We entered, passing from the sunny hillside into the green twilight among the trees, and out again upon the village road, flecked with changeful lights and shadows. It was trim and clean as a gardenpath. The huts on either side of it had a prosperous look, each standing in its own patch of ground, surrounded by fruit-trees—mangoes, bananas and djamboos that turned the soil purple with their fallen blossoms. The rice-barns shaped like a child's cradle, narrow at the base, and broadening out towards the top, were full of sweet new rice and in the sheds sleek dun-coloured cattle stood patiently chewing the cud.
Raised shed from which the ripening fields are watched.
I saw no men about, they were probably at work on the outlying ricefields. But here and there, under the pent-roofs of the houses, women sat at their looms busily weaving sarong-cloth. And on the doorsteps plump brown babies were rolling about.
Gunungan, or Pile of Sacrificial Food, as offered by women on Garebeg Mulud, the feast of the nativity of Nabi Muhamed, the Great Prophet.
A native official and his followers.