A sumptuous Oriental feast was in progress. Temple bells were ringing, and gamelans (Balinese instruments) were softly playing hypnotic melodies from a bygone age. High priests, like Buddhas, were seated cross-legged on bamboo platforms six or eight feet from the ground and surrounded by columns and pyramids of fruit, flowers and carved palm leaves, fantastically shaped offerings to the gods. Behind each priest sat a priestess handing him the different flowers needed for the distilling of holy water.

On other bamboo platforms sat the Rajah with the nobles. Their golden bodies also were bare, but from the waist down they wore a kain (a long strip of cloth) of brilliant hue. Tucked into the back of their sarongs were handsome krisses with gold handles carved in the shape of a Balinese god, and studded with precious gems.

Just as I was moving towards the gate a handsome young man of about thirty came up to me saying, ‘Excuse me, perhaps I could be of some assistance to you. Are you looking for someone?’

I stared at him in amazement, noticing his princely clothing, and then foolishly stammered, ‘Oh, you speak English.’

His dark eyes danced with amusement as he replied, ‘Well, is there anything remarkable about the ability to converse in the English language? A few of us have attended universities abroad, you know. May I inquire how you came to be in our village, and how you found your way into the palace?’

‘Palace!’ I exclaimed. ‘This is a temple, is it not? I came in to hear the lovely music and to admire the beautiful offerings.’

The young man threw back his head and laughed heartily.

‘It gives me great pleasure to hear you refer to the puri as an abode of the gods. You have in fact entered the palace of my father,’ he said. ‘May I introduce myself? My name is Anak Agung Nura. I am the only son of the Anak Agung Gede. I bid you welcome to my father’s palace. I am most curious to hear how you found your way here, for you are an American tourist, are you not?’

‘No, Anak Agung Nura, I am not a tourist. I came to your lovely island with the intention of staying for the rest of my life, hoping to be able to paint and follow the peaceful, contented way of your own people.’

I explained how I could not endure living in the Dutch tourist hotel another day, how I had started for the interior of the island, vowing that with the help of the gods I would stay wherever the car ran out of petrol. ‘The car spluttered and stopped dead outside your palace gates.’