Literally World Class

By Peter Marshall
Despite being a card-carrying Lankaphile, it has always struck me as odd that one of the world’s premier Literature festivals should take place in a small town in Sri Lanka. New York, Paris, London I could understand, but Galle? I know the country has a proud Literary past, with respected authors such as Carl Muller flying the flag, not to mention Michael Ondaatje, author of the Booker Prize winning ‘The English Patient’, who, in turn, set up Sri Lanka’s premier Literary award, The Gratiaen Prize. Still, even this seemed insufficient to explain the Festival’s growing popularity and stature?
I travelled down on the press bus that had been laid on for journalists for this year’s festival, to see what all the fuss was about, eager to see why Galle, of all places, had become the location of such a prestigious event. The transport laid on for the press and the wealth of information we were given was top class, a fact that was (as I would find out) synonymous with how well the event as a whole was administered.

Why only in Galle?
The Festival itself was spread over four days, and based around and within the majestic ruined Dutch Fort that Galle is famous for.
At the opening lecture, titled “Who Do You Think You Are”? (a talk given by five writers, presently living in different countries to that of their birth) a fellow journalist asked the panel, why the Festival had to be called the ‘Galle’ Festival every year, and couldn’t be moved around the island? This would of course be more egalitarian and afford more people the chance to see the Festival, who may be otherwise dissuaded by the long journey time (depending on where they live), but was, in essence, a moot point.
The interviewee, retorted that the reason it was called the ‘Galle’ Festival was that it was held in Galle, drawing a mixture of applause and laughter from the crowd.
Her remark may seem simplistic, but it’s the beauty of Galle itself that lends itself to such a festival, with the magnificence of the old Fort and the striking views of the fishing village, long beach and the seemingly endless Indian Ocean providing Festival goers with ample opportunities to get to take that memorable photograph to sum up the trip.
As I mentioned before, the Festival is nothing if not well run, with the perfect blend of Sri Lankan talent and local South Asian artistes, along with more internationally renowned writers; this year, the famous crime writer Ian Mcewan was, arguably, the most famous writer present.

What of local writers?
Another journalist made the complaint to me over lunch that the Festival didn’t do enough to promote the local writers.
“Do people like Ian Rankin or Gore Vidal need promoting?” he asked, in reference to this year’s and last year’s star attractions respectively.
And yet, it is the fact that local artistes are placed on the same podium as international names, without the organisers trying to force them upon the public in some nationalistic fervour that may well be one of the key factors in the Festival’s success. After all, many who attended the Festival are either ex-pats or people in Sri Lanka on holiday, who may well have been initially attracted to the event because of a household name, and in the process, were exposed to artistes and works that have their origins closer to home.

Something for everyone
This year’s event saw a wide range of readings, talks and interviews. There were also workshops such as the one “Writing for Children”, by Sandhya Rao, the “Young Adults Writing Workshop” given by Lal Medawattegadera, and advice on getting a novel published yourself, from author and journalist Louise Doherty. Concerts, poetry readings, historical programmes (such as Ismeth Raheem’s talk of her research of the secret histories and architecture of the island’s lighthouses), political talks, Galle Literary Festival seems to have covered all the bases, whether the member of the public be interested in a specific artiste (many were only too happy to sign copies of their work), general fans of Literature or aspiring writers themselves.
The Literary dining experience seemed a very popular theme e.g. Chef, Peter Kuruvita’s talk over lunch of his new book, Antony Beevor and Artemis Cooper’s dinner party, where they told stories of Paris after the Liberation. Even Ian Rankin got in on the act; instead of merely holding a typical lecture of his work, his ‘Detectives At The Bar’ slot allowed fans to join him at the bar and ask him questions about becoming a crime writer (something Rankin is rather well qualified to talk of).
Despite its beauty – both the Fort itself and the breathtaking natural scenery - Galle is perhaps worth seeing, but not worth going to see, to borrow the phrase from Dr Samuel Johnson. By that, I simply mean that there isn’t much there to hold your interest for more than a few hours; though that is clearly turned on its head, when the Galle Literary Festival is in town.
The ruined Fort is a perfect backdrop for such an event; between lectures/shows, drinks and food were available outside, where people sat by the walls of the Fort and enjoyed their food and drink, entertained by live musicians. There was also a large bookshop, selling many of the titles the guests of the Festival were reading from, all reasonably priced.

An aura of its own
The Galle Literary Festival was a great experience, a fact probably owed to the variety of attractions on offer, along with the equality given to each person, whether local or internationally famous; you couldn’t help but feel that this was hundred percent about enjoying Literature in all its forms, without the snobbery that often comes with the medium.
To answer my initial question, perhaps it’s the fact that Galle isn’t the place you’d expect to find a world class Literature festival that makes it work so well.
A fellow journalist and myself pondered the question of how the expected surge in tourism would affect the future of the Festival, concluding that it could stand to improve it - depending on how the organisers reacted of course - to the increased volume of festival-goers (it would be a shame if prices were to go up due to an increase in tourist traffic, possibly deterring Sri Lankans themselves from going).
Like the ruins of the Dutch Fort itself and the rich historical treasures the island has to offer, the Galle Literary Festival is yet another attraction that Sri Lanka has been blessed with, to entice visitors to its shores, and it is, therefore imperative, that it is treated with the utmost care. Tourism may well bring home the bacon in future years, but it may be the Galle Literary Festival that puts Sri Lanka on the world map.

World’s Local Designs

By Shabna Cader
Fashion is just about everything and everywhere; it’s not just a style but a statement and an art of life. The HSBC Colombo Fashion Week 2010 once again came to life on February 5, 6 and 7 at the Colombo Hilton, with a number of new and talented young local designers as well as famous and prestigious international designers.

“The HSBC Colombo Fashion Week (CFW) began in 2003, when I realised that there was a tremendous amount of potential in Sri Lanka for designers and the Fashion industry, but there was nothing that had been done to promote it” said Ajay Singh, Founder of HSBC CFW. “This year, we had a different event altogether; generally Fashion weeks held abroad are theatre-like, but we are vertically integrated and pick very young designer who shows promise in this fast-growing industry, and also invite foreign designers who can guide them to survive” he added.

This the largest Fashion Week ever to have been held in Colombo, with famous designers from around the world, including Spain’s number one, Agatha Dela Prada, will be showcasing their designs and creations. CFW is organised in a manner that Sri Lankan designers would be able to showcase their work in Fashion Weeks held in Malaysia, Miami, Russia etc, and their designers would come and showcase here. “It’s a way of uplifting the Industry, and we will be having 30 shows in all, 10 each night, and it’s a great opportunity for the Industry to experience such an event in our country” exclaimed Singh.

Watch out for the creations of Darshi and Kanchana who made it big in the previous year, and also have a look at some of the newest designs by Arugam Bay, Hameedias, Rohit Bal, Tarun Tahiliani and many more innovative designers.

Singh also mentioned that this is a great opportunity for companies and brands to show their support for such an event, and sponsor the HSBC CFW. “This is actually a perfect way for brands such as Unilever and Lux etc to advertise and sponsor, but unfortunately, many corporates don’t make use of the event, even though it shows great potential, but nevertheless, there is always a next time to join in!”

The Colombo Hilton will be showing their support by showcasing some of the designers’ creations on their ever-famous pyramid at the Lobby, of which, the proceeds will go to the School for the Deaf & Blind, Ratmalana. Special offers to stay over at night for the duration of the event, are also up for grabs for those who wish to buy a limited number of tickets, and as this is the last night of the event, hurry and get them! A special treat awaits at every outlet including the Spices restaurant, which will show the previous night’s events on a special screen, and Spoons which will feature two Indian designers’ favourite dishes in their set menu. Head over to the Thorana Lounge this afternoon for High Tea at The Blend, and chit-chat with the designers participating in the CFW.

HSBC Premier Cardholders will have an opportunity to dine for free at any of Colombo Hilton’s outlets as well, so what are you waiting for?

By Sir Christopher Ondaatje
The great and scandalous Sir Richard Burton—Victorian explorer, anthropologist, orientalist and translator of Arabian erotica—is one of my driving influences. I have read almost everything he wrote, except, of course, the papers notoriously incinerated by his widow. I have tracked his footsteps halfway around the world. And I have written two books about him. Sindh Revisited traces his early wandering life in what is now Pakistan; Journey to the Source of the Nile replicates his ill-fated journey with John Hanning Speke to find the headwaters of the world’s longest river.

However, until 2009, I had never visited Syria, where Burton spent two intense years as His Majesty’s consul from 1869-71, with his adoring wife Isabel. They were the turning point of his life. Nicknamed the Emperor and Empress of Damascus, the Burtons reached their zenith in Syria- before his cruelly abrupt recall by the Foreign Office, for upsetting one too many powerful local interests.

Unfortunately, the reader finds little of his Syrian romance in his writings. But happily, Isabel, in her private journal published as The Inner Life of Syria, Palestine and the Holy Land, in 1875, gives us the magic. After riding home into Damascus from the desert, she wrote: “It was evening. First of all, we saw a belt of something dark lining the horizon; then we entered by degrees under the trees, the orchards and the gardens. We smelt the water from afar like a thirsty horse; we heard it gurgling long before we came to it; we scented and saw the limes, citrons and watermelons. We felt a mad desire to jump into the water, to eat our fill of fruit, to lie down and sleep under the delicious shade. At last we reached the door. The house seemed to me like a palace of comfort.”

The allure of Syria, at last proved too much for me. But I did not want to go alone. Somehow, I convinced my wife Valda that, together, we should spend a little time experiencing something of what captivated Isabel Burton, along with other intrepid Englishwomen who lost their hearts to the Middle East, such as Lady Hester Stanhope (1776-1839), the first Western woman to visit the ruined oasis city of Palmyra, the much-married Lady Jane Digby El-Mezrab (1807-1881), whose last husband was a Bedouin sheikh 20-years her junior, and Gertrude Bell (1868-1926), who worked with T.E. Lawrence in Aleppo, and drew up the boundaries of the modern State of Iraq. My wife knew that we would have to stray a bit off the beaten track. “Don’t worry,” she said, adding Burton’s often-quoted message to a stoic Isabel, after he was sacked as consul: “I will ‘pack and follow’.”

Arriving in Damascus by air, we were collected by a driver, who, after tortuous circling, dropped us near midnight in the Old Town. We walked a quarter of a mile along narrow cobbled streets to the ancient door of an exquisitely decorated courtyard: the entrance to the small Beit al-Mamlouka hotel. Though exhausted, we were already spellbound by the city, which is among the world’s oldest continuously inhabited urban sites.
In the early morning, like every morning we spent in Syria, we were woken by muezzins calling the faithful. I love the sound, just as Burton did; there was a mosque adjoining his house in Damascus. Even if I did not get up, I would lie in bed listening, and think of all the things I could and should do. Early morning is when I get my best ideas.

There is a lot to see in Damascus, and we walked for miles and miles, constantly aware of past imperial influences: Amorite, Egyptian, Aramaean, Assyrian, Chaldean, Persian, Greek, Roman and Byzantine. The first Islamic caliphate, the Umayyad, made its capital here. The Umayyad Mosque, Damascus’s most impressive building and Islam’s holiest place after Mecca and Jerusalem’s Dome of the Rock, was constructed by Caliph al-Walid in the early eighth century. When we visited- my wife clothed in a grey full-length robe and a head scarf, and our guide carrying my sandals, so my hands were free for photography- we saw groups of religious scholars deep in debate, as well as pilgrims praying towards Mecca. But there were also families, literally picnicking in the shade of the covered perimeter of the vast courtyard, happy to escape the clamour of the streets.

Disappointingly, no trace remains of the Burton house in the hill village of Salihiyya, now a suburb of Damascus, nor of the apricot orchards mentioned by Isabel. But in the Protestant cemetery near Bab al-Sharqi, we found the grave of the Burtons’ intimate friend, Jane Digby, a marble tomb with her name on the side. Three mysterious words, written by her Bedouin husband, are chiselled at the foot. They spell her title and name in Arabic. I recalled reading how in 1871, with tears in her eyes, Jane rode with a desolate Isabel to the gates of the city, to bid her companion farewell.

We too, were keen to escape into the desert, following the Burtons’ 150-mile journey on horseback from Damascus to Palmyra, a “splendid city of the dead rising out of, and half buried in, a sea of sand”, wrote Isabel. Her husband’s main reason for going there was “his private wish to explore”, but it was also his official duty to open up the country, “now infested with hordes of wild Bedouin tribes, who attacked, robbed, and killed right and left.” We may have been travelling by jeep, not horses; but I was determined to meet some Bedouin nomads.

Before a brilliant desert sunset, after a day spent among Palmyra’s spectacular Roman pillars and arches, I went with our guide to an isolated Bedouin camp a few miles away. We approached slowly and respectfully on foot. The first tent housed a sheep herder whose wife was milking their flock. After a friendly conversation, the herdsman allowed photography. His wife and two children stayed in the background. But at a second camp, a younger woman talked enthusiastically and apparently humorously. Was I looking for a Bedouin wife? I said I was already married. She said that didn’t matter, she could negotiate the purchase of a young bride. A figure of $200,000 was mentioned. “Don’t worry about the price”, my guide explained. “These things are always negotiable, if you are interested.” There was laughter all round. I got the feeling she was negotiating for herself. I knew that Jane Digby had spent some of her happiest times around Palmyra, with her husband’s tribe, the Mezrabis.

From Palmyra, we passed through empty desert, via Homs and Hama (ancient Epiphania), famous for its giant water wheels still turned by the Orontes River, to Aleppo. As ancient as Damascus, Aleppo had become the third city of the Ottoman Empire after Istanbul and Cairo, by the 16th century. Not until the opening of the Suez Canal in 1869, when Burton was consul, did Aleppo begin crumbling into a relic. Today, though, sensitive and imaginative architectural restoration, with funds from the Syrian government and the Aga Khan Foundation, has restored Aleppo’s pride in its past. We stayed in a hotel converted from a lavish 16th-century palace.

The city’s most famous sight is its souk, teeming with shoppers, travellers, donkeys and varied scents. It winds for an amazing 30y kilometres, roofed with a stone vault, with openings to admit light and air. We enjoyed at least three hours here, buying dishdashas, necklaces, old scarves and curios, including a stone falcon and an old Syrian knife for my collection. I haggled over an intricately carved silver and lapis necklace for my wife, until the store-owner, with resignation, asked me: “Why are you arguing over a few Syrian pounds, when your tall, slim, beautiful wife has an extraordinary South-Sea pearl necklace around her neck?” I paid his price.
Despite Aleppo’s excitements, we had to get back to Damascus, where we had two appointments with the past, before our final departure. We wanted to see Jane Digby’s house; also, to talk our way into the old British Consulate where Burton held court for two years.

Her house, tucked away outside the Old City walls, was formerly surrounded by orchards and gardens. She designed, built and furnished it herself in classic Damascus style, with a high octagonal ceiling decorated with European wallpaper. The ceiling is there, though with hardly any wallpaper; and ornate wood cupboards are still set into the walls. The building is divided among 30 different families, and in a terrible state. The current owners of the main part, who were extremely hospitable to us, keep a portrait of Digby over their mantelpiece. At the old consulate, by contrast, inside the Old City, there is no sign of Burton, yet the wonderful courtyard and magnificent gilt reception room where he must have received visitors, are excellently preserved. The Aga Khan Foundation is considering turning the building into another small hotel.

Our days in Syria had been rushed, but enthralling. As we packed with regret, I felt I could understand just a twinge of the Burtons’ anguish, when forced to leave Syria forever. It was a sad moment, when I put my boots, still clouded with the dust of the desert, into my suitcase. My heart is still out there with the nomadic ghost of Richard Burton.

(Sir Christopher Ondaatje is the author of Sindh Revisited, Journey to the Source of the Nile and Woolf in Ceylon. He is a trustee of the National Portrait Gallery.)

Source: The Sri Lankan Anchorman, Toronto, Canada