A crowd of men, women and children are gathered in a courtyard, and more are in the street, squeezing into the gateway and sitting on the walls, or in rickshaws which have stopped for the show. An array of instruments – large and small gongs, xylophones, keyed metallophones, a bowed instrument, a bamboo flute – is spread out on the raised stone floor of a pavilion where a woman sings; players not absorbed in the music smoke and chat on the fringes. The only real light on this hot dark night is projected onto a white sheet stretched on a carved wooden frame at which a man sits, moving flat leather puppets of fantastical shapes while speaking their parts and singing songs; he also directs the gamelan, as this collection of instruments is known. At times one single instrument creates a shimmering background; at others the group produces loud snatches of repetitively-twirling melody. The musicians don't use notation but watch the screen, laughing uproariously with the audience at the comic bits. Shows like this traditionally last all night without a break, with the puppeteer being the only one never to leave his place. The spectators come and go freely, knowing the story and format so well that they can decide which parts to watch, and when to go somewhere to doze, lulled by the background music which fuses magically with the buzzing and humming of insects.