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As we turn the bend, my hug tightens around his body. It is not that I am scared on motorbikes. I just want to show him that I care even if I cannot do anything. - You OK miss? - I am fine. But Arif, I told you to call me Judit. We speed past lush rice terraces with naked children splashing in steaming hot pools on our way down the mountain. I try to take inspiration from the fine Indonesian scenery to relax, but as soon as I close my eyes, the picture of the half-built school fills the screen. I feel nauseous. - Do you think we could have a tiny break? We take a last selfie at the side of the road and I promise to send him the picture even if I know he does not have a computer. I ask him to use the library in town, but I know he hates the walk there. It reminds him of the village children’s arduous climb to get to school. It reminds him of the day his dreams collapsed. I am reluctant to get back on the bike. A quick rest tonight and countless boat and bus rides back to Jogja. Then a flight to Europe. Travelling life. I feel unprepared and helpless. - Miss, you look too worried. Why white people worry so much? Arif always happy. Come! I respond with a vague smile as he points at the back seat. He stands in front of me tall and erect. I imagine him standing in front of the class he never had. - Arif, do you ever think of going back to university? - Too much thinking no good. White people think they can control life. Arif just trusts God to help him. I cannot help remember that in Islam, guests are called God’s friends and the feeble reality of being a traveller returns to haunt me. I wonder if Arif minds that I do not match the image of the potent white people he knows from TV. I wonder if I mind. With every curve, my restlessness grows. I want to reach ahead and put my foot on the break to keep time still for a while. As if to obey, the motorbike comes to a halt, pushing me against Arif’s torso. He feels tense for the first time. - Miss, the engine! In the next village, my friend… my friend can fix Arif’s motorbike… you have money to pay? I suddenly realise that he spent his last rupees on the IndoMie dinner last night. I assure him that it is no problem to pay. I take out my skinny wallet and pray they won’t overcharge me for my ticket the next day. To thank me, Arif entertains me with stories while we wait. The last one is of him pushing his motorbike up the same road after being forced to leave university when his father died. No money for fuel, he giggles. His jovial face shows no sign of bitterness. I do not laugh at the jokes. Arif remarks that my hosts live close to the dormitory he used to stay at. I do not know the family who invited me for the night. The friends of some people I met in Bajawa. Some high-ranking academics, they said. I feel guilty that all I can offer is another hug before I ring the bell. I desperately search for some words of wisdom as a goodbye, but Arif’s name is uttered by somebody else first. The woman at the door yells in excitement and soon, we are all inside sipping teh manis. They are too busy to explain but I make out the words guru, universitas and memfinansir and I think I understand. Life did not need to be controlled. That night, I am not the star of my welcome dinner. I do not mind. I know that although we arrived together, Arif travelled the bumpier road to get here. The welcome does not feel appropriate anyhow. As the warm food fills my body, a familiar thrill embraces my mind: finally, I am ready to turn the next bend without holding on.