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celebrating on just such a day. A visitor can easily get bogged down in offerings or lose his way in the streams of people to-ing and fro-ing between various ceremonies.

Kuningan, being the final day of a 10-day splurge of festivity, is like this, only more so. An incredible number of ceremonies are crammed into the bare 24-hours allotted to this one day. No-one could hope to see them all in the one day. If Kuningan had 48 hours, you'd still be pressed for time.

This then, was the problem. Confronted with a dizzy choice of once-a-year-only festivals, what to see? Well, for a kick-off, I wanted to see the Wayang Wong, performance at Mas.
Hang onl We've struck one of those weird words again.

The Wayang Wong is big brother to the Wayang Kulit, or shadow puppet play, which is Bali's answer to the Punch and Judy show, but much more sophiseicated, despite the fact that part of its great charm for the Balinese is the slapstick and bawdy humour the buffalo hide puppets often indulge in.

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Now, while the Wayang Kulit puppets, as their name implies, are made from skin, and caper behind a screen - usually until the small hours of the morning - the Wayang Wong show is played by human "puppets". A group of men, dressed in ornate masks and costumes, present one of the classic stories, but during daylight hours and in full view of the audience.

Having been no end baffled by the Wayang Kulit, I was keen to get to grips with a Wayang Wong performance - more or less on the principle that maybe you don't care for beer, but who knows whether you'll enjoy champagne until you've had a lash at it. So, come Kuningan, the Wayang Wong was a must.
Second on my short list was the Chalon Arang play. I'd had a tip-off from a usually reliable source, as they say, that this bloodcurdling drama, which centres around the struggle between the kindly Barong and the kinky Rangda, would unfold, before lunch, in a village nearby to Mas.

That more than took care of the morning. In the afternoon I planned to streak across country to catch the Godfight at Pak Sibali, a little village on the far side of Klungkung.
How then to fit in the Holy Springs bit

"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.