Just as it was dark we went into the far end of one of the huts and found there a collection of Eurasians – or Indische Jongens, as they call themselves – who invited us to sit up on the bamboo slats. Noel, I noticed, was completely at home and Metz was again there to help me. It was not a good kronchong evening because they had few and poor instruments, but still it was attractive and, to me, quite new; it also served as an introduction to what kronchongs were. The kronchong is one of the true musics of Malays and Javanese and it is quite simple for a European to follow the melody, which is generally straightforward, melancholy and probably often with Portuguese influence behind it. The words are always in Malay, generally in the two rhyming couplets, or pantuns, beloved of all Malaysian peoples and, though generally concerning the beauty either of nature or of women, they are always beautifully balanced in structure and packed with subtle and delicate innuendo. But what excited my curiosity was the untrackable rhythms, elusive and rippling, that ran below the voices. In the near dark I could see no one clearly except the leader of the party, a swarthy jowled gentleman who had the British name of Barclay, and who kept apologising for the poorness of the evening’s performance.

In the next two months, while Noel started to learn Javanese, and I worked away at my Malay, we made many friends and learnt a great deal about Javanese culture and tradition. Our early primitive kronchong party had extended to a regular weekly feature, well known to all the Indische Jongens, and as Stage Manager I was able to get hold of instruments for them. And every evening in one bamboo rehearsal place or another we were watching Tari prepare a big Javanese dance with nearly twenty keen pupils. We were completely absorbed in these interests, and had a great deal of work to do, and were thoroughly enjoying ourselves.

One evening, Tari had a birthday and so of course we had to have a special party to celebrate it. Come along with us and see how things had developed.

About 8.30 Noel and I go down to the Dutch hut where Tari lives and find Metz waiting for us by the door. He tells us that everyone is ready – you can hear them tuning up. ‘Has the coffee arrived?’ we ask. ‘Yes,’ says Metz, ‘they’ve just boiled it up.’ ‘Good then, because we’ve got a bottle of lao to put in it tonight.’ We enter the hut.