From the Cork Republic

There are too many things I hate about travelling, especially flying. I hate the packing, the initial drive to the airport, the waiting, the checking-in, the crotch-grabbing security frisk, the crammed seats, the taxiing, the take-off, my ears popping and my head feeling woozy, the constant drone, the plastic drinking cups, the stale micro waved food, the toilets and the dreadful shaking of the plane just as you are trying to aim, the inability to 'go' because your entire rhythm is upset, the entertainment system that never works right when you want it to, the moron sitting in front who is insistent on reclining his seat and the one next to you on the inside going for a pee every 30 minutes, the fasten-your-seat-belts sign during a turbulence that convinces you that you are going to die, the inability to sleep but getting a crick in the neck regardless, the waiting at a foreign airport in transit, finally arriving and having the immigration officer look at you like you are a terrorist, waiting for your bags while you are dog tired and hoping it has not travelled to another city, and finally getting a taxi to your hotel. So I cannot understand why people travel, especially those who do it entirely for bragging rights ... 'oh, you should have been there, it was so-oo won-der-ful' type.

My journey to Cork was all of that except for the last part: Jennifer Matthew was there at the airport to pick us up -- me and my wife -- and Pat Cotter came to visit at the hotel as soon as I got there. With that special touch of Irish hospitality, my tiredness and irritation vanished. (Actually, I was really surprised to see Jennifer because I hadn't told anyone which flight I was taking exactly -- they simply worked through some assumptions and got it right, spot on. Incredible.)

I missed Shih-Li's reading because it was on the 17th and I arrived only on the 18th, but from what I heard from the others, it went off very well. Shih-Li said that everything was pretty low-keyed, and I didn't understand what she meant until I went to one of the readings. It was at four in the afternoon, and there were about thirty people. I get a bigger turnout at Silverfish readings, I thought, and Shih-Li confirmed that this is how it was. Where are the people of Cork, I asked? Maybe they have too many events like this, she said. I couldn't buy that. This was a major international event for God's sake, with one of the biggest prize money, and there are posters everywhere too. Not to mention that the Irish have such a rich literary tradition. Why, even the restaurant we had lunch in, had a whole wall dedicated to handsomely mounted poems by Irish poets -- Seamus Heaney and Pat Cotter amongst them.

Cork is not a big city, population about 200,000, maybe the size of Subang Jaya but less crowded -- no traffic jams were noticed. (The whole of Ireland only has about four and a half million people.) All venues were within walking distance, especially the official pub where we met every night -- kindly sponsored by the 'Bank of Frank'. We were told that there was a Gaelic Football final between County Cork and County Kerry (which apparently always wins) and to expect a 'fever'. (Gaelic football, I am told, is a cross between football and rugby, except that the ball is round, and scoring is done over and under the crossbar -- very useful, that.) Frankly, I saw more Man U and Liverpool T-shirts (Roy Keane is from Cork) than that of the Cork team (known as the Rebels) on the streets, and I had to walk into several shops before I could buy a souvenir for my son.

The turnout for the events later in the evening -- those at 7.00pm and 9.00pm -- were better, maybe more come after work, but still it was nowhere near our Litfest crowds. But, significantly, almost all those attending were either authors themselves or writers working in other forms. It was mostly a 'literate' turnout with few fans and 'groupies'. Maybe, it was a deliberate policy by the organisers, writers and poets themselves, to organise a festival by authors for authors. Not a bad thing, that. But, for once, I couldn't help wondering about a more commercial approach. Yes, there would be that certain amount of silliness that goes with it, but more books will be sold, more book will be signed, and the better media coverage for the authors could perhaps even take the art of the short story up one notch in the eyes of the public. (God forbid that I am developing a longing for 'Tan Sri-Tan Sri, Puan Sri-Puan Sri, Dato'-Dato', Datin-Datin ...' speeches, rows of plastic flowers in pots, cold teh-tarik, sickly-sweet air bandung and stale karipap!)

Cork is like any other European city -- they use the Euro but drive on the left. One Irish writer told me that most of the bookstores are owned by independents. But not independent minded, unfortunately. Waterstone's is there. Boring. Window dressing on all I saw was The Lost Symbol, Dan Brown's latest (except for one second hand shop in Kenmare, but that was closed). Still, I braved myself to walk into a couple. They looked like any other bookshop in the UK or the US, and Kuala Lumpur, apart from that one tiny section for Irish Lit. The sameness was numbing. (I remember a time when a visit to a bookshop was exciting; one never knew what one would find.)

But the Irish are amazing, so curious about outsiders and so hospitable. Yes, the hospitality won it for us. Thank you Pat, thank you Jennifer, for such a wonderful time in Cork. I know what goes into organising these events.

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