The days that followed remain vivid in my mind. Each day, the Sinhalese translator–– who grew to be a close friend––and I would walk forty-five minutes alongside rivers and through marshes to arrive at Sumanapala’s remote, tucked away home. He would greet us at the edge of his house with a few of his handwritten books in one arm and his grandchild in the other. His wife and daughter would frequent the small plastic table set up on the side of their home, silently smiling and curious about their new guests. The medical dictionaries he had written were filled with detailed pictures and diagrams of local snakes, plants, and venomous snake bites.