miscellaneous

Makassar Diary

Nearly all the drivers for the festival turned out to be women, most of them students at one of the city’s many Islamic universities.

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Makassar Diary
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Belting about

Walking out of the airport into the sultry heat of South Sulawesi, I had spices and literature on the mind. I was in Makassar, the largest city in eastern  Indonesia, to attend the Makassar International Writers Festival (MIWF), amongst the most remote literary festivals of the world. The city was historically an entrepot for the cloves, nutmeg and other Indonesian spices coveted by European traders. Today, it remains a bustling port, its docks lined  with two-masted pinisi (schooners of traditional make) loaded with cargo from across the archipelago. The city is also staunchly Muslim, having converted to Islam in the early 17th century. Visible symbols of religiosity like Islamic clothing are more commonplace here than in Jakarta and other parts of Java.

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I looked around for the driver who was supposed to pick me up, making hopeful eye contact with the line of waiting men at the exit. But it was a diminutive hijab-wearing girl at the edge of the crowd who eventually stepped forward to grab my bag. Nearly all the drivers for the festival turned out to be women, most of them students at one of the city’s many Islamic universities. My driver enjoyed blasting dance club numbers like Titanium as she drove around the city like Michael Schumacher. Without her seatbelt on.

An antique mind

The MIWF—held at Fort Rotterdam, a well-preserved collection of 16th-century harbour-front buildings—is the brainchild of local writer-feminist Lily Yulianty Farid. She founded the festival five years ago with nothing more than a prayer and a handful of sponsors. It is now the highlight of the city’s cultural calendar. Throngs of Makassarese, most of whom rarely read or buy books, gather at Fort Rotterdam to listen to authors from diverse countries—the Netherlands, Australia, Japan and India. Most writers, however, are from Indonesia, many from the periphery of the archipelago, places like Papua. They rarely get a platform to talk about their work.

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In vibe and setting, the MIWF is as imaginably opposite as can be to Indonesia’s other big litfest, organised in Udub, Bali, by a fashionable Australian restaurateur. The Udub festival lures big-ticket authors with sumptuous meals and stays at luxury resorts. Tickets sell for hundreds of dollars; there are pricey special events promising a chance to canoodle with favourite writers over aperitifs and canapes. The audience is largely of expats.

At the Makassar festival, we were put up in a three-star hotel where the toilet was too small to accommodate a sink. For most meals, we were handed nasi kotaks (cardboard boxes of rice with a simple accompaniment). No alcohol in sight. The audience was  exclusively local and the discussions  were conducted in Indonesian (with interpreters for those who needed them).

Wearing a stylish turban, Farid opened the festival alluding to the theme: ‘Knowledge and the Universe’. “There is only one name I think of when I think of knowledge and the universe,” she stated. Galileo? Stephen Hawking? “It can be no one but Karaeng Pattingalloang,” she continued, with a nice kick to the solar plexus of Eurocentrism. Luckily, Google was at hand. A prime minister of the 17th century Gowa Tallo kingdom, Pattingalloang was renowned for his intellectual curiosity and openness, having learnt many languages and gathered a library of works from around the world.

Flight fantasy

My main event was a public lecture at one of Makassar’s Islamic universities. It took a while to get started: first, there were two Quranic readings, then a prayer, an introduction by the head of the media & communications department and introductions by the deputy head, an MC and a moderator. Finally, I began and spoke of the resonance Indonesia has for an Indian. “Even your national airline is called Garuda,” I said. A sea of jilbabs (as hijabs are known here) bobbed in my direction, the faces blank. “Garuda, as in the mount of god Vishnu,” I continued. More befuddlement. To many of the Muslim students, Garuda was just some bird, its Hindu connotation lost. Not for the first time I was reminded of V.S. Naipaul’s description of Indonesians as a people “who remain mysterious to themselves”.

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What was more appreciated was when I talked about Indian arrogance and ignorance. Indians tend to believe that they are somehow uniquely diverse, contradictory, large, tolerant and complex, I said. “They believe that there is no other country that must manage such plurality of religion, language and ethnicity,” I continued. “But then I tell Indians that yes, there is. That country is called Indonesia and its your maritime neighbour and civilisational sibling.” My words were drowned in applause and appreciative whoops.

Stick Shift...

Every panel discussion ended with a tsunami of selfie-stick wielding youngsters charging the writers. A wireless selfie-stick is a thing of wonder.

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Jakarta-based foreign correspondent Pallavi Aiyar is the author of Punjabi Parmesan; E-mail your diarist: pallavi.aiyar [AT] gmail [DOT] com

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