Monday, October 18, 2004

What was good about the lunch at Maya

Nury kept things light and funny (even, at times, hilarious). He's a bright wit and dedicated writer, and the fact that he's been blacklisted in the Hong Kong press means that he must really be onto some hot stuff.

But the luncheon was about all things light and fun, and it was especially nice to have a chance to chat with Chris Sylvester, who has no small hand in running all the museums in Darwin. I made sure to haul her over to meet Ubud's champion of women's art, Gallery Seniwati owner Mary Northmore. Here's hoping some wonderful exhibition or cultural exchange comes out of their meeting.

Enjoyed another chat at the lunch with the tall photojournalist Irina Kalishnikova. And what a name! Really, all we needed that day was her ability to document the proceedings, but someone brought in a truckload of Balinese paparazzi, who snapped shots of the food, the celebs, the garden. Just a tad surreal after Sunday's beautifully subdued opening party, elegant for its lack of shutterbugs running around like hunchbacks.

So that was the literary lunch. One wit, one know-it-all. Veg or non-veg? Red wine or white?

Hitched a ride back to the Indus on the festival purple van. I had already missed Diana Darling and Jean Couteau speaking of Exiles, Expats, Diaspora. But I happened in on Tony, Ryan, and Bill's Guide to Bali. The fellas were able to fess up to their personal favorite spots in Bali, most interesting Bill Dalton's Pabean, where indeed my more interesting friends have gone for true relaxation. Oh, I may be misspelling Pabean.

Next up: that afternoon's surprisingly interesting look at contemporary Filipino literature.

Saturday, October 16, 2004


The day: Thursday, the place: Ubud. The event: Literary Lunch with Hong Kong's Nury Vittachi and Australia's George Negus.

Because I knew I would want to do a little drinking, I rode in to the luscious hotel Maya Ubud in a festival vehicle. I joined in with a gaggle of stylish Australian women who mostly had not met until this festival.

They all know TV journalist George Negus from their home country. I do believe I've seen his show on ABCTV via satellite here in Bali. If I'm not mistaken, this was Negus. If I am mistaken, I apologise. The odd thing is, the particular interview which I viewed happened to be a chat with a gynecologist. The two men were speaking about menopause with utter seriousness, dragging their drawling Okker Aussie accents through an in depth view of Hormone Replacement Therapy and possible alternatives. It was as surreal as a Saturday Night Live sketch. Hey, good on them for tackling the subject, but what a scene! Once in a while, if we are surfing with the remote control, I say to my husband, "do you think we might be able to watch macho menopause again?"

Well, perhaps that introduction is unfair. But let me say that the moment we ladies slammed the doors and headed off to the Maya, the car came alive with titters about George's fauxes pas of the day before. Apparently shoved into a session about Islamic literature at the last minute, George had seized the opportunity to show his great knowledge of Islam and the Arab world. I have no quotations to support or deny the truth of this, but the opinions around me were that he dominated the discussion, concentrated on Arab Islam, and potentially insulted every muslim in the room. To be sure, he has written a book called The World of Islam, but I don't believe this makes him an expert. Alas, George would present himself throughout the festival as a man blessed with the gift of gab, glibness being what gets you through live television and, perhaps, uncomfortable moments under the limelight. I sympathise that he was drafted for a panel at the last minute. But read on.

George and Nury took to the stage just as we finished our main course. The Maya Ubud is such an elegant place, in sumptuous gardens, with amazingly refreshing breezes wafting in from the ravine. Nury didn't have a glass of wine at hand, but George did. And why not, for the food and wine and atmosphere were so seductive and relaxing. They bantered about Nury's muliticultural awarenesses and background. Nury joked about the ridiculously bland names of buildings in Hong Kong. George got things steered around to religion, sex, and politics, self consciously & humorously pointing out the problems of doing so. Well, here's where George repeated himself. I myself got to hear Negus in a panel on Monday, remarking that there needs to be a new religion which, right off the bat, reveals to all its followers that nothing is known, nothing is claimed, and there aren't any rules. He said it at the Maya again. In a way, he was paraphrasing something Michael Vatikiotis had said about urging Moderates of the World to unite, but I do believe that George was on his own when he said the UN needs to meet to discuss the problem that extremist views have on the world. And there was no mistake that this was about religion. Oy! Not nice.

More later, am dining with an author now. This was really the only black spot in a fine festival.

This Planet Ain't Lonely

Ryan van Berkmoes, latest Lonely Planet plant in Bali, presented to a packed room at the Indus the venerable trendsetting guidebook writers Tony Wheeler and Bill Dalton.

Tony is a quiet fellow from Australia, but he's on the ball and quick-witted, making it easy to see that he could start an empire of travel guiding. Tony has a Clark Kent - ish everyman quality, undoubtedly an asset to the one who must spy for a living. I could indeed envision him traipsing through Asia in the closest thing to anonymity any bulé / farang / gweilo / gaijin could hope for.

Bill Dalton is a wiry raconteur with down-east Yankee resourcefulness and energy. If Tony embodies the Australian's penchant for the walkabout, Bill embodies the American pioneer spirit of independence and exploration.

The two men related with vivid memories how they first crossed paths in the backpacker neighborhood of Kings Cross, Sydney, 1972.

On wits, willingness to connect with others, and pennies in the pocket, each figured out how to print up their tips on travel in Southeast Asia. Bill's area of concentration was Indonesia and may I add that his Moon Pubs Indonesia Handbook was what guided Jay and me through our 4 week honeymoon in 1979 ...second edition, that is. Although Bill's book beat Tony's Southeast Asia on the Cheap to the press by three weeks, Lonely Planet has become a mega business.

In Singapore in 1975, they bumped into each other again, at a time when Bill wanted to sit down and do some writing. Tony was able to tip off Bill which room in which hotel was conducive to productive writing; he'd just been there himself!! Room number two, but I missed the hotel name. Watch this space. Below that room, those many years ago, was a motorbike repair shop. (Bill went down to sit with the boys there to watch a Mohammed Ali match... who would that have been... Foreman rematch?) It was lovely to see these two guys reminisce on the old days... travelers' tales are a rich source of entertainment and even literature. Think of Somerset Maugham and Joseph Conrad...

Tony and Bill asserted that guidebooks have perhaps outlived their usefulness, and remark that we are close to a change in travel guiding, but neither man is sure he can see it exactly. Bill concedes that someone will and will start a new trend, just the way the Lonely Planet took over from old type Froemer's, Fodor's, and Fielding's guides from earlier decades. He pointed out that the traveling world is going to be changing its very STYLE of travel.

Look no further, fellas, because Paul Otteson has written that new guide book. The World Awaits (ISBN 1566912431) rides the wave of the future in travel writing. His advice for travel is like a platen for application to a multitude of destinations. And, interestingly enough, his take on the real pleasures of travel is that the destination is not what travel's all about. Otteson's book outlines suggestions for getting the most out of any journey, using the most refreshing concept in travel today: a pace and itinerary called threading. Otteson points out that paying attention to the actual roads and places between destinations is as rewarding as the arrival at a known landmark. Stop sleeping on trains from Point A to Point B. Stop using airports. Walk. Talk to locals. Camp out, perhaps. All suggestions; Otteson is no preacher. But he supports his style of travel with great appeal.

Let's thread on back to Ubud.

At one point, Tony talked about someone he knew who recently used an old edition of Europe on $5 a Day simply to see what's still feasible, what's survived of the beaten tourist and backpacker path. How fun, and I wholeheartedly agree with this revival of old guidebooks! Certainly, on my Spain trip in 2001 I had with me old guidebooks, and the one from the late 50's on the Prado Museum in Madrid was priceless. Even Washington Irving's Tales of the Alhambra was the most useful guide book in my posession, when we walked through that fascinating architectural treasure.
Bill likes to bring literature with him on trips... Somerset Maugham (also a favorite of mine), for example. And Tony spoke of "parachuting" writers into any number of destinations for Lonely Planet updates... no language, no clues, no help... the tips garnered by these intrepid travelers would prove better than those from a researcher armed with every sort of brochure and book and lesson. And I tell you, in a time when the world is virtually all "discovered" and there's even a map of Baghdad in a Sarasota 7-11 (seen with my own eyes), a person is well advised to encounter a foreign country on wits alone, just to invoke that unbeatable traveler's high of being a stranger in a strange land.

Bill stressed that the Lonely Planet and his books offered a certain style of travel. And this is indeed the style to which a place like Ubud caters. For better or for worse, the town (just like a hundred other backpacker ghettos in this world) has a plethora of desks for booking a last minute, cheap tour or air ticket. An Ubud banana pancake can also be had in Sri Lanka, Cairo, Puerto Princessa, and Cairns. The same sarong you bargain for in the Ubud market is also available in Boracay, Wellington, Bora-Bora, and Cairo. The backpacker profile shops the world, and don't think the crafty tour guides and taxi drivers don't know it. I'm guilty of having done the ten-dollar-spa-scrub tour of Asia, as blindly as a hippie in Rajahstan making a pilgrimmage to every cheap hostel in the backpacker grapevine. I see a pattern here.

I took the microphone to ask the writers if they had ever printed anything which was a regrettable mistake. Bill mentioned a shortcut to Lake Toba that had been supplied by a flakey woman (and the readers trying this route became lost in the deep Sumatran rainforest for 6 weeks, not the published day and a half).

Time and again, during this festival, various people reminded me of the second remark I made to Bill, Tony, and Ryan about how to find a certain East Bali beach. Ryan had mentioned that he put Pasir Putih in the latest LP Bali because it was too beautiful to leave out. From the audience, during the Q&A session, I said that I supported him in this because it's a nice place and people who like to snorkel should enjoy it. Apparently, there is a backpacker undercurrent of secrecy, but I certainly feel that Bali has been well and truly discovered and there's no real reason to hide a good beach from visitors. The worst threat to that beach, I feel, are the local guys who bring cyanide to stun fish for the aquarium trade. Always better in the long run to have a working dive shop around, which becomes a force in curbing such destruction.

Amounts of money to be reaped from tourism are usually higher than money from poaching.

There was an earthquake at 11:09 that morning, and I must have been off in my room getting changed for the lunch. I totally did not feel it, and it was epicentered just south of Denpasar!

Why pay RP250,000 for lunch at the Maya Ubud? First of all, the food, next, the atmosphere. But really, truly, it was to hear Nury Vittachi, an old friend from Hong Kong, speak about whatever came into his head. No, it's not a lonely planet anymore. I have dear friends all over it.

Thursday, October 14, first installment

There is a lot to say about Thursday, but I will just begin with a teaser.

The theme for the day was "The Long Road Home."

This was the day for travel writing, expat lit, exile lit, and other Southeast Asian voices.

It was a good day and a strange day.

But as I write this, magic time is beginning in Ubud. A salt water pool beckons from the Honeymoon Guest House. Big shindig at the Amandari tonight. Have to shake off today's wines. Have to make myself presentable when I crash the Amandari.

Next installment soon.

My Wednesday

On Wednesday, October 13, I got up at dawn and grabbed a few more flowers from the market and from the Jalan Raya Peliatan. Beautiful watermelon colored heliconias and bags of petals.

I zoomed into the Regency of Karangasem and dialled my friend Fran the Croupier, who lives in Padangbai. Her two day headache was a thing of the past, and, yes, she would help me host the big writer lunch at Tanjung Sakti. I made the detour into Padangbai, the bustling port. I bought ice and boxes of tissue - decorated with reef fish, go figure - and turned up at her gate. She hopped into the car and we drove to Seraya.

My handphone rings.

It's Wayan, my cook.

Yude has called me from Casa Luna... the party is off due to lack of interest. Four people showed up for the bus ride to east bali salt and sugar plants and they all wanted to leave the event early... oh, dear. So that was that. No lunch at my place.

I drove into my parking area and sighed. All of my staff were dressed in their special polo shirts with Tanjung Sakti badges. Very sharp. but it would be lunch for two. Ah, it's okay. I spent awhile getting flowers into pots and the place, oh, the place looked stunning. Pool's never been cleaner, the penjors looked wonderful in the steady sea breeze, and a bottle of Margaret River wine was chilling in the fridge.

I gave Cakra two envelopes of consolation pay to give to the two guys who were booked to come and play Gerentang. That's the bamboo instruments, tuned slightly off from each other to resonate well. They were to provide a little ambient music for the visitors.

Oh, well, so Fran and I had a good chat and I worked on some poetry and prose texts to bring to the festival. It was actually a restful day. The writers missed out on a gorgeous east Bali afternoon, but there's an upside to all this... the event was staged as a diversion for our author visitors. The fact that almost no one wanted to go to east Bali shows that the festival was just so much fun, who could bear to leave it, even for half a day?

Fran left for John's house at sunset, and I spent the night at home in my own bed.

Next morning, after pineapple and coffee, I got right back into the gold Toyota Kijang and blasted off to Ubud. Yeah, that was Wednesday.

Sorry to have missed some of the events back at the festival, but on the bright side the lack of interest in Janet's east Bali tour means one thing. NO ONE WANTED TO LEAVE UBUD. The writers all were having such a marvelous time at the festival... they didn't need a distraction like a trip to east Bali. A very good indicator of the festival's success.

So no hard feelings at all. Glad to be of service to the fest.

Tuesday night at the Festival

Tuesday night I had a nice little dinner fixed by my cook, Wayan. Then I zoomed off in the car to Ubud in time to catch the English language Wayang Kulit by dalang Wayan Wija in Ubud's Wantilan.

Okay, what is it with Wayan Wija? Is my memory colored and blurred? Didn't I see him perform shadow puppetry in English a couple of years ago at Ubud's SaiSai Bar? Wasn't he a sexy young guy with long hair to whom all of the white girls flocked after the performance? Tuesday at the Ubud Wantilan, the dalang was a serious but heavily talented fellow with short hair and no groupies. Ach, maybe it is just that Ubud is not currently attracting so many hot young gals who pick up extra pay as artists' models. Maybe our amazing Wayan has matured. Maybe he just got a haircut.


The Wayang Kulit Tuesday night was wonderful. The truncated team of musicians and puppet master was off to a late start and I am ashamed to admit that I left sometime between the obligatory fight scene and the moment when balance was restored in the forest and in earth itself. I was dog tired and wanted to collapse in my lovely room at the Honeymoon Guest House.

But let me say this, Wayan Wija is a master... his chorus of frogs and his mastery of character voices are the product of genius. My hat is off.

Friday, October 15, 2004

October 15, afterthoughts

This was to be the most magical day of the festival.

I'm at an international literary festival and the hottest ticket is "Children of the Gods"?

Well, Ubud is no stodgy, oppressive gathering place, after all. The visitor to Ubud will probably fall under the influence of good magic. As a tree bends gently to offer shade, a silent protective spell is cast upon those who come here to rest.

You feel like a child again. When everything is new, when people smile at you for no apparent reason, when fantasy seems possible.

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

The Heavy Stuff

Alright, so Blogger lost my post from yesterday.

I was reeling from a day with a two star general, a Russian photographer, and a Balinese environmentalist. I was also reeling from at least 3 hefty Caipraihnas (how on earth is it spelled) consumed at the opening of Jill Gocher's photographs of Nepal at Ary's Warung.

The festival covered the tough-as-nails/won't-go-away issue of the 2002 bomb in Kuta. It was a senseless act that killed 202 people, more than 80 of which were Indonesians. I believe 21 countries lost citizens in that terrorist crime.

In the beautiful setting of Indus, there were panels on journalistic ethics, police work, and the notion of Bali as spoilt paradise... so much to chew on!

When I wasn't scarfing gourmet food at Indus, I was listening to some of Southeast Asia's published and polished. Most interesting people were George Negus (Aus) and Goenawan Mohamed. There were far too many cliches Monday, so maybe that's out of the system and we can move on for the rest of the week.

Because I am hosting a lunch for the writers tomorrow (in conjunction with Casa Luna), I spent most of my day preparing for that. Cheap wine glasses at Ubud's brand spanking new Bintang Supermarket, painting toilet-this-way signs, and picking up white chairs for the overflow tomorrow.

Had to miss my dear friend Nury Vittachi, whose Tuesday presentation was entitled, How to Write a Novel in 20 Minutes. Nury's Feng Shui Detective books are great fun and catching on in Australia, but he's paid his literary dues. I am indebted to him for editing and publishing about a quarter of my own published works.

Just so it's noted... Woke up to another subtle Ubud dawn, in the gloriously low key Honeymoon guest house. Hit the pasar in time to get several bags full of flowers... cempaka, jepun (that's frangipani), parigata (bougainvillea), and marigolds. Nice breakfast, ran right off to East Bali. Seraya's beaches are looking extra dramatic today after the horizontal lines of rice fields.

The Muezzin has called the faithful to prayer in this mixed city of Amlapura. It is hot, hot, dusty, and hot.

Tonight I zoom back to the festival in time for the English language Wayang Kulit.

Sunday, October 10, 2004

The Festival Begins!

Quick report before I run off to this morning's keynote speech by Goenawan Mohamed.

The very first Ubud Writers and Readers Festival began on the 10th of October amidst a palpable buzz, mucho polisi presence, and true elegance.

Sound a bit schiz-y? Well, yes... expatriate life can seem a bit like having multiple personalities, so why not multiple viewpoints and multiple writing styles...

I checked into the restful Honeymoon Guest House and sent obligatory email to family members. Ubud is bedecked with pink and white banners welcoming all to the festival. The core of the event, the Casa Luna restaurant, is a hive of activity... tourists, locals, writers, and expats converge to get their tickets to the various workshops, luncheons, and events. I receive my volunteer's tee shirt and pass, and I'm raring to go.

The royal palace is THE place, magic hour is the time. Crowds of the curious gather outside as those of us lucky to be invited are searched by the police before entering. The very best dancers of Ubud perform a delightful welcoming dance, and we get a few speeches, each blissfully short. The Consul of Australia to Indonesia is there, the local prince, literati, and amazingly no true glitterati. That is significant. This event is all about the word, the story, the creation of literature and literacy. No fluff, and even the volunteer paparazzi are so mesmerized by the atmosphere of altruism, that few shots are snapped.

Of note, Tony Wheeler (Southeast Asia on a Shoestring got his legend going), Rucina Ballinger (hula and Balinese dance expert), Michael Vatikiotis (Hong Kong's most caring journalist/editor), Sarita Newson (her graphic and publishing work has set the mood for the festival... and doesn't she look wonderful with her grownup kids ...all in impeccable pakaian adat).

Organizers Heather Curnow and Janet deNeefe keep a dignified low profile, but their names are invoked again and again, in gratitude for their efforts.

The red wine is excellent.... and did you try the asparagus wrapped in smoked salmon?

I join Murni and Jonathan Copeland and Mary Northmore (Ubud's expert dealer in women's art) for a lovely dinner in the utterly magical setting of Murni's Warung.

I fall into bed, under mosquito mesh, exhausted and thrilled to be here.

Saturday, October 09, 2004

Magic Hour, definition

At about 3:30 in the afternoon, when the sun falls off the center of the sky and there is a hint of a drop in temperature, a person in Bali perceives a slight cooling. It is possible to stand under the sun without baking like a potato.

This is the hint, the preamble, a welcome end to midday. Siang is ending, soré will begin soon. Borders are subtle in Bali. There is a melting and blending of time, a lack of precision in the sense of clockwork or the four temperate seasons.

Sometime around 4:30, there is a new shimmer to the sun's light. It begins to hit the leaves of every tree at an angle, just so. It is lovely to drive at this time, but it can mean a pre-mandi rush... when the Balinese hurry off to take a bath. It may be a bath in a stream or road ditch, it may be a shower in a modern home. Tradition remains; late afternoon is time for a well-earned immersion in water.

Drive through any village backroad between 4:45 and 5:15. Lovely girls walk contentedly with the newly washed household laundry in a bucket. Usually, still, on their heads. Fresh clothing covers their refreshed bodies. They've been bathing together in whatever area is designated for females. Alas, men were upstream (or perhaps clinging to a bridge, enjoying that uniquely Balinese voyeurism... checking out the women's bathing pool). But look at the girls now, strolling with brushed, freshly washed hair. Having an aversion to hair dryers and a lazy sense of hairstyle, I do love to see so many heads of wet hair.

It is the unabashed love of bathing. It is the glorification of water on skin. It is one of the charms of Bali. It is the beginning of magic time.

Get home, quick. Run to the kitchen to make a gin and tonic or a cup of tea, and march it out to where the sun can be seen, ready to set. Who's got a guitar? Anyone got a drum or claves? This is magic time at Tanjung Sakti, when Jay practices riffs from the "fake books" for a couple of hours. And I get to sing along.

But what's happening all around us is the rapid ripening of the sky. Blue becomes yellow and pink, violet, gold, anything goes and it goes quickly. The last straggling egrets have left for the roost and we are amazed to see a few swallows or swifts, darting around for bugs to eat. Soon, a gecko will call from a roof eave, and a bat will take over where the swallows left off. In the jungle, the cliche goes, night falls like a bullet. Too true. Suddenly, magic time is over.

I will be eating my dinner in darkness when I begin to hear the music of Pak Sukarsa, the farmer next door. Jay plays his guitar at magic hour, but Sukarsa waits until nightfall to bang away on his bamboo invention, or to play flute. Or host a cackling storyteller.