Then comes a comic song that Franz sings, but he’s been smoking so many cigarettes that his voice is hoarse and raucous. Its title is Lenggang, lenggang, kangkong! which really means: ‘Sway on, sway on, kangkong leaves’, and it is a song that purports to tell the qualities of the kangkong spinach that comes from all the different parts of Java; but in reality it deals, with hardly delicate innuendo, with the physical charm and bed-worthy attributes of the girls from all over that pleasant island. In Franz’s eyes is a thoroughly mischievous look, for he knows we can’t catch all the words and he becomes more and more daring to the applause of the audience.

They then become more serious again, and a modern kronchong, The Bengawan Solo, the ‘Holy River of mid-Java’, is solemnly played and sung through. The Dutch Government had thought it necessary to control the singing of this song, but until the words were carefully explained it was difficult to see anything objectionable in them. But once one was told that it was a nationalistic song, it was easier to get the idea of the hidden references. For instance, the sacred Solo River represented the stream of Javanese culture and national pride that would swamp over and spread to all the corners of Indonesia – yes, that would make its thought and culture felt throughout the whole world! Yet the nationalist phrases were submerged in innocent and moving descriptions of the river, its source in the Thousand Mountains, its yearly floods and its importance to Java.

As is inevitable in every kronchong gathering, sooner or later we have Terang Bulan, ‘Moonlight’ – and mixed in with further kronchongtunes are more of the Ambonese songs and several fast little Javanese ditties. There is also one amusing song in what they call ‘broken Dutch’, the title being Zarina een kind uit de desa (Zarina a child of the village), which tells the sad story of a pretty young Javanese girl who is adored by Kramo, her lover, but is carried away by a proud, fat, moustachetwirling Belanda, or full Dutchman.

The evening ends with a Selamat Malam (Peace on your Night), to which one of the singers improvises the words of new verses as he plays. When it is all over, the atmosphere inside the hut is thick with smoke, baking hot, and the musicians have now no more time than to snatch a hasty cigarette and pack up their instruments before Lights Out. ‘Thank you very much everybody, thank you. We’ll have another next Monday. Goodnight, goodnight – selamat malam!’