The Ubud Experience: An Exotic Writers' Festival
I must confess that these days I am rather wary of attending Writers' Festivals. It could be that I am jaded after the overexposure to the relentless grind and repetitive nature of such occasions and the pretensions and hype that go with them. Whether it is in Sydney, Melbourne or Adelaide, you constantly see harried publicists, wearing frowns and furrowed eyebrows, barking into their mobiles, literary agents, who have to be diplomatic keep their cool, as authors want better deals for their forthcoming books, publishers and the upper echelons of the industry with baronial miens, as though the feudal system is still in place and, of course, academics lamenting the paucity of intellectually rigorous literature and the demise of high culture. Nothing really changes except the venues.
Where and how do I fit into all this? In the dominantly Caucasian world of Australian literature which occasionally acknowledges the contribution of Aboriginal writers, I am labelled as a migrant writer. I do not quite slot into the scene. But I have to be placed somewhere. This means that topics like 'Identity', 'The Voice of Diaspora' and 'Home Away from Home' continue to hound me in the year that I publish a novel. Occasionally I am asked to speak on Post-colonialism, but that can be a problem because I do not believe that there is a phenomenon called Post-colonialism. There is nothing 'post' about colonialism. Colonialism has merely reinvented itself and resurfaced in the more benign concept of globalisation. Its ultimate goal is just as ruthless as the aims of imperialism. The world has simply learned to be more hypocritical and dishonest. Altruism is not compatible with the drive for political power and wealth.
Important as issues dealing with migration and migrants are, there is only so much you can say about them, especially after fourteen years of fiction writing. There are times when I have thought of myself as an old fashioned 78 rpm vinyl record with the stylus stuck in a grove, repeating the same lines over and over again. I suspect that my reluctance to discuss aspects of the migrant experience has to do with the desire to protect my privacy. I do not wish to bare my soul to people I do not know. What I occasionally reveal in fiction is enough.
There are some redeeming features about Writers' Festivals in Australia, and I can only speak from the experience of being a HarperCollins author. The publisher's dinner is a very pleasant affair. I renew acquaintanceships with my publisher, chat with my publicist, talk to other writers, agents and critics. A good night is usually had by all.
The next morning I get up with groans and a headache. Strong tea and several aspirins later, it's back to panel discussions and the dilemmas of being a migrant . . . And so it goes.
Last year, while I was at the Byron Bay Writers' Festival, I was invited to the Ubud Literary Festival in Bali. Now, I have to say somewhat shamefully that my perceptions of Bali had been distorted by media accounts of tourists in Denpasar and Kutah beach where there is a great deal of surfing, drinking and obnoxious behaviour that manifest various stages of inebriation. Western style boutiques and restaurants serving watered down Balinese food held no appeal for me. On top of that there was the spectre of the horrific terrorist attacks which killed and maimed a large number innocent people.
Janet De Neefe, the organiser of the festival, was highly persuasive and I succumbed to her account of the setting and the diversity of activities and authors who accepted her invitation each year. My wife was keen to go and so it was that on the night of 26 September 2007, we boarded a plane for at Denpasar. On the flight were fellow Australians - Ian Britten, the academic and the then editor of Meanjin, the country's most prestigious literary journal, and author Nicholas Jose.
The flight had been delayed and we landed in Denpasar just before dawn. Ubud was an hour's drive away. We were taken to the Maya Ubud complex and it was one of the loveliest places imaginable. Nestling in a lush tropical setting, the resort was a sprawling complex of buildings and bungalows built in a way to ensure seclusion and privacy of the guests.
The festival itself was a relaxed affair. There was a grand opening ceremony with music, dancing and lengthy speeches. It was a wonderful opportunity to meet Asian writers from Singapore, Malaysia and Hong Kong and hear about the literary cultures in their communities. It was easy to strike up a conversation with the unpretentious Kiran Desai, the 2006 Man Booker winner. She joined forces with my wife and me to hunt for authentic Balinese food and there was plenty of sight-seeing to be done. One of Australia's most successful and distinguished novelists, Richard Flanagan, was in good form. We had both published very different novels on terrorism and were speaking guests at a literary lunch. Our session, chaired by the Singaporean media personality, Depika Shetty, was titled 'The Unknown Road' and it was stimulating and lively. But the most enriching experience of the six-day visit was the opportunity to meet the Balinese people and appreciate their culture.
The Balinese are gentle folks, courteous and helpful. A day tour of the temples around the island was a confirmation of the diversity of Hinduism in Bali. The ritualistic traditions and practices varied from place to place and highlighted the deeply religious nature of the Balinese people. The calmness and tropical lushness of the island, especially the smell of ripe jackfruits, made me think of Bangladesh as it was in my college days. I revisited Dhaka in the late 1960s and the early 1970s. Memory recreated a sleepy city where we led carefree and uneventful lives until the 'hounds of hell' were loosened on the entire country in 1971. So much for regrets and nostalgia . . .
Swimming, sampling Balinese cuisine, sight-seeing and shopping, the first few days were truly blissful. But it was all too good to be true. The migrant syndrome caught up with me. Ian Britten, who was born in India, chaired my next session on the meaning of home. I always struggle with the topic. Embedded deep in the recesses of memory, there are houses and segments of my life in Purana Paltan, Khawja Divan, Rankin Street, Tejgaon, Minto Road, Maghbazaar, Shantinagar, Hathkhola, Wari and Dhanmondi. We were nomads, moving every few years from one rented accommodation to another until my parents were able to afford their own house. And now, after all these years, I am still not settled in one place. My wife and I live in Ballarat for the first few days of the week and then we spend some quality time living in Melbourne, a city we both love for its ambience and cultural diversity. Home has a multiplicity of meaning. 'I am a part of all that I have met,' says Tennyson's Ulysses. It sums me up. On the same panel was Kiran Desai. It was interesting to hear about her twin existence in New York and New Delhi. Will she ever settle in one place? Some day, maybe . . . Place polygamy ensures that migrants are lost souls, not only drifting between the past and present, but often between cities. We are restless creatures, never quite content with where we are.
I think we managed to confuse some in the audience that day.
The afternoon heat in Bali was uncomfortable. Thirty odd years of living in the cooler climates of Ballarat and Melbourne has made me an alien to hot weather. The mornings were cool and long, inviting exploratory walks which became reflective occasions. Much as I dislike talking publicly about aspects of a migrant's life, in my introspective moments, meditations on home and belonging feature prominently.
On the morning of my last panel session, I wandered along a track by the river and thought of a visit to Dhaka for an extended stay. I would like to talk to some of my friends, not just over lunch or dinner, but over a period of time. I want to learn about their perspectives of life and whether they are contented souls. As I grow older, I sometimes get a faint whiff of mortality's stench. I often think of finishing points. It would be appropriate to complete the circle of life and end where I began. But I doubt if I shall ever go back to live permanently in Bangladesh. Repeatedly I hear Stuart Hall's words: 'Migration is a one way trip. There is no home to go back to. There never was.' I have an insatiable desire to return to 'lost origins', but I doubt if I have the fortitude to endure the traumas of another displacement. So, I have to live with the fact that home is not just one place. It is locations. They are places on maps and also places in time. Home is that place which enables and promotes varied and ever changing perspectives, a place where one discovers new ways of seeing reality. I confront and recognise the consequences of dispersal and accept my splintered self.
I was almost late for that last session on Post-colonialism. A Middle Eastern academic took over and spouted her views at great length, contemptuously indifferent to time or the right of other panellists to have equal time. Mercifully, it was soon over. There was a closing party and another festival had ended.
Ubud was different, not only for its exoticism but for the way it made me think about myself. The public appearances and discussions were no better than they have been in the past, but it was the personal experience -- the inward journey, the sightings and the yearnings which were enriching in the way they engendered a great many unanswered questions. It was cerebral and emotional therapy and I returned to Australia ready to begin a new novel.
Adib Khan is an Australian-Bangladeshi novelist whose latest book is Spiral Road (Harper Collins, 2007).
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