Ubud Writers and Readers Festival #3

Sophie Cunningham October 19

Okay, we’re almost at the finish line with this Ubud hijinks postings. But before I go further I want to commend Ruby J. Murray’s post on the festival, that was published over one Overland’s blog. She raises interesting points about the politics of a festival like the Ubud Writers and Readers Festival, in which participants are put up in very comfortable conditions in a country where there is alot of poverty. As well, many in the audience are tourists and/or ex-pats rather than locals and Indonesian speakers.

‘What can be disturbing about visiting Bali as an outsider is that the tourist culture on the island often seems hell-bent on throwing pain out the window, turning a blind eye to suffering, on stomping browned, cellulite thighs down the beachfront in Louis Vuitton underpants over washed-up rubbish and the driftwood stalls of women selling shells and stickers for cents. But attending the full festival this year, with enough distance between myself and Jakarta’s screaming, I could see the contours of what Ubud is attempting to do. Walk the line between the politics of stories and stories of politics. Ask us to think about balance, and what it means to write in a world where all our actions have consequences. It asks its readers and writers alike to interrogate the politics of privilege.’

The festival organisers themselves are aware of these issues, and the performers at most of the evening events were Indonesian poets and a series of books were launched at the festival, ‘Modern Library of Indonesia’. These are English translations of Indoneisa classics. The first five books in the series are: Never the Twain (1928), a novel by Abdoel Moeis; Shackles (1948), a novel by Armijn Pane; The Fall and the Heart (1949), a novella by S. Rukiah; Mirah of Banda (1986), a novel by Hanna Rambe; and Family Room (2010), short stories by Lily Yulianti Farid. But there is no doubt that participants who spoke Indonesian only, would have felt at a disadvantage.

On Saturday morning Sian, her mum and I went for a long walk (aka. got lost). One of the things we saw as we were wandering was lots of dressed up cars and motorcycles. Later that day we found out it was part of the nine day Pagerwesi festival. This literally translates into iron fence, as in an iron fence to keep evil at bay. In the end, all things iron get celebrated.

On Saturday afternoon I was on a panel on travel writing, moderated by Jamie James, with Sarah Murray, who spoke about her book Moveable Feasts, which is about the ways in which food travels around the world, and Berislav Loncarevic, a Croatian writer who writes in English and the author of False Prophet. Berislav is now based in Bali. Not surprisingly he writes about displacement.

That evening Omar Musa did several raps at an event for Australian authors put on by the embassy. He did an early reading of a poem called ‘My Generation’. It was a total knock out. A privilege to see it performed.

Sunday morning began with a brief incident involving birdwatching and a literary figure plunging headline into a paddy field. For legal reasons, they must remain nameless. But it was quite funny. One of the events I saw at the festival that afternoon, was Tony Maniaty in conversation with Sian.

It was a terrific conversation one that raised issues – for me anyway – about masculinity and the related pressures on (or desire by), often male, journalists in war zones to throw themselves into dangerous situations and the difficulties involved in calling for moderation in these matters. There are, as Maniaty shows, many forms of bravery, but you still sense the conflict he feels in these matters. And, for no particular reason (though he is, actually, a man which is this paragraph’s theme) here’s a pic Tony’s editor from Penguin, Michael Nolan, who was holidaying in Ubud over the festival.

That night was the closing night party. It was insane. It was held in the Blanco Museum. Words fail me, really, it was so whacky. Also, it appeared that the entrance to the museum was either a styalised anus, or a vagina (interpretations differed). Perhaps this foyer picture gives you an idea of the kind of place it is.

A hip hop group from New York performed (their name alludes me), Slam poet Kamau Abayomi, Saharadja, and Omar Musa. There was fire twirling. There was a choir singing songs from Mary Poppins. There was torrential rain and by the end the garden was a bit like a mosh pit. The results were awesome – in the true sense of the word.

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