Webby wants to turn to back. His repaired bike tyre is leaking air again, and he says he doesn’t want another ordeal like the one we’ve just had.

I suspect, though, there is a little more to it than that. I mean, we’re out a long way from anything we know, and even with a grasp on the Indonesian language I still feel pretty alienated. I can only imagine how Webby is feeling. Probably like some kind of mute, double-headed Martian, capable of generating the odd laugh through some awkward charades.

Truth be told, I’m not too upset about his leaking tyre because it’s also a convenient excuse to get rid of him. I’ve discovered he’s not actually the documentary maker I thought he was… he’s actually spent the past 20 years doing shift work in a horse racing TV channel control room, beaming gambling addicts out their poison. 

Is he just a handbrake on this whole show? I wonder.

Or am I being entirely selfish and intolerant, totally single-minded and hard-headed in pursuing my own mission?

We ride 10 kilometres along the road searching for a tambal ban, or tyre patch place. They are everywhere in Indo; people set them up outside their houses using rudimentary tools – an air compressor and a homemade kerosene press – as a means to make a quick buck. 

Sure enough, within a few hundred metres we find one, but the mechanic is out drinking and celebrating at a traditional ceremony, his wife tells us. At the second and third ones, the power is out, they say. At the fourth, it’s too hot and the bloke just can’t be bothered. 

“Just keep going, up there, a little way,” he says, in that vague, mealy-mouthed Indonesian way.  It could mean anything from 100 metres ...