyed the daily conversation topic: "HOW TO GET SUZANNE MARRIED!", and whether or not I should bring my potential husband here to Juanga for the wedding, or to do it in America first. The favorite issue in this conversation, and the most redundant, is the dowry. Bapa loves talking about this, as he knows he’s guaranteed a belly laugh from my side of the table while he lists all the livestock he plans to give in order to get me a prime life partner. Initially there were simply cows involved, but now we’ve expanded to water buffalo and goats. Watch out, eHarmony.

After breakfast, Mili and her brother came to the hospital to invite me to their house for a special you’re-leaving-in-three-days event. When I arrived, I found their crazy, fun-loving neighbor, Laxmi, and their mother, Kamala, leaning over a hot fire cooking some pakari, (fried snacks similar to onion rings). I was led into the house and seated on the family bed. There Mili’s older sister, Dali, took to painting my toes and the edges of my feet with olata, a dark red liquid, something they do on special holidays and occasions. Soon Laxmi finished cooking and plopped on the bed next to me, grabbing my leg into her lap so one foot could dry while Dali worked on the other. I’d asked Mili’s brother to take some photos and he quickly captured the exact feeling of the moment – Laxmi on the verge of tears, me trying to keep things light (unsuccessfully), Dali diligently working on my feet.

Later my bike ride took me to Kapasi to see my musician friends there while delivering an invitation to my birthday party. I didn’t tell them in advance of the visit, and found Kalia, a remarkable drummer, in the back of his house working on his rice harvest. No visit, however brief, is complete without some sort of food offering, followed by a series of interactions where I try to avoid consuming said food and then absorb the ardent shouting of my hosts as they bark at me to EAT the food and, today, DRINK the giant glass of freshly garnered warm cow milk. Not even the curdly cream thick and inviting at the top, nor the three tiny ants surfing over the milky bubbles, could keep me from accepting this expression of affection and hospitality. Paul Farmer calls these offerings “the 5th food group,” and I’ve been here long enough to know just what I can stomach, literally. Today’s wasn’t so bad, though drinking warm whole milk in 100-degree heat and humidity isn’t what I’d call “refreshing.” The two photos show not only the milk consumption, but also the presence of a 2nd glass behind me (that I miraculously avoided drinking), and most importantly the group of men, Kalia the young one in the middle, who stood in front of me as I drank, shouting “DRINK IT! DRINK IT, SISTER!” over and over again if I dared to take a moment’s rest between gulps.

On the way back toward Juanga, I pedaled over a rocky road that kept me going slow enough to really take in my surroundings, rather than focus on the list of things I hope to accomplish before I leave. Soon the scene in this next photo appeared – three women walking away from me with giant bowls of cow manure hoisted on their heads, and two “sadhus,” the wandering spiritual men of India who rely on the kindness of strangers for their sustenance, walking toward me, their hair matted and dusty, their beards full, their loins girded with orange cloth, (of particular interest is the covering of the first sadhu’s privates). I was lucky to have my camera in hand and snap the photo. As any person would, I’ve grown accustomed to my surroundings here over time. But every once in a while a scene grabs me, reminding me of just how foreign a land this is, and how grateful I am to be experiencing it from this vantage point.