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"Simple", Nyoman assured me. "We don't need to get to Tampaksiring before 11 o'clock. Start early and you'll have plenty of time to join us."
Early Kuningan morning, I stepped into the rather impressive hire car that was waiting for me, and hot-footed it to Mas. In a temple courtyard, I saw the actors getting into their costumes and fastening on their beautiful antique masks. Soon afterwards I was in the open-sided temple bale, watching the antics of these strangely clad human puppets as they enacted yet another segment from the Ramayana. Everwatchful of my tight schedule, I made my apologies halfway through the programme and raced towards Guang, where the Chalon Arang was supposed to be under way.

But at Guang, I was the sole performer, or so it seemed. True, there was a temple festival, and a very big and elaborate one. Had it not been so big, I doubt if I would have collected such a gratifyingly large audience around me when I started inquiring about the Chalon Arang. No, there was no Chalon Arang, never had been, but most of the multitude who had gathered for the festival seemed to think I was a god-sent substitute. What better entertainment could you ask than a wandering tourist seeking a non-existent drama? Not possible, .,agreed the crowd, and collectively went into hoots.

Hastily I backed into my taxi. "Let's get out of here and up to Tampaksiring", I urged.
The driver looked at me as though doubting his ears: "But Nyonya has first to return to Ubud to pick up Nyoman.
No, I retorted, still a trifle ruffled over my Guang interlude.
I arranged to meet Nyoman at Tampaksiring, and, if we don't get a move on, we may miss him."

The driver opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, gave me a last bewildered, or was it despairing? look, climbed in behind the wheel and, twisting and turning amongst the heavy traffic as though safety had gone out of fashion, drove non-stop to the Holy Springs.