"Hati, hati," I admonish, laughing.
He responds by gesturing wildly and yelling something that I think would loosely translate as, "What do you expect me to do, princess? Have you seen this road? Sorry it's not paved in gold for you, you uppity bule" and, when we stop and dismount, he stalks off angrily towards the house.
Within minutes of taking our seats inside the dark, musty, hut the whole village has gathered outside the house, taking turns poking their heads inside to gawk. Three girls sit on the dirt floor across the room from me whispering to each other and giggling, their wide brown eyes carefully analyzing my every move. Our guide's father, whose bright, laughing eyes and toothless grin contrast the hard life mapped out in the lines that crease his face, interviews me.
After I have answered the requisite questions about my religion and the whereabouts of my husband, I am largely ignored, a curiosity to watch while they drink their afternoon coffee and discuss the rice crops. My ojek driver pulls out his hand phone and puts it on speaker. We listen to an entire Best of Brian Adams album while we sip tea and coffee.
Outside, the men produce machetes, skillfully split the coconuts and carve spoons from the trimmed shells so we can scoop out the coconut meat. The coconuts are so heavy that, when mine is set on the coffee table, I have to use both my hands to lift it up. Adik can't lift hers even with both hands so glasses are produced and the milk is poured out for us.
My glass is still half full when the baby wakes up. He doesn't notice me at first and toddles happily back and forth between his grandparents on either side of the room. He points to the coconuts and says, "Enuk", clapping one hand excitedly as though trying to grab it. He sees the puppy outside and heads towards the door to chase it, but I am sitting by the door and when he finally notices me he stops so suddenly, he wobbles from the sudden inertia and falls to the floor. He stares for a moment, his eyes growing wide so I flash him a big grin and say a sing-song, "Hello," but before I get out the last syllable he screams and bursts into tears.
He will not be comforted. He shrieks and wails for the remainder of our visit. On the one hand I am grateful to him for drowning out the sound of Brian Adams singing "Please forgive me, I can't stop loving you," on the other hand I am more than a bit distressed to discover that the mere sight of me can make babies cry.
After about twenty minutes of this, our guide apologizes, "He's not used to bule skin," and suggests we leave.
I stand beside the motorbike, waiting for my driver to mount it but instead he says, "Kamu" and gestures, haughtily, that I should get on and I should drive.
"Me?" I laugh, "No, no you drive."
But he takes out his keys and thrusts them at me. He's still angry about my back seat driving. If I think I can do better I should prove it.
Still laughing I get on the back of the seat saying, "Fine, fine, I'll keep my mouth shut, just drive already."
Driving back on the highway, it occurs to me that tomorrow is New Year's Eve. I think about where I was this time last year, how impossible everything seemed then. I think about the year I've had, how the world opened up with opportunities and how many great adventures I've had, people I've met and the people I've helped and who have helped me, along the way. I think about the year to come, I start to make wishes, I start to make plans but I realize I have no idea where on this earth I will be this time next year, and I like it that way.
I tap my driver on the shoulder, lean in and ask him to drive faster. He's still sulking but he lets out the throttle and the scenery blurs to a blue and green smudge leaving only the open road ahead.
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