Unimagined

Emirates Airline Festival of Literature 2010 (Dubai): 'How stupid do you think I am?

Emirates Airline Festival of Literature 2010 (Dubai):
'How stupid do you think I am?'



This one had too much rich content and too many photographs for me to struggle to do it in Typepad, so I did a webpage for it:

http://www.unimagined.org/eafl2010.html

Please post Comments here on TypePad.

UWRF 2009: 'Please take off your clothes and lie down, Mr Imran,' she says.

UWRF 2009: 'Please take off your clothes and lie down, Mr Imran,' she says.

 

 

Pre-reading:

 

Edinburgh 2008

 

Ubud 2008

 

 

SATURDAY 3 OCTOBER

 

Travel to Heathrow Terminal 3 and join queue at Emirates desk for the flight to Dubai.  Don’t even bother to humiliate myself by trying the I’m-going-to-a-writers-festival-so-I-must-be-a-writer-shouldn’t-you-upgrade-me approach.  It has never worked.

 

At the gate, there’s a soft security screening technique in effect, whereby they look at your passport/boarding card and engage you in conversation.  Presumably if you’re nervous, sweating and muttering Arabic to yourself, that’s an indication you should be screened a bit further.

 

‘And where are you off to today, sir?’

 

‘Indonesia.’

 

‘Business or pleasure?’

 

‘Both.  I’m a writer – I’m going to a literary festival.’

 

‘And do you have any large amounts of currency on you?’

 

‘No, we writers don’t generally have large amounts of money.’

 

‘Unless you’re J K Rowling, of course.’

 

‘Ahh yes, she’s our Goddess.’

 

 

Emirates A380 flight to Dubai is fine, food is good.  Sleep my way there. 

 

This was not my seat 

  

 

 

SUNDAY 4 OCTOBER

 

Four hours to kill in Dubai Airport, which is really a huge, bright shopping mall.  I wander over to the Emirates Transit Restaurant, where my printed itinerary gains me entry, and access to free food and drink.  (Like I really need to eat more free food.)  I only have a few samosas. 

 

 

 

Check my e-mail on my iPod, with the free wireless internet.

 

A Moroccan man sits at my table.  We communicate in sign language.  I tell him it’s 2:20 AM.  He tells me that he’s going on a pilgrimage to Mecca. 

 

Wander over to Starbucks and have a decaff latte, then head for my gate. The gate area for the Jakarta flight is crowded with Indonesian-looking people.  It looks busy.  Hurry on-board when they announce boarding; my seat is at the front of Economy; stow my attaché case, smart blazer and shoes; put on slippers from Business Class trip ten years ago; sleep my way to Jakarta.  (Apart from waking up to eat delicious food.)

 

Jakarta Airport.  It’s modern and spacious.  I’m one of the first off the flight, and speed ahead.  Now … let me get this right … the UWRF people told me what to do last year (when I arrived in Bali directly).  For Visa-on-Arrival, you need to pay the equivalent of 25 US dollars, but if you actually have 25 US dollars, it’s quicker.  Join the relatively short Visa-on-Arrival queue, which is running alongside two counters.  I have my passport, immigration form and 25 US dollars clearly visible in my hand. 

 

 

A man behind the first counter sees the 25 US dollars, beckons me to give him my papers, and then quickly returns them to me with a receipt for 25 US dollars.  The people in the line in front of me are queuing for the second counter.  I was right – it’s much quicker if you actually have the fee in US dollars. 

 

I quit the line and race down to Immigration.  The line for Foreigners is quite short.  There’s an Englishman with a Yuppie voice speaking on his mobile phone, in the line immediately in front of me. 

   

When he’s off the phone, I say, ‘It’s really quick today.’

 

‘Oh, is it?’ he replies.  (Novice.)

 

The couple in front of us reach the counter and the Immigration man is shaking his head and pointing them back in the direction we came from.

 

‘Oh, it looks like they haven’t paid their Visa-on-Arrival fee,’ I say to the Yuppie.  (Am I slightly smug?  No, it’s not that, it’s that I am experienced and knowledgeable.)

 

‘Oh, neither have I,’ says the Yuppie, and asks me where it is. 

 

As I point him in the right direction, I try to feel only gratitude for the opportunity to be of service to my fellow human beings. 

 

Now I’m at the counter and I hand the Immigration officer my papers. 

 

‘Sir,’ he says, gently, ‘This is not Visa-on-Arrival, it’s receipt for fee.  You show them this receipt at second counter, and they will issue you with Visa-on-Arrival.’

 

Ugh … now I remember … Bali, last year.  First counter – pay the $25 and get a receipt.  Second counter – show the receipt and get issued with a Visa-on-Arrival.  Then proceed to Immigration.

 

I rush back to the Visa-on-Arrival counter and now the queue is enormous, as everyone has managed to get off the plane.  Queue behind the Yuppie and feel foolish. 

 

I have achieved a state of Instant Karma.  The slightest smugness on my part results in a fall immediately, so that balance may be restored as soon as possible. 

 

Forty-five minutes later, pass through Immigration and collect suitcase. 

 

Indonesia is the world’s most populous Muslim-majority country, but it’s not an Islamic state.  In the baggage hall, there’s a billboard for a chemical company, showing a couple both wearing jeans which contain a chemical from that company.  They are embracing, and each has a hand on the other’s backside.  So, it’s not like Saudi Arabia here, then.

    

Outside, there’s a man in the crowd waving a copy of my new Indonesian paperback, which they’ve given the title Bocah Muslim de Negeri James Bond.  (A Muslim boy in the land of James Bond.)

  

 

 

Originally, they were going with Muhammad, Jezus dan James Bond, but decided that this might upset some people, as it might be construed to imply that James Bond was as important as Muhammad or Jesus.  But to a teenage boy, who is told in regular school that he should behave like Jesus – peace and love – and in Islamic school that he should be a good Muslim – like Muhmmad – but in reality wants to be like James Bond, I think that would be a fair reflection, in terms of influence.  This title would probably have generated a lot of publicity and maybe even got me a free cottage holiday in Wales with a minder from MI5 (again, not necessarily a bad thing, depending on what she looks like), but I can understand why the publisher decided not to go for it. 

   

Indra is my Indonesian editor – he looks younger than I imagined.  We wait patiently for the car, which stops right on the zebra crossing to pick us up.

  

‘I say, old chap, you really shouldn’t stop …. Oh, who cares?’

  

There’s something deliciously laissez-faire about this place. 

 

  

 

Indra takes me to my hotel, which looks like a converted colonial mansion house – where I quickly shower and change –  and then out to dinner.  We eat in an open roadside establishment – the most delicious, spicy seafood.  Then he takes me to a supermarket and buys me whatever I want: bottled water, chocolate and nuts.  Then to a phone shop, where he buys me an Indonesian sim card.  Finally, he returns me to my hotel and gives me an envelope of spending money.  This is a full service publisher.

  

Sleep soundly.

  

  

MONDAY 5 OCTOBER

 

Breakfast in the hotel is a buffet of delicious ‘takeaway' style fried food, rice and noodles – and I can eat as much as I want.  This trip is going to kill me.

   

Spend the morning on some personal admin, then decide to explore Jakarta.  They told me that this hotel is very central, so it should be easy to find a shopping mall, perhaps a bookshop with my book!

  

I’m going to walk, and all I have to do is decide which direction to go out of the hotel, left or right.

 

I ask the security guard, using my best all-purpose-Foreign, combined with sign language.

 

‘I go walking.  I go shopping.  Which way I go?  I go this way or I go that way?’

   

The security guard calls someone else over, who I deduce can speak English.

 

‘I go walking.  I go shopping.  Which way I go?  I go this way or I go that way?’

  

‘I no speak English,’ he says.

 

Which, apparently, is more than the security guard can say.

 

If the hotel is centrally located, it shouldn’t matter. Either way should work.  I set off.  Past old colonial style houses, many with security guards sitting or standing in front.  Most of them smile and nod at me.  I have to walk in the road, as large trees have been systematically planted in the middle of the paved sidewalks.  Plenty of traffic, mostly scooters, and incessant horns being sounded as the multitude of vehicles lurch together wildly without ever managing to collide.

 

 

Here’s an area of commerce: stalls selling food; a tethered goat; a woman breastfeeding her child; men squatting and playing cards; drivers offering me a ride; a giant poster for a BMW dealer, complete with Hindu goddess; a cat that looks on the verge of starvation.  It’s hot, humid and the traffic fumes hang thick in the air. 

 

 

 

 

 

I think I had in mind an indoor air conditioned mall and a modern bookshop.   

 

Here’s a Western woman walking towards me.  I make the assumption that she speaks English and say ‘Excuse me’.

 

She’s Australian, so I was close.  She doesn’t seem troubled to engage in conversation with me, offers to walk me towards a more modern shopping area – she was heading that way anyway – then buys me a coffee in a cool, relaxed café.  Her name is Amanda Simmonds and she works for the Australian embassy.  Then she calls her friend/colleague Katheryn Bennett, and the two of them take me to dinner in a delightful Vietnamese restaurant, where I eat spicy, crispy fish.  We have a wonderful conversation, and then they insist on paying, and then walk me back to my hotel.  I say goodbye like they are old friends.

 

 

Katheryn, Amanda et moi

 

This is the problem with Australians – ask them directions and they overwhelm you with friendliness (see ‘Perth 2009’ and ‘Byron Bay 2009’).  Be warned.

  

  

 

TUESDAY 5 OCTOBER

 

The publisher has arranged a car at 7 AM, to take me to the airport, for my 9:30 AM flight to Bali.  Check-in with no problem; security is thorough, but lacks the drama and cold intensity of the US; the terminal is cool and exuberantly spacious. 

 

Breakfast at Starbucks and check my e-mail.

 

Head for the Gate area.  Looking around the huge ‘Gate 4’ sign, where my fellow passengers are seated, I can’t see anywhere that actually leads to an aircraft.  There’s a Western woman sitting here reading a novel, so I ask her.  Strangely, she looks vaguely familiar.  She’s Australian, was at the Ubud Festival last year, and is going again this year.

  

She explains that we wait here, and then walk over to a different place for boarding, when the flight is called.  When she learns that I am planning to take a taxi to Ubud from the airport at Denpasar, she offers to give me a ride in the car she has booked.  Australian!

  

The flight to Bali is charming and comfortable, and I have a window seat to observe the volcanoes.  Something strange happens though: I develop the most awful backache, in my lower back, left side.  I virtually hobble, rather than walk, to the baggage area at Denpasar. 

  

Faye and I have a drink in Starbucks whilst we wait for her driver – our flight was early.

  

It’s wonderful to be back in Bali, and I savour the one hour drive to Ubud – the rice fields, temples, statues, smiling people.  It’s magical, apart from the awful pain in my back. 

 

Faye drops me at the Ubud Inn and says she’ll see me around.

    

Last time I stayed in Bali, I had a villa at the Four Seasons in Jimbaran, and a townhouse at the Four Seasons near Ubud.  Now I have a one room cottage in the gardens of the Ubud Inn.  It’s okay though: charming wooden furniture and a cool tiled floor.  A large Balinese ant scuttles across the room.  This being a Hindu island, of course I don’t stamp on the ant, but wish it peace and divine blessings.  To stamp on the ant would risk returning as one in my next incarnation, and suffering a similar fate.

  

    

 

 

 

 

Is that it?  I was in the Four Seasons last year, y'know

 

 
  

I turn up the air conditioner, unpack, shower, put on shorts and my ‘Happy Man’ t-shirt, and walk out into Ubud, heading for the centre of town. 

 

I realise that this is new to me – walking in Ubud.  I never noticed before the uneven pavements, the fascinating handicrafts in the countless souvenir shops, the occasional woman-with-baby-begging.  How can this be?  Oh, because last time, I was buffered in the alternative universe of the distant Four Seasons resort, was taken to events in an air conditioned car, and never walked anywhere.  Now, I am experiencing Ubud, on the ground. 

 

 

 

My back is killing me. I have to find Janet DeNeefe and get her to recommend a healer.  Having read her deeply moving book, ‘Fragrant Rice’, I know that will work. 

 

There are banners for UWRF 2009 everywhere.  Past the Palace, heading for Janet’s restaurant Casa Luna, there are roadworks in Ubud – how strangely mundane!  Casa Luna is a peaceful, tranquil haven from the heat, noise and dust of the road digging, but Janet isn’t here.  There is a blonde woman sitting here on a sofa, reading ‘Fragrant Rice’  and I could so easily initiate a conversation (‘That’s a great book!’), but the pain in my back gives me other priorities.  I have one of Casa Luna’s delightful mixed juice drinks, and head back out into the heat. 

  

 

At Indus restaurant, the heart of the Festival events, there is a lot of frenetic activity – vehicles, crowds of men, chairs and sofas being carried about.  A dark haired woman has her back to me, is speaking urgently and intensely on a mobile phone.  Of course, it’s Janet – calm and dignified, despite everything that’s not how it should be.  I tell her about my back, and she says that any of the reputable spas in Ubud should be able to fix it with a massage. 

  

Down in the Festival office, a volunteer is looking for my welcome pack.  A crowd of people are buying tickets and looking at the event posters.  I walk past a table and my small backpack brushes against a bald, middle-aged Asian man.  He glares at me for an instant, and I glare back.  The blonde woman with him looks startled for a moment.  Negative energy sparks fly.  Men!  

 

Outside, Sarah Tooth, this year’s Programme Director, greets me warmly and then introduces me to bald, middle-aged Mo Tejani, author of ‘A Chameleon’s Tale’, and his blonde partner.  He greets me enthusiastically and they invite me to join them for a drink.  We sit out on the delightful terrace of Indus.  Our conversation is enthusiastic – we have so much in common.  (The incident in the office never happened.)

 

With Mo Tejani

  

There’s a drinks reception for the writers at the Four Seasons hotel.  I’ve left it a bit late to change, so I have to go there on one of the shuttles, still in my shorts and t-shirt.  It doesn’t seem right for the Four Seasons – I stayed here last year, you know. 

 

 Arriving at cocktail party at Four Seasons.  (I'd love to meet her!)

 

Vivacious Jeni Caffin

 

Here’s Catriona Mitchell, last year’s Programme Director.  She’s as gorgeous and radiant as ever.  I don’t even bother to pull my stomach in – forget it, man, she’s way out of your league.

 

I know her!

 

Here’s Fatima Bhutto, of the Bhutto Dynasty. She’s vivacious and not aloof.  Alas, that will all change when she’s sucked into Pakistani politics – the destroyer of souls.  She seems friendly enough, and is very attractive.  I can see why George Clooney was interested (but not enough to move to Pakistan, apparently).  Anyway, she can’t be a Pakistani politician – she doesn’t have a moustache. 

 

 

So many beautiful women ... and they can spell ...

 

Shuttles take us to dinner at another exquisite resort and finally Kellie Jones and Liz Ralf – both Australians, of course – give me a ride back to the Ubud Inn in their car.

 

Janet De Neefe welcomes us

 

 

Writers' welcome dinner

 

Liz Ralf and Kellie Jones

  

Wireless internet access at the Ubud Inn is only in the Reception and restaurant area.  I’m sitting here at midnight, with my laptop, doing my e-mail.

 

A dark haired man in a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms comes to the reception desk and tells the nightwatchman that it’s too noisy and he can’t sleep.  Apparently, the people upstairs from him are moving about too much. He has a soft voice and a foreign accent – I think it might be East European or German. 

  

The nightwatchman calls the offending room, and says: ‘Can you be quiet.’  His English is not sophisticated enough to do this tactfully.

 

I think: ‘Bloody tourist.  You can’t have everything your own way.  There’s bound to be some background noise in this place. Get used to it.’

 

I’ve never had a problem sleeping and I tend to be unsympathetic with people who need everything in their environment to be just perfect. 

 

Return to cottage and sleep soundly.  I love Bali.

  

 

 

WEDNESDAY 7 OCTOBER

 

The Balinese ant is in the bathroom.  My back still hurts.  I’ve got to get it sorted.

  

Breakfast in the delightful open restaurant.  By ‘open’, I mean it has no walls – typical of Balinese architecture.   The staff are pleasant, polite and attentive.

 

Here’s my theory about the Balinese.  They are actually very advanced souls who have been given an incarnation in Bali as a reward for being so far ahead of the rest of us.  We think they serve us by cleaning our hotel rooms and bringing us drinks.  But actually, they serve in a much more profound way – by demonstrating the merits of an attitude of peace, compassion, humility, graciousness and joy. 

 

A dark haired man sits at the adjacent table.  Suddenly, he says to me, ‘Excuse me, don’t I know you from Perth Writers Festival?’

 

It’s Najaf Mazari – ‘The Rugmaker of Mazar-E-Sharif’.  I thought he looked familiar!

 

Robert Hillman, his Australian co-author, joins us and we all have a wonderful conversation. 

 

Then Najaf says: ‘Last night I could not sleep.  The room above was making too much noise.  I had to tell the front desk to ask them to be quiet.’

 

Robert explains to me:  ‘When Najaf lived in Afghanistan, a missile came through the roof of his house and exploded, killing two members of his family.  Now he finds it very difficult to sleep – any sudden noise wakes him in a panic.’

 

I nod in sympathy and say nothing. 

   

‘You see Imran, “Judge not, lest ye be judged.”’

  

‘I’m sorry, Holy Spirit.  It was wrong of me to leap to judgment.  Thank you for letting me learn the lesson without too much pain.’

 

 

I ask the front desk about a massage and they say the place next door does them.  

 

At the Wibawa Resort and Spa, I sign-up for a traditional Balinese massage.  She leads me through an endless succession of terraces and garden areas, with elaborate statues and pools of water, to a room with open architecture, including an outdoor bath and shower.

 

  And lead us not into temptation ...

 

But deliver us from evil ...

 

 

 

 

‘Please take your clothes off and lie down, Mr Imran.’

 

She puts a sarong over my middle.  My hour-long massage is very precise, sharp, sometimes brutal.  Through the face hole in the couch, I can see her toes as she stands in front of my head, but surely those can’t be her hands laying into my back so powerfully.  She must be just the ‘front man’ and a big, muscular guy must have come in quietly to do the actual massage. 

 

But she makes me turn over and there’s no-one else in the room. 

 

Finally, it’s over and she leaves me to shower and dress. 

 

My back does feel better!

  

 

The security guard at the Ubud Inn gives me a scooter ride to Indus, where I meet my publicist Fan Fan, from my Indonesian publisher Mizan.  Have a drink on the wonderful terrace of Indus, with its magnificent view.  Surely there’s nothing better than being a writer at UWRF. 

  

We check out the venue for my workshop – a delightful meeting room with open walls – and then Fan Fan gives me a lift back to the Ubud Inn on his rented scooter. 

 

In the restaurant area, he introduces me to another Mizan writer, Peer Holm Jorgensen from Denmark, who has written ‘The Forgotten Massacre’ about the extermination of ten of thousands of people labelled ‘Communist’ in Indonesia in 1965.  It’s a sobering conversation.

Peer Holm Jorgensen

  

To Ubud Palace in the evening for delicious canapés and the magnificent opening ceremony, with the sounding of the gong. 

 

Dr Janet Steele arrives at Ubud Palace 

 

Shamini Flint of 'Inspector Singh Investigates' fame

 

 

Janet De Neefe

 

I’m having a bit of déjà vu. 

  

Walk over to Casa Luna, for the writers’ dinner.  I am invited to sit with the Byron Bay Writers Festival delegation, as I was their Number One Bestselling author in 2009.  Jeni Caffin says that she recently attended a conference of literary festival directors in Dubai, which is planning its own literary festival.  She was asked for recommendations and gave them my name, inter alia.  They will fly writers to the Dubai Festival by Business Class on Emirates.  Business Class!  Finally! 

 

I was planning to walk back to the Ubud Inn, but some Mizan people have a car and give me a ride back. 

 

Swim in the pool alone at 1 AM, for exercise and cooling.  Try not to make too much noise – don’t want to disturb anyone. 

 

 

  

THURSDAY 8 OCTOBER

 

Breakfast, delightful chat with Australian publisher Cathy Lewis, then hotel car to Indus area, for my workshop in neighbouring facility. 

  

It’s a half-day workshop on my publishing journey.  The audience is entirely women and they seem very interested.  One of the volunteers, Tara, turns out to be a friend of Maril Crabtree – an American writer who helped me on my journey.  I had dinner with Maril in Kansas City earlier this year, during my US speaking tour.  It’s an absurdly small world. 

 

'First you write a good book ... then you get it published ... let's have some cake ...'

  

The audience all studiously fill out their evaluation forms with very intense expressions.  I wonder what they have written. 

  

Eat some of the cake from my workshop for lunch, sit awhile with Tara in some landscaped garden – we’re not sure who it belongs to – then manage to attend some literary sessions. 

 

Bejan Matur, Stephen McCarty, Fatima Bhutto -- in conversation

 

 

My camera loves her

 

  

I’m sitting sprawled out and relaxed on my favourite sofa at one side of the Indus lounge, enjoying a session hosted by Jeni Caffin, when Andy Ewing – one of the UWRF managers – comes up to me.

  

‘Have you got your book with you?’

  

‘Yes.’

  

‘Is there anything in it about chocolate?’

  

Pause to think.  ‘Yes’.

  

‘Can you come to do a session?  We’ve lost some writers.’

  

Of course, I agree, and he takes me to a waiting car and thence to a spacious villa complex, where an event about chocolate and literature is in session ... with free chocolate being given away.  Apparently, some African writers scheduled for this event failed to show up (probably due to visa issues) and I was required to stand-in.  Janet De Neefe is here and so is Catriona Mitchell, so I have to impress. 

 

Free chocolate

I have to do well -- Catriona's in the audience

I have barely sat down when the MC says, ‘Please welcome Imran Ahmad.’

I manage to stall the audience with some talk about the importance of chocolate, whilst I find the relevant place in my book, and then I read the passage and insert some additional references to chocolate which I make up as I go along. 

  

(Note to all literary festival directors:  I am a full service writer.) 

    

Janet gives me a ride to Casa Luna and, as I’m getting out of her car, invites me to a dinner event this evening.   

  

‘Unfortunately I can’t.  I have a commitment for dinner.’

  

‘I hope she’s pretty.’

  

‘It’s Ron Stones.’ 

  

(Ronald Stones OBE, the Director of the Green School in Bali, is a distinguished, cultured, learned, wise, refined and amiable man.  But probably not ‘pretty’.)

 

Get a ride back to Indus and enjoy a mango juice with Andy Ewing, Sarah Tooth and Michelle Cahill.

  

This time is priceless. 

 

I’ve only got 30,000 Rupiah in my wallet and I need 50,000 to pay for a car ride back to the Ubud Inn.  Julie Silvester, a Festival volunteer, overhears me trying to find a scooter ride and offers to share a car, as she lives right by the Ubud Inn.  She’s been in Bali seven months and is starting a business. 

 

Shower and change.  Ron Stones’ car picks me up at 7 pm and takes me to his magnificent villa, where I have dinner with some of his school staff.  They all seem to be wonderful, upbeat, cheerful people. 

  

Get a ride back and sit awhile with Peer Holm Jorgensen in the deserted restaurant area of the Ubud Inn. 

  

 

 

FRIDAY 9 OCTOBER

 

My back is hurting again.  An intense pain in the lower back, on the left side.

  

Have breakfast with Cathy Lewis and Najaf Mazari.  

 

Najaf Mazari, 'The Rugmaker of Mazar-E-Sharif', arrives for breakfast. Such a gentle soul.

  

Get a scooter ride to Indus.  Sarah Tooth gives me a massage voucher for Bali Botanica Day Spa, as a reward for helping out at the chocolate and literature event.  Sit on steps of Indus and chat with Jeni Caffin – one of the nicest, most upbeat, joyful and spiritual people I have ever met. 

   

At 10 am, a car arrives to take me to the Green School, for my tour and lunch.  This is such an important subject, that I’m going to write a separate piece about it, and link to it here.

  

Get a ride back to Ubud Inn, and go for a walk around the nearby shops. 

  

Indra and Fan Fan are waiting for me outside the cottage, when I get back.  Rapidly shower and change, and we head for Denpasar for my first book launch event, in the biggest bookstore. 

  

First they take me to dinner and then buy me a chocolate sundae and give me some more spending money.  Yes, Mizan is a full service publisher. 

 

Indra and Fan Fan

 

My UK publisher never bought me a chocolate sundae

  

In the book store, there are posters of me.  Atta, my eloquent publicist, does an excellent job with the microphone to get people to gather around, listen to what we have to say, and ask questions.  Afterwards, I sign books and many people get their photos taken with me. 

 

It's actually non-fiction, but it reads like a novel

 

Atta says (in Indonesian): 'It's a great book!'
 

   'Don't be shy -- come closer'

 

Indra and Fan Fan give me a ride back to Ubud, and I ask to be dropped off at Chris Gentry’s villa – which is the location of tonight’s party for the writers.  There’s a map on the invitation, which I show the driver. 

   

The villa is extraordinary and has beautiful Balinese open architecture … blah … blah … I’m so getting used to this. 

  

The party is in full swing.  The buffer dinner is wonderful and people are dancing frenetically.  I have to dance, I suppose ... otherwise I cannot say in this blog that I danced.  Fortunately, it is quite dark, so no-one can really see me too clearly.  (This is a private party, so I don’t feel I should publish photos here.) 

 

I wondered where all the Beautiful People had gone, and now I’ve found them.  And in this darkness, they must think I’m one of them! 

 

Fatima Bhutto is here!  I could dance with her (I’m at least as good looking as George Clooney).  If I impress her, the possibilities are endless.  When she becomes President of Pakistan, I could reclaim my long-ago-lapsed Pakistani citizenship and serve in her Government, as a Minister, or Special Envoy.  I could lead the final peace negotiations with India (‘Beloved brothers and sisters, I come in peace, now and forever’); be the visionary architect of the South Asian Union (‘Dignity, opportunity, rights, justice and prosperity for all citizens of the SAU’); address the United Nations; have tea at the White House; Barack Obama could call me his friend and trusted advisor; King Charles could give me a knighthood (he’s mentioned three times in my book) (of course I’d keep my British passport, I’m not stupid); an honorary Doctorate or two (I failed to get one in Chemistry the normal way, by doing the hard work); the Nobel Peace Prize … finally, retirement in the House of Lords … the possibilities are endless … whatever you can dream, you can achieve (I read in that MBS book the other day).  All I have to do is dance with Fatima Bhutto. 

  

But Fatima Bhutto is not dancing – she’s reclining on cushions.  That’s exactly what Pakistani feudal lords and the powerful elite do – they recline on cushions.  (Seek an audience with one and you will see.)  Oh well …

   

Here’s Catriona Mitchell, dancing so amazingly – she’s practically leaping up to the ceiling.  I join her (she smiles!); I dance with her; I try to keep up with her; I impress, her I’m sure … until the shooting pain in my chest and down my left arm tells me that my time is up.   I disappear into the crowd and make my way to a living room, to gasp and rest.

  

It’s time to go … but I decide to explore just one more living area.  Here I meet a couple from Europe – she’s from Manchester, he’s from Germany, and he’s a healer.  He rests his hand on the area of pain in my back, and then slowly the pain vanishes.  I feel perfectly fine! 

  

I need a ride back to Ubud – this villa is in the middle-of-nowhere.  I loiter in the reception area and a woman comes out and looks like she’s getting ready to leave.  She’s Australian, so obviously she is happy to offer me a ride with her and her husband.  They drop me at Monkey Forest Road and I enjoy a pleasant walk back to the Ubud Inn. 

  

I have an email from an Indonesian publisher.  They would like to publish my book in Indonesian.  Sorry … just a little too late …

 

 

SATURDAY 10 OCTOBER

 

I sleep late-ish and just manage to get breakfast before the 10 am deadline. 

 

I think about renting a scooter, and the hotel security guard introduces me to a  scooter-renter a few yards down the street.  He looks visibly concerned when I answer his question – no, I’ve never driven a scooter before.  Hey, what’s the big deal?  Everyone comes to Bali and rents a scooter – it’s a great way to get around.  

  

The pain in my back has returned – but now it’s on the right side.  The healer just moved it!  I call the Bali Botanica Day Spa and book a full aromatherapy massage for Sunday morning. 

   

I take a car to Indus to attend some sessions, run into Andy Ewing, and he immediately invites me to join the Long Table Lunch at John Hardy Design Studio.  Apparently, people have bought tickets to have lunch with writers like me.  For me, it’s a free lunch, so I need no persuasion to get into the waiting vehicle. 

 

The lunch is delightful and is hosted by Warwick Purser – the Patron of UWRF.  Last year at this place, I got stuffed on the appetisers and didn’t realise there was a main course – which I was too full to eat.  This year, I remember not to do that.

 

Warwick Purser addressing the Long Table Lunch

 

There is a reading by several writers after the lunch, and I also manage to read from my book – about school lunches in England in the early 70s.  The contrast is delightful and people tell me afterwards how much they enjoyed my reading.  (NB: all literary festival directors – I am a full service writer.)

 

Afterwards, Polly Purser shows us around the compound, with its magnificent bamboo architecture.

 

Art or science?

 

 

With Polly Purser

Get driven back to Indus and have my rendezvous with the delightful Liz Sinclair, slightly late. I met Liz last year – she is a long-term resident of Bali and has been incredibly supportive of my efforts with my book.

http://www.lizsinclair.com

 

Elizabeth Sinclair

 

Now I have a problem. The two public events this evening are the Poetry Slam and the Street Party.  Neither is really calling me – it’s going to be an arbitrary decision.  Liz offers to give me a ride back to the Ubud Inn on her scooter. 

  

We step out of Indus … and run into Janet, who is just organising a couple of cars to take people to a private dinner event with Vikas Swarup in conversation with Asitha Ameresekere.  I know this is where I want to be.  I read Vikas’ book, Q&A, when it first came out as a hardback in 2005 – my copy was still warm off the press – and I tried to contact him then, but his agent wouldn’t let me connect. As synchronicity would have it, I am able to procure a ticket and a ride with some of Janet’s friends.  It’s an hour’s drive out to the Sarong restaurant at Kuta, and the event is spectacular. 

  

I have a brief conversation with Vik and he gives me his personal email address.  Finally! 

  

Vikas waiting to sign something ... anything ...

 

Get home quite late, and the Balinese ant greets me at the door of our cottage. 

 

 

SUNDAY 11 OCTOBER

 

I arise early, have a quick breakfast, and then get a scooter ride for my 9:15 am aromatherapy massage at the Bali Botanica Day Spa.   

 

    
 

 

After the fruit juice welcome, she (petite and elegant) leads me to another room with a missing far wall – looking straight out onto dense forest – and asks me to remove all my clothes, while she steps out.  I can put on the disposable underwear if I wish.  This is black panties – which I do decide to put on, and hope that no-one (man or monkey) in the forest is watching.

   

She returns, covers my middle with a sarong as I lie down and the aromatherapy massage begins.  It’s 75-minutes and it’s amazing … I drift into another place, where space and time are one … the rhythm of my own breathing … the warm oil on my skin … the soothing sound of running water splashing on rocks … her hands working the pain and the negative energy out of my body …

 

It’s a full body massage …

 

It feels wonderful …

 

Her hands feel wonderful …

  

This is the first time that I’ve ever been glad that my old equipment takes a lot of effort to get started up …

  

Finally, she leaves me to shower and dress.  I stand naked, looking out at the forest.  My back feels better.  I feel like a new man. 

  

I walk up to Indus, which is nearby, say hello to a few people, and take a taxi back to the Ubud Inn.

My Mizan friends collect me at 12:30, for the official launch of my Indonesian book at UWRF 2009. 

Why are so many white folk buying the Indonesian version?

  

Afterwards, I rush to get the shuttle to my next performance event, Voices from the Coffee Lands, at the stunning Linda Garland estate.  As I explain when I do my readings, I’m not actually from the coffee lands, I just drink a lot of the stuff.  

 

This is the perfect event – the embodiment of UWRF.  It’s intimate, and there’s food, drink, poetry, literature, music, song and dancing.   Janet De Neefe drops in and has a dance, as she always does.

  

 

 

 

 
   
 
 

Afterwards, I walk back to Monkey Forest Road with Julie Silvester, and she tells me about her new business:  http://www.heartofbaliholidays.com/ (under construction).

  

Some delightful Balinese children greet us in the street.

  

 

 

At 7:30 pm, join Peer and Julie for a taxi to Antonio Blanco’s Renaissance Museum, for the Closing Night Party.  Like last year, this is spectacular … and bittersweet …

 

Dr Amarjiva Lochan, Mohammed Hanif and me

Anthony Loewenstein, Sam Cutler and me
 

With Pranoto

With Liz Ralf
   

Janet calls her team on stage and, as I step forward to take their photo, she says: ‘I know Imran will be back next year.’

 

  

I have tears in my eyes.  I can’t wait to come back.  This is the most magical, extraordinary Literary Festival that there is.

 

I say goodbye to Catriona, Peer, Janet, Kellie, Liz, Julie, Mo, Kerry, Pramoto, Sarah, Andy, Fatima …

 

To stretch the experience, I walk all the way back to the Ubud Inn …

  

 

 

MONDAY 12 OCTOBER

 

It has rained very heavily overnight, but the weather was perfect during the Festival.  Ahh, that’s because Janet’s team made a special request to the Balinese rain gods …

 

Back in Jakarta, I have the same suite in the Sofiyan Hotel.  I empty the contents of my toiletry bag beside the basin, and the Balinese ant falls out. 

 

'Oh no!  I am so sorry.  You’re from Bali, and now you’re in Jakarta.  You’ll never get back to your community.  Well, I hope you can enjoy your new life here.' 

 

My Indonesian speaking tour will be another blog entry.

     

Note:  If you are one of those famous writers whom Janet writes to, about coming to Ubud, and you don’t even bother to reply, the loss is entirely yours. 

 

Byron Bay Writers Festival 2009: 'If I'd known this, I would have brought fewer underpants.'

Byron Bay Writers Festival 2009: 'If I'd known this, I would have brought fewer underpants.'

 

(This is a skeleton blog -- I just don't have time to write a literary one.  And you may wonder why it's so late -- I came back from Byron Bay weeks ago, on a Sunday.  Well, I was exhausted, so I slept for two days.  Then I spent Tuesday to Thursday recording the audiobook of Unimagined, coming home from the studio worn out each day.  Then I had a job interview that Friday, which was successful, with an immediate start after that weekend.  Then I had to find all those funny clothes I hadn't worn for months -- you know, shirts with collars, and jackets with matching trousers.  Then, at my new job, they said they didn't like me writing literary blogs during the day, or any kind of blogs -- they wanted me to do programme management.  That wasn't made clear in the interview.  I come home exhausted every day.  The only reason I'm finally doing this now is that I'm going to Bali next weekend for Ubud 2009, and then I would be two literary festival blogs behind, and that would be awful.)

 

 

SATURDAY 1 AUGUST

 

Taxi to Heathrow and Etihad to Abu Dhabi.  Service wonderful, food delicious. 

 

 

SUNDAY 2 AUGUST

 

Etihad to Sydney. The Australian immigration officer is so friendly: 'Come on in', he says, beckoning. 

 

The Sebel Pier One Hotel -- one of my favourite hotels in all the world.  Because if I'm here, I must be in Sydney -- one of my favourite places in all the world.

 

http://www.sebelpierone.com.au/

Visually stunning Sydney ...

 

 

MONDAY 3 AUGUST

 

Walk over Sydney Harbour Bridge in the morning -- my favourite exercise.   

 

In the afternoon, walk over to Pier Nine, where my Australian publisher Murdoch Books is based.  The lovely Mary-Jayne House takes me in a taxi to Gleebooks, where I have my speaking event. 

 

I'm introduced by Richard Morris -- the British Consul-General.  This is quite surreal.

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8xhqS4q8IRU

 

Afterwards, Benjamin Gilmour takes me to dinner with some friends of his.  Ben is the maker of a superb film, Son of a Lion, which is being released in the UK in November (US to be decided).  Ben, a paramedic by profession, had never made a film before.  He took a camera to the Northwest Frontier Province of Pakistan, enlisted some actors ... and the result is stunning.  http://www.sonofalion.com/

This is an important film, for many reasons.  The scene where the men are discussing whether it would be justifiable to violate their ancient (pre-Islamic) code of honour and commitment to protection of guests, by betraying Bin Laden to the Americans, is very insightful.  If only all of this had been understood better, earlier, we might have reached a satisfactory conclusion in that region by now.  (Remember, Bin Laden used to be a 'good guy'. He worked with the Americans to supply Stinger missiles to the Afghans, and helped to drive out the damned Commies.)

 

 

TUESDAY 4 AUGUST

 

Lovely day around Sydney.  Did I mention that I love this place?  Walk over Harbour Bridge in the morning. 

 

Ben Gilmour takes me for a wonderful drive around Sydney and the beach areas.

 

Evening interview on ABC Radio with Phillip Adams.  He says, of me, 'What a delightful fella'.   No, Phillip, you are the delightful fellow.  I've never had an interviewer who was better informed and prepared.  Sometimes I can tell that all they've done is read the jacket of the book and then extrapolated, but Phillip Adams really knew his stuff.  He is very articulate, intelligent, humorous and gracious.

http://www.abc.net.au/rn/latenightlive/stories/2009/2648076.htm

WEDNESDAY 5 AUGUST

 

Fly from Sydney to Ballina Airport.  It's a delightful little airport with two 'gates' (French windows).  Watch them take our suitcases out of the airplane and bring them over to us. 

 

My itinerary from the Festival says that I will be met at the airport and driven to Byron Bay.  No sign of my limo anywhere.  Make inquiries at the various transport desks.  A shuttle bus driver has my name on his list. 

 

Dropped off at my hotel, the Byron at Byron Bay.  It's a beautiful resort, owned by John and Lyn Parche.  The front desk staff are implausibly welcoming. 

 

http://www.thebyronatbyron.com.au/

 

So friendly, it must be a dream ... (Not like the misery guts at the front desk of the Sheraton at Newark Airport on the night before Thanksgiving 2004 -- remind me to tell you about that one day.)

Then, John Parche introduces himself and subjects me to such an onslaught of friendliness that I am completely decimated by it.  Never in all my years of business (and now literary) travel has the owner of a hotel given me such a friendly welcome.  Coming from London, I am woefully ill-equipped to deal with Australian friendliness, but this assault at the Bryon at Byron Bay is the most devastating attack yet.  Searching deep inside my soul, I reach the inevitable and insightful conclusion: I don't have anywhere near enough friendliness inside me to fight back with -- I am a shallow, superficial, ego-centric and self-absorbed person, compared to these people.  They'd better give me a nice room.

Not your average hotel.

Oh, like I'm really going to spend time watching television while I'm here.

There's a washer-dryer in my rainforest apartment.  Dammit.  If I'd known this, I would have brought fewer underpants.

Have a lovely dinner in the hotel restaurant with Jeni Caffin, the Festival director (who invited me when we met in Bali), and other sponsors. 

 

 

THURSDAY 6 AUGUST

 

Wonderful breakfast and a walk around to burn it off.

Just beautiful.


My first event is on the schools' day of the Festival.  I am hosted by the famous writer Colin Bowles, who is actually three writers:

http://www.threeauthorsinone.com/

I tell the school kids that my book has many themes, but we only have time to cover one. So I give them a choice of five, and ask them to yell out their preference: Religion, Politics, Sociology, History, Sex. 

 

Fortunately, they go with the only one I'd bothered to prepare for.  As Colin Bowles comments, it is the teachers who swing it. 

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HzLb8s-ybNg

 

 

In the evening is the opening night party, including the keynote address by Geoffrey Robertson -- famous human rights lawyer.  The huge crowd -- of writers, festival sponsors, guests and others -- settles down in silence and gives full attention to his speech.

 

After 25 minutes ...

 

He's certainly eloquent.

 

After 50 minutes ...

 

He certainly has a lot to say.

 

After 75 minutes ...

 

Ye Gods!  I thought he was a human rights lawyer!  Doesn't he oppose torture?  What is this, if it isn't torture?  I wonder what they're going to give us to eat?  And when?

 

 

 

FRIDAY 7 AUGUST

 

The delightful Wendy Broome, of Southern Cross University, is my designated driver and gives me a ride in from the Byron at Byron Bay.  The traffic queue to get into the Festival is unbelievable. It's a literary festival, not a pop concert.  This is amazing.   She drives in through the Exit, waves some ID at the steward, says something about a VIP, and drives me all the way to the Writers' Tent (or Green Room).

 

I'm on a panel session on ABC Radio, in their tent, at 9 AM.  Our host asks me to read from Unimagined, which I do, with pleasure.  (I need to practise for the audiobook I'm recording very soon.)

Good morning, Australia.

 

Then I have the obligatory 'Muslims and the West' session, with Irfan Yusuf (http://planetirf.blogspot.com/) and Abbas El-Zein (http://abbaselzein.com/).  I apologise to the audience that I'm not very academic or journalistic -- I'm just an ordinary fella.  They don't seem to mind. 

Couple of empty seats.


My signing queue is quite good.  A middle-aged Malaysian woman asks me to sign a copy for her daughter.

In the evening, I have a more intimate event -- 'Wish You Were Here', in an art gallery.  A small group of writers sit on two sofas and chat in front of the audience.  Lana Penrose is utterly gorgeous (http://www.myspace.com/firewoman111).  Her latest book is about looking for love.  (I wonder if she's still looking?  I'll have to read the last chapter.)

 

 

 

SATURDAY 8 AUGUST

 

Wendy Broome gives me a ride in.  She says that the manager of the Buddha Bar in Byron Bay (http://www.buddhabarbyronbay.com.au/) said to her last night: 'There was some writer called Imran on the radio this morning, and he was so funny ...'   What?  There's another Imran at the Festival?

 

Hang around the Festival all day.  It has a fairground atmosphere and energy, but it's a literary festival.  It's utterly unique.  I love it.  Apparently, some people are disappointed it's not in the same garden setting as last year (which was flooded by torrential rain -- no wonder Jeni seemed so nervous about the weather), but I think this is just wonderful.  And the weather is perfect.  Live in the moment, people. 

Clean and with running water.

Famous writers in deep discussions.  (No, I dunno either.)



In the evening, I am a participant in the Writers' Cabaret, in a crowded nightclub.  Since when was I a stand-up comedian?  Since I started saying 'Yes' to everything.  Screw it, just do it. 

 
Sandy Gandhi is the very distinguished compère.

http://www.youtube.com/user/UnimaginedComms#play/all/uploads-all/2/68oDck8hejk

 

 

 

SUNDAY 9 AUGUST

 

In the morning, I'm on the panel of 'Putting humour on the page', with Denise Scott (comedian), Tom Gleeson (comedian) and Michael Cathcart (historian).  It's not fair -- the historian and me up against two pro's.  I do my best. 

Can't get a word in past ginger Gleeson and scary Scott -- the historian looks tired of trying, too.

I notice an Astonishingly Beautiful Woman in the audience.  I can't take my eyes off her.  Centre aisle seat, next to a grey haired woman. No man with her.  I would so love to meet her.

 

My signing queue is quite good.

Every time I enter the bookshop, someone asks me to sign a book.  I keep casually wandering in there.

 

In the afternoon, I'm on the panel of 'To market, to market: what it takes to sell a book', with Colin Bowles and gorgeous Lana Penrose (I pull my stomach in tight and keep it in during the entire session -- I can hardly breathe, let alone address the audience).  My signing queue is non-existent, whereas the others have long queues.  Why?  Oh -- they've run out of copies of Unimagined. 

 

In the Writers' Tent, Jeni tells me that Unimagined is the Festival's Number One Bestseller.  (I love you, Jeni.  Thanks for inviting me, when we met in Bali.  Janet, thank you for inviting me to Bali, after we met in Sydney.  Wendy, thank you for inviting me to Sydney, after we met in Edinburgh.  Catherine, thank you for inviting me to Edinburgh, after you read my book.  I love literary festival directors -- except for Peter.)  (Stuff you, Peter, I didn't really want to go to Hay, anyway.  Sent you four copies and you put them in the secondhand bookshop.)

Jeni Caffin is wonderful!  My chin looks funny.

 

With Sandy Ghandi -- a very funny and vivacious woman.  (No it won't work -- my family wouldn't approve ... well, because she's Indian, of course ...)

It's all over. What a fantastic event.  Well done, Jeni and team.


There's a Festival closing party at The Rails in Byron Bay. It's bittersweet.  I'm hungry and eat hot chips. 
 
In a surreal moment, the Astonishingly Beautiful Woman emerges from the crowd and comes up to me, and then she sits with me for a little while, and we talk, and I try not to drown in her eyes, until she says she has to go; her parents are leaving and she's with them -- she's visiting from Melbourne. (Okay, stop what you're thinking.  She was a grown-up.  Grown-ups can have parents too, you know.  She was almost thirty.)  She says she'll e-mail me and blurs back into the crowd like a mirage -- an oasis of beauty in the barren desert of life.  The birds stop singing and the sun stops shining (which you'd expect this late at night, anyway.)

 

I step outside.  It's cold, suddenly. 
 
(When is the Melbourne Literary Festival? Who's the Director?)

 

 

MONDAY 10 AUGUST

 

Wendy's colleague, Angela McCormik, gives me a ride to Southern Cross University, where I give a talk hosted by Dr Baden Offord, and afterwards have lunch with Professor Bee Chen Goh -- the Malaysian woman who asked me to sign a copy for her daughter.  It's a small world, and it's getting smaller. 

 

http://www.youtube.com/user/UnimaginedComms#play/uploads/3/e7IT65HGnsk

 

TUESDAY 11 AUGUST

 

Visit the famous lighthouse, walk along beach ....

Meet a guitar-playing Geordie sitting on a rock, who takes this photo. 

Finally make it into the legendary town of Byron Bay ... The hippies found it and the yuppies bought it. 

In Byron Bay, a woman looks at me, smiles, and points me out to her friend.  Obviously, two cultured attendees of literary festivals. 

 

In Byron Bay, Byron Bay,

I was famous for a day ...

 

Not for my poetry, alas.

 

I have my aura photo taken at a store called Crystal Castle.  She interprets it for me.  It looks good.  I'm at least one rung up from the bottom level. 

 

 

WEDNESDAY 12 AUGUST

 

A final walk around this wonderful resort.  I hope to return.

Oh, there was a gym.  If only I'd known ... (I'd have done nothing different.)

Fly back to Sydney.

 

 

THURSDAY 13 AUGUST

 

A day at the Blue Mountains.

 

 

FRIDAY 14 AUGUST

 

I love Sydney, and I never tire of walking around this place.  The Sebel Pier One is a wonderful hotel in every way, but especially in location.

 

 

SATURDAY 15 AUGUST

 

Good bye, Australia.  I truly love you -- you are a wonderful county and an extraordinarily gracious people.  I hope to return again. 

 

Etihad to Abu Dhabi.  Service wonderful, food delicious. 

 

 

SUNDAY 16 AUGUST

 

Hello London.  Back to reality.

www.unimagined.org

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

'Ow! My bum hurts.'

Perth Writers Festival 2009

  

‘Ow!  My bum hurts …’

 

  

Warning:  don’t read this if you haven’t read:

  

Ubud 2008  and preferably Edinburgh 2008.

  

  

Saturday 21 February

  

I don’t eat all day – it helps me cope with all the delicious Singapore Airlines food.

  

I arrive at Heathrow at 8 pm, to check-in for my overnight flight to Singapore, en-route to Perth.

 

I tell her that I’m going to Perth, for the Writers’ Festival.

  

  

 

Ergo, I must be a writer.

  

Ergo, she must upgrade me.

  

… Oh, why do I even bother? 

  

I get the exact same seat I had last time, on the Airbus A380.

  

We are delayed nearly two hours getting out of Heathrow.  Not the fault of Singapore Airlines or Airbus – the gate refuses to let go of our aircraft and eventually has to be forcibly dragged away by a tow-truck.

  

Once we are underway, I impress everyone in my vicinity by taking out my Sony noise reduction headphones.  I note with extreme disapproval that two further episodes of the decadent and immoral Californication are available to view.  I am only able to watch the first one, before the system seizes up and won’t let me watch the second.  I want to report this serious malfunction to the Captain, but the cockpit door is closed, locked and seems to be armour plated.  I consider knocking, but decide not to bother.

  

Another problem with the Airbus: the paper towels in the toilets are so flimsy, they tear even as you pull them out.  Don’t even think of wetting one so that you can wash your face – they completely disintegrate. The reason for this is obvious: even though there are signs clearly instructing passengers not to put paper towels down the toilet, some idiots always do.  So the towels are designed for that situation – making them pretty useless for their primary purpose.  Once again, our society and infrastructure are designed according to the lowest common denominator.  Which begs the question: how do such people get the privilege of travelling between countries?  Is it worth the environmental cost? 

  

I watch the film W, which depicts George W Bush shoving a hamburger into his mouth whilst being introduced to a beautiful young woman (his future wife).  I would be cynical about this, but I witnessed this same behaviour with my own eyes.  He was shoving a bread roll into his mouth during the celebrated ‘Yo, Blair!’ incident, whilst discussing in an off-handed way with Tony Blair what to do about the latest Mid-East crisis – unaware that the camera and microphone (on the table) were still on.  This also explains the choking pretzel incident – he literally shovels food into his mouth, without appreciating it.  He should never go to Bali, where food is savoured for its texture, flavour and vitality.

 

I sleep, somewhat. 

  

 

Sunday 22 February

  

I miss my evening connection in Singapore – they put me on another flight to Perth in four hours’ time and give me a voucher for dinner. 

 I spend a little time walking around, reading all the menus of the many restaurants, before settling for the Chilli Soft Shelled Crab.  It’s delicious.

 

 

  

  

 

 

  

Take a shower in the lounge.

  

Sunday hardly happened.

  

Four hour flight to Perth. 

  

  

 

I sleep, somewhat.

   

   

Monday 23 February

 

Because I missed my connection, Katherine Dorrington – Director of the Perth Writers’ Festival – is now picking me up at 7:30 am, instead of 2:30 am.  (I was able to text her about the change of flight.)  I must be pretty important, to be collected by the Festival Director, eh?  (Alas, she couldn’t find anyone else to do this chore.)

 

  

Driving through the Monday morning rush hour (I love watching other people go to work), she takes me to the Duxton Hotel.  Katherine gives me my welcome pack and leaves me to my own devices. My room is on the 8^th floor and has a view over St George’s Terrace – a busy street leading to downtown. 

  

  

  

  

Now, I’m a very savvy global traveller, so this is what I’m going to do.  I’m going to stay awake, and walk all over Perth all day – thus I’ll tire myself out and easily fall asleep tonight at an appropriate time, and then wake up at a normal time on Tuesday morning.  Jet lag is only for ordinary people who aren’t used to global travel, unlike me – in my transatlantic Corporate days, I was Platinum on Northwest, Platinum on American, Gold on Delta.  (Don’t ask me about my status today – the grief just kills me.)  I still have the prestigious tags on my attaché case, but please don’t look closely at the expiration dates.

  

I set off from the hotel, in my T-shirt, shorts and sandals. 

  

Oh God, it’s so hot.

 

I walk a block.

 

Oh God, it’s so hot and humid.

 

I walk another block.

 

Oh God, it’s so hot and humid and I have no energy.

 

I retreat to the cool comfort of my hotel room.  It’s just so hot outside – that’s why I’m here.  I sit in the chair. 

 

What shall I do? I think I’ll just lie down for a few minutes, to get my energy back. 

  

 

  

  

I wake up at 7 pm.

 

   

Go for a walk, try out the Perth Eye (or whatever they call it here, it’s a smaller version of the London Eye).  Have dinner across the street in the Balti restaurant.

 

Stay up late answering e-mails about my forthcoming US road trip. 

 

Fall asleep at the keyboard and crawl into bed in the early hours.

 

 

Tuesday 24 February

 

Awake early and go for a walk by the Swan River – the cycle path looks interesting.  I wonder where it goes.  Many people cycle past me, on their way to work.

 

Breakfast at the hotel – the full buffet.  When you are travelling in a situation which is not quite all expenses paid, then the hotel buffet breakfast is the bedrock of your energy requirements for the day. 

 

I have a three course breakfast:

(1) scrambled eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, potatoes;

(2) croissant and crumpets;

(3) fruit and nuts. 

Washed down with mixed fruit juices and black decaff coffee. 

  

 

Stagger out of the restaurant. 

  

 

The cycle path intrigues me, so I decide to ask the Concierge about it.  I wait patiently behind an American man who has his laptop open on the counter and is explaining earnestly to the Concierge, in deeply technical terms, that he has all this hardware/software on his computer which demonstrates that the hotel's wireless network isn't very efficient.  The African-born Concierge listens intently and nods politely, but I have a feeling that, like me, he is waiting for this bad dream to end.

  

 

I have my own thoughts on this:  'Listen, buddy, if you're so unhappy about it, why don't you just invade the country, shock and awe the population, destroy all the existing infrastructure, get Halliburton to put in a new wireless network, and make the Australian people pay for it.'

 

 

When my turn comes, the Concierge shows me on a map how the cycle path runs along the Swan River away from downtown, crosses a bridge, brings you back south of the city – on the other side of the river –  and then crosses another bridge to bring you back to our side.  The hotel can rent me a bicycle and helmet.

  

I’m a committed environmentalist – I always make a point of cycling to the local shops at least a couple of times a year.  Also, when my V6 luxury car is being serviced, I take the bus from and to the garage.  But nothing has prepared me for this cycle path.  It runs for about 30 km (20 miles).  Ow! My bum hurts.

  

The path takes me away from the city and into areas of immense peace and tranquillity.  All along the route, there are parks and clean public lavatories at frequent intervals.  Beautiful houses.  But hardly any people in sight.

  

 

 

Where’s that bridge?  Have I missed it?  How can you miss a huge bridge? 

 

There’s a couple of retired-looking men sitting on a bench by the river, so I ask one of them.  I am taken aback to be assaulted by a barrage of brutal friendliness. 

 

Look, I was only asking a quick question about where we are on this map.  There’s no need to be so friendly.  I just can’t cope with this.  No-one would be like this in London.  Stop being so friendly! 

 

Half-an-hour later, pummelled and broken by the friendliness attack, I stagger back to my bicycle and find the bridge.

 

The bridge!  

 

 

 

 

 

Back at the hotel, I feel as if the bike ride has burnt my entire breakfast.  My bum hurts.  I lie down, drained, exhausted. 

 

Sleep until early evening.

    

Catherine Burns arrives and calls me – she’s Executive and Creative Director of The Moth.  I have been asked to do a storytelling event at The Moth show to be held in Perth this weekend, as part of the Arts Festival.  We go for a walk by the river and I impress her by showing her the abundance of clean public toilets.  Coming from New York, she is also impressed.

  

Dilip Ghosh calls me and picks me up in his car.  He’s a friend from Hampton School – I haven’t seen him for years.  His yellow Nissan sports car has huge speakers instead of a back seat.  He takes me to an expensive restaurant.  I should have mentioned him in my book – then he might buy me dinner.  Oh, he does buy me dinner.  Thanks mate!

   

 

Wednesday 25 February

  

Awake early.

  

Three course hotel breakfast.

   

Rania Ghandour of the Festival picks me up at the hotel and takes me to ABC Perth, for a radio interview with Rosemary Greenham.  It’s the most relaxed interview I’ve ever done.  We sit down in the studio and she just starts chatting with me.  She’s a real pro. 

    

http://www.abc.net.au/local/audio/2009/02/27/2503604.htm

 

 

With Rania Ghandour

   

 

Back at the hotel, I do an initial rehearsal of my Moth story with Catherine Burns and Sarah Austin Jenness.  The target duration is around 10 minutes.  My time is 32 minutes. Okay, a bit of editing to be done.

  

Afternoon nap.

  

Dinner with Catherine and Sarah in Balti.

  

 

Thursday 26 February

  

Awake early.

 

Three course hotel breakfast.

 

Go on that bike ride again, this time with Catherine Burns.  Point out all the clean lavatories on the route. 

 

Catherine Burns

 

 

Ow!  My bum hurts.

 

At hotel, feel drained of energy.  Run out to buy a bar of chocolate. 

  

Another Moth rehearsal – down to 22 minutes.

 

Afternoon nap.

 

Mike Daisey, the host of our Moth show, arrives this evening, and we all have a meeting in the hotel’s hot tub.  Or should that be lukewarm tub?  Freezing, we warm up in the sauna, then dress and reconvene in Catherine’s room. 

  

Mike Daisey has just returned from three weeks in Vanuatu, where he was studying the people, the volcanoes and the ‘cargo cult’.

 

   

Mike shows us the most amazing photos on his laptop – rocks the size of a Volkswagen Beetle being thrown out of the volcano.  Apparently, if you are unfortunate enough to have one of these rocks land on you, you are vaporised by the heat of the rock, before its weight can crush you.  This happened recently to a Japanese woman who ignored the warnings and went to have a closer look at the volcano.

 

 

The so-called ‘cargo cult’ are villagers who worship America and all things American, due to being given many prized gifts delivered in cargo containers. 

 

 

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/asia-pacific/6370991.stm

 

Mike tells us of a more sinister undercurrent to this.  He discovered that an American millionaire went to Vanuatu in recent times, to deliberately set himself up as a god.  He even had coins made with his picture on. I don’t remember the asshole’s name, but Mike Daisey is going to exposé him.

 

 

Go to bed without having any dinner – that makes me feel good.

 

 

Friday 27 February

  

Awake early.

   

Three course hotel breakfast.

   

Meet in hotel lobby with other writers for our Rottnest island boat trip.  Chat with Stella Rimington (former Head of MI5). 

   

 

Mike Daisey and Sarah Austin Jenness 

 

Anne Fogarty – a Patron of the Festival – is hosting us on her boat (or should I say ‘ocean liner’?). 

 

 

 

 

I impress Stella Rimington with my diving skills, and doubtless she’ll put in a good word for me with her contacts at ‘Five’ and ‘Six’ (as we refer to them).  (I need a new job.)

 

Stella Rimington and Imran Ahmad.  I know!  Reminds you of M and 007.

 

 

 

 

My hair looks a mess

 

  

We have lunch on Rottnest Island and a somewhat choppy return to the mainland.

 

'Everyone remember where we parked.'   

     

Stella Rimington and Richard Mason worry about the world    

    

I enjoyed that crayfish  

   

All aboard!  

   

Our hosts: Anne Fogarty and Becky Vidler

   

 

  

 

Reconvene in hotel lobby to be taken to the Perth Writers Festival opening address, at the University of Western Australia, given by Peter Singer.

 

Afterwards, attend the opening night party.  Karen, a Festival volunteer, asks me if Stella Rimington is here.  I say that I saw her earlier, but I haven’t seen her recently.

 

‘Oh wait.  That woman over there, with the light hair and glasses – that’s her.  Would you like to meet her?’

 

I take Karen over and introduce her.  The woman’s distinct Australian accent tells me immediately that I have made a mistake.  I feel like an idiot – I just spent all day with Stella Rimington!  It takes a while to disengage, due to the unknown woman’s overwhelming friendliness. 

 

Take last coach back to hotel.

 

Exhausted – today was the first day I didn’t sleep during the afternoon.

 

 

Saturday 28 February

  

Awake early.

 

Three course hotel breakfast.

 

Nadeem Aslam joins me at breakfast.  I didn’t recognise him – his hair is much shorter than when he took my photo with Salman Rushdie at Edinburgh. 

 

 

Moth rehearsal with Catherine in the hotel.  18 minutes – getting there!

 

Go to the Festival, attend a session and loiter around the grounds. 

 

 

 

 

 

A beautiful woman in dark glasses comes up to me and says ‘Hello’.

 

‘Hello,’ I say, wondering if she’s a new fan, but thinking there’s something vaguely familiar about her.

 

‘It’s Janet,’ she says, helpfully. 

 

What is wrong with me?  How could I not recognise Janet De Neefe – Director of the Ubud Writers and Readers Festival –  who I met in Sydney and who invited me to Bali?  I am so tired. 

 

With Janet De Neefe -- how could I not recognise her?  Idiot! 

 

 

In the afternoon, meet The Moth team again and do a major rehearsal session in a large hall of the university.

 

Stella Rimington and I have something in common – the same Australian publisher, and publicists Mary-Jayne Harper and Kate Mayor.  I’ll say that again – I have the same publicists as Stella Rimington!  Mary-Jayne and Kate take Stella, Benjamin Gilmour (film-maker and writer who made a film about the lawless northwest frontier province of Pakistan) and me to dinner this evening. 

  

Life is quite good.  

   

Benjamin Gilmour, Stella Rimngton and Kate Mayor

 

With Mary-Jayne Harper

 

 

   

Afterwards, Ben makes us go to a Tikki bar (minus Stella).  I have one elaborate fruit drink and then stagger back to the hotel, exhausted.  I really miss my afternoon sleeps. 

 

 

Sunday 1 March

 

Awake early.

 

Three course hotel breakfast.

     

Go to Festival.  Attend a morning session, then at 12:30 it’s my first event: ‘Writing About Race’ with the delightful Alice Pung and acclaimed James McBride (who arrived on a plane from New York, just a few hours ago). 

  

    

  

It goes really well, and we all have long signing queues.  We writers at festivals are always comparing to see who has the longest.  I will see James again this evening – he’s also doing The Moth.

   

 

'I'll just write my phone number in here as well.'

 

 

Go back to the hotel to shower and change, then return to the Festival for the really scary part (for me) – The Moth!  The gorgeous Kate Mayor accompanies me, to hold my hand until it begins.  I really appreciate this.  (I’m not complaining or anything, but I can’t help noticing that James McBride’s assigned publicist is really, I mean really, breathtakingly beautiful.)  (I can’t wait until I’m a really famous writer.)

 

The theatre is packed – about 500 people.

 

Mike Daisey is up first. He’s the host and a storyteller.  He’s a real pro – it’s what he does. 

   

Then he introduces me.  I apprehensively walk up on stage.  What hits you is the light and the darkness.  The stage lights are dazzling, but the audience is in absolute darkness.  You can barely make out the faces in the front row – beyond that it’s only the laughter and applause that tell you there’s anyone there (assuming that you get any laughter and applause).  It’s just you and the mic, on the wooden stage.

 

 

    

It goes okay.

     

When mine is over, I feel such relief.  I really enjoy the other stories.  James McBride is last, and he’s a real pro too. 

   

After it’s all over, there is such a sense of euphoria amongst us.  Catherine Burns and Sarah Austin Jenness have done such a fantastic job of shaping this production.

 

http://www.perthfestival.com.au/files/events/09%2001585%20PIAF%20MOTH%201%20MARCH.pdf

   

We go back to the hotel in various vehicles, and then Kate spots Mary-Jayne with some others in the window of Balti.  We join them and I eat the ample remains of their dinner – now that The Moth is done, I’m so hungry.

 

 

Monday 2 March

   

Awake early.

  

Three course hotel breakfast.

  

My final session, ‘A Boy’s Life’ with Roland Rocchiccioli.  Now that The Moth is over, this seems somewhat routine.  Good signing queues afterwards. 

 

You can never have too many copies of Unimagined 

 

 

Susan Wyndham (of the Sydney Morning Herald) is sitting next to me at the signing table. I have a bone to pick with her.  I have read an article of hers, about literary festivals.

 

http://www.smh.com.au/news/Books/Writers-festivals-are-a-waste-of-time/2005/03/08/1110160827736.html

  

I quote her: ‘For the writers there are book sales, free travel, adulation and, occasionally, sex.’

  

I tell Susan that I’ve had the first three, but I’ve never been able to find the fourth.  Was I supposed to register or something?  She laughs and says, ‘I think it’s in your welcome pack.’    

 

I go to James McBride’s packed session in the main theatre, and something amazing happens.  He starts talking about my book!  I can’t believe it!  He says ‘… Imran’s book is so refreshing …’  He says such nice things about it.

  

Just a minute Mr McBride.  Tell them my full name!  Tell them the name of the book!  Don’t just call it ‘Imran’s book’!  They don’t know who Imran is. 

 

He moves on to talk about something else.

 

You idiot McBride!  You didn’t tell them the name of the book!  What good is that?!

 

  

Afterwards I thank James McBride for mentioning my book, and he says to look him up when I’m in New York on my road trip.  He also says that he will send his NYU students to my speaking event in New York.  What a nice man. 

  

I forgive you for just calling it 'Imran's book' 

 

 

Attend closing session of Perth Writers Festival – Sebastian Barry in conversation. 

 

Say thank you and goodbye to Katherine Dorrington.

 

Earlier picture with Katherine Dorrington -- my shirt says it's Sunday

  

 

Have dinner with Janet and a friend of hers, in Balti. 

  

Introduce Janet to The Moth team and we have a drink in hotel bar. 

  

Retire to room in bittersweet, melancholy mood.

   

    

Tuesday 3 March

   

Awake early.

  

No breakfast in hotel.  Have to be prepared for delicious Singapore Airlines food.

  

Go on final bike ride along Swan River, and explore King’s Park.  I barely scratched the surface of this place.  I hope that I return to Perth one day. 

    

 

  

 

 

  

Check out from wonderful Duxton Hotel.  Janet has left me a signed copy of her book, Fragrant Rice. 

   

Say goodbye to Catherine and Sarah.

  

Take mini-bus to airport with James Campbell and Andrew Nicoll.   

  

Fly to Singapore.  

 

Eat Chilli Soft Shelled Crab.

 

Shower in lounge.

 

Board Airbus A380 to London. 

 

Am able to watch that next episode of Californication.  I like this programme.

 

Read Janet's book, Fragant Rice.  It brings tears to my eyes (re the Bali bombs).

 

Sleep, somewhat.

 

 

Wednesday 4 March

  

At Heathrow, the African-born immigration officer takes my passport, then proceeds to fiddle about tidying up the elastic band around his MP3 player, before returning my passport to me. 

 

At the bus stop, two men are smoking in the bus shelter, even though there is a clear ‘No Smoking’ sign …

 

  

 

 

 

UK: www.unimagined.co.uk

US: www.unimagined.org

Public Speaking: www.unimagined.biz

 

'Why, oh why, do these awful things always happen to me?'

“Why, oh why, do these awful things always happen to me?”

   

Ubud Writers and Readers Festival 2008

 

Background

Janet De Neefe from Australia fell in love with Bali twenty years ago and settled permanently, opening local restaurants. After the Bali bombings in 2002, she felt that the world had abandoned Bali and she was compelled to do something to put Bali back on the map.  She created the annual Ubud Writers and Readers Festival from scratch, turning it into one of the world’s leading literary festivals.  I met her in Sydney in May and gave her a copy of Unimagined. She kindly invited me to UWRF 2008. 

 

 

    

   

    

 

Friday 10 October

  

I arrive at Heathrow at 8 pm to check-in for the overnight Singapore Airlines flight to Singapore, on my way to Bali. 

  

When it’s my turn, I approach the distinguished middle-aged Sikh gentleman behind the counter (would have preferred one of the sexier younger women, but my technique should work, regardless), establish eye contact, smile, place passport gently on counter and engage most pleasant persona.

  

I tell him that I’m going to Bali, for the Writers’ Festival. 

 

Ergo, I must be a writer. 

 

Ergo, he must upgrade me. 

  

(I don’t actually say those two derivative statements out loud, as they are obvious.)

  

He taps away for a while (it takes a few steps to upgrade someone), then tells me there is a problem with my ticket and I have to go outside to the ticket desk to get it re-issued.

 

  

  

This is my first time both on an Airbus A380 and on Singapore Airlines.  I walk through Business Class on my way to Economy – at least I’m upstairs on this double-decker bus.  The Business Class seats are so wide, it’s ridiculous.  They would take two average Europeans, three average Indians, or one-and-a-half average Americans.  (Before you protest, I said average, and besides, you know what I mean, and this supposed to be humour through exaggeration or irony.) 

   

    

   

My neighbour is an Australian man who is extremely friendly, engaging and pleasant.  He’s an environmental engineer with Siemens, and has just had a lovely holiday in Europe.  Since he’s not a vivacious woman, my default persona has engaged automatically – the one where I just want to be left alone.  But he does give me his prawn appetiser, so I can’t be too unfriendly.  (I hope you enjoy my book, mate.)

   

The service and attitude in Singapore Airlines are amongst the best I have ever encountered and the food is excellent as well.

 

 

 

  

 

 

This is a long night in the quiet, darkened cabin, and for some reason I can’t sleep.  I remember that my new agent at Curtis Brown lists ‘Californication’ as one of her favourite television programmes, so I watch three episodes of this decadent, immoral programme on the on-demand entertainment system.  Now I feel a bit restless and randy. The lavatories are quite spacious and high tech.  Oh, but they probably have detectors against all prohibited activities. Anyway, looking around, the only person I’ve established a ‘relationship’ with is the Australian man, and he’s sound asleep. 

 

 

 

How can I be thinking like this? This programme ‘Californication’ is indeed corrupting and morally bankrupt.  Unfortunately, only three episodes are available to view.

 

 

  

Saturday 11 October

  

Pass though Singapore airport, check e-mail on free terminals, take aisle seat on two-hour flight to Bali.  Another lovely dinner.  This was a very short day.

 

Arrive Bali 9:30 pm.  It’s hot! 

   

I am met by a facilitator from the hotel, who takes me to my car and driver.  For the first night only, my hotel is the Four Seasons Resort at Jimbaran Bay, which is a short drive away.  After the most welcoming check-in process imaginable (sofa, wet towel, cool drink), I am taken to my private villa in a buggy and move in at around 11 pm.

 

 

 

 

There’s an envelope addressed to me, containing a handwritten card:

   

Dear Mr Ahmad,

Welcome to the Four Seasons! 

Have a lovely stay. 

Best regards, John. 

John O’Sullivan – General Manager.

   

Looking around my villa, I find serious issues to bring to Mr O'Sullivan’s attention:

-         No lifeguard on duty at the pool.

-         The roof seems to be in need of urgent repair, as huge parts of it are open to the sky.

-         Water and flower petals have been left in the bath – presumably by the previous resident.  Why hasn’t this been cleaned up?

 

No lifeguard

 

Huge holes in roof

 

 

Water left in bath

 

 

 

However, a delightful ‘snack’ meal has been left for me (including smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels), and I eat this at the table under the stars.  Cool off in the pool.

 

 

  

Sunday 12 October

 

It’s the early hours when I decide to sleep outside on the private terrace, enjoying the warm breeze, the sound of the sea, the view of the moon and stars.  ‘Underneath the mango tree’ keeps playing in my head.  Wake up before sunrise and plunge into the pool (after visiting the bathroom).

 

 

 

 

 

 

Order a buggy to take me to the restaurant for a wonderful and colourful breakfast.  Go for a walk around the resort, try snorkelling down at the beach, but the water is a bit rough and murky today, so snorkel in my own pool.  The water is calm and crystal clear – much better.

 

 

 

  

 

 

After 13 hours in this extraordinary and perfect place, I have to check-out.  I will be spending two days at a Writers’ Retreat in Candi Dasa, on the east coast of Bali, before the Festival begins.   

 

 

  

  

At Reception at noon, by prior arrangement, I meet up with famous American writer John Berendt, who also stayed here last night.  A car from the Alila Manggis hotel takes us there – about a 90 minute drive.

   

On the way, I impress John Berendt by asking him intelligent questions about his book, ‘Gardening After Midnight Is Evil’.  (I haven’t actually read it, so I’m winging it a bit.)

  

After the Four Seasons, the Alila Manggis seems a somewhat ordinary resort hotel, but it’s very nice nonetheless.  As we check-in, I give John Berendt a signed copy of my book.

  

I spend the afternoon by the pool, reading the Festival brochure and learning the bios of my fellow writers (especially the attractive ones).

  

  

Catriona Mitchell, the Festival Program Director, arrives and has tea with me by the pool.  Sigh.  I pull my stomach in as far as I can, but I don’t think it will be enough.  I can’t breathe.

    

   

In the evening, the writers in this hotel gather and we have dinner in the open air, near the water, prepared by the hotel’s Executive Chef, Penny Williams.  It’s quite a mixed bunch (all foreigners, except me): John Berendt (now living in a lovely New York townhouse, thanks to the movie of his book); Chiew-Siah Tei (whom I met at the Edinburgh Book Festival this summer); Faith Adiele (Thailand’s first black Buddhist nun); Muniam Alfaker (Iraqi poet who had to flee in 1979 after writing some less-than-complimentary stuff about Saddam Hussein’s government – I could have told him that wasn’t a good idea); Shalini Gidoomal (director of the Kwani Literature Festival in Kenya – ‘Red Alert, Red Alert, Literary Festival Director Detected, Literary Festival Director Detected, Maximise Charm, Maximise Charm’); Catriona Mitchell (how can I eat with my stomach pulled in so hard?).

 

 

 

Monday 13 October

    

Most of the other writers signed up for a half-day Balinese cooking class with Penny Williams, but that sounded too much like work to me.  After breakfast, I find this elevated outdoor sitting room in the hotel grounds, overlooking the sea, and I spend most of the day here with my feet up and my head back on a cushion – listening to an audio book which Milton has sent me (transferred to my iPod): Swann in Love, by Marcel Proust.  It’s the best book I’ve ever slept.

 

 

Catriona texts me that some of the writers are joining a Hindu procession later on, so that’s where I head in the afternoon.  It is necessary to wear a sarong, apparently, so I choose the most dignified, masculine one that I can.

 

   "Are you sure this is what they are all wearing?"

 

Shalini Gidoomal, Chiew-Siah Tei, Muniam Alfaker, Imran Ahmad (the easiest name of the lot)

 

We are driven to the nearby town by a hotel car, then set off on foot, our sarongs allowing us to blend in perfectly with the locals.  The procession involves the climbing of a very steep hill, in the oppressive heat, to the temple at the top – where the many food offerings will be made.  Roast suckling pig is definitely the most popular of these (with vegetables stuffed in the mouth, and rice in the rear end).  There are literally thousands of people surging up the hill. 

  

  

   No-one can tell I'm not from around here

 

Don't give me that dirty look -- I don't even eat pork

 

 

 

The finish line!  What's my time?

 

I am the only one of the writers to make it to the top, but later I promise the others that I will produce a photograph which shows that we all made it.  On the way up, I step on my sarong, making a spectacle of myself as I try to shove it back into the sash-belt-thing. On the way down – hurrying to make the rendezvous – I slip on the sandy ground, momentarily suspended whilst leaning backwards, arms flailing.  I grab and push against whatever I can reach to stop myself falling over backwards.  This happens to be the backside of a young teenage boy.  I let out a stream of ‘Sorry’s and hurry away from the scene.

  

Dinner this evening is at Candi Beach Cottages nearby, where we meet even more writers who have been participating in this Retreat: Jean Bennett (New Zealand children’s writer); Lijia Zhang (Chinese journalist whose writing career was delayed for ten years by her being forced to work in a factory making intercontinental ballistic missiles aimed at the West – we should detain her for questioning about the design); Zuleikha Abu-Risha (Arab poet and female rights activist – she must be kept busy); Tee O’Neill (Australian playwright extraordinaire).  All foreigners – no-one else British.

  

  

  

Tuesday 14 October

  

I have signed-up for snorkelling this morning.  Lijia Zhang and I are taken on a motorised canoe with a honeymooning Belgian couple (‘Nous sommes écrivains’ I tell them) to a nearby lagoon, where we swim for an hour.  I have to work hard not to drown, but Lijia Zhang – being a trained Chinese agent, like the one in Tomorrow Never Dies  – has no problem at all. 

  

On the way back, our guide gives us each a bottle of water to drink.  It’s hot and I’m dehydrated, so I drink the lot, and so does Lijia Zhang. This is a mistake.  Looking carefully up and down the canoe, I can see no signs indicating the direction of the men’s room.  The closest such facility whose location I know precisely is in my hotel room.  Seldom has time passed so slowly.  The sea conspires against us, throwing the boat back and forth, up and down, as it struggles to make land.  Men from the hotel wade out and try to pull it onto the beach.  Lijia Zhang and I both seem extremely anxious to get ashore.  We jump out, yell ‘thank you’ and ‘good bye’ abruptly, and run for our respective rooms.  My room key, which I had completely forgotten about, is still in the Velcro-sealed pocket of my swimming trunks.  Thank God.

  

There’s an e-mail waiting for me from the Perth Writers Festival.  They would like me to participate in Feb 2009.  Hmm, let me think about this … well, okay …

  

At noon, we all meet in the lobby to check-out and be transported to Ubud for the Festival.  Catriona has arranged for John Berendt, Lijia Zhang, Faith Adiele and me to be in the same car, as we four are in the same hotel.  (Apparently, dozens of hotels have been arranged for this Festival.)

  

The drive to Ubud is about 90 minutes and we have plenty of time to talk.  John Berendt has been reading my book and says some nice things about it.  He gives me a great quote:

  

‘This [Unimagined] could have been really successful in the US if it had been launched properly.’

  

The journey takes us through the beautiful Balinese countryside, past many temples and markets, and the extraordinary Balinese people who seem to be so much at peace – always smiling and looking content.  I reflect how wonderful, peaceful and spiritual this place is.  It helps me to dissolve my Ego-self, to release my material attachments and selfish wants and preoccupation with social status, and to feel truly content in my Oneness with my fellow Humanity, with Nature, and with God.  Tri Hita Karana, as they say (‘God, Humanity, Nature’).

   

Check-in at the Four Seasons Resort at Sayan is like checking into Heaven/Paradise.  They seat us in a row at what looks like a bar, and for each of us a dedicated member of staff welcomes his guest with a wet towel and cool drink, before taking him/her through the check-in paperwork. 

    

   

  

I hear the voices around me. 

 

‘Mr Berendt, I’ll show you to your villa.’

  

This is surreal.

   

‘Ms Zhang, I’ll show you to your villa.’

   

The anticipation is delightful. 

   

‘Mr Ahmad, I’ll show you to your room.’

   

Why don’t you just shoot me right here?  How come I get a room and they get a villa?  Who’s even read John Berendt’s book, ‘Delight in a Garden of Wood and Weevils' ?  I haven’t.  Lijia Zhang’s from communist China.  They don’t approve of villas.  She built missiles to destroy our decadent Western villas.  Did Faith Adiele get a villa?  She’s supposed to be a Buddhist monk, for Chrissakes.  She doesn’t need a villa – they reject material attachment to worldly things. Why didn’t I get a villa?  I’m an honest materialist.  Why, oh why, do these awful things always happen to me?

    

I am taken to my ‘room’ in a buggy.  It turns out to be a two-storey townhouse, with a private patio on the ground level, and a private terrace upstairs.  The patio leads to the ground floor accommodation – which is the bedroom and massive bath-and-dressing room, and an open wooden staircase leads to the tasteful and serene living area upstairs (with guest bathroom), which also has its own entrance door leading directly into the main hotel complex. 

 

   

 

 

 

My sullenness seems a bit shameful.

    

But I can’t help wondering what a villa would be like.

      

After unpacking and showering and changing, I put on my traditional ‘Happy Man’ t-shirt and wander into the Reception area, where John Berendt is having a drink.  He graciously invites me to join him, buys me a drink and patiently answers my questions about his villa (bastard).  He says he’s waiting to be interviewed by a journalist, who’s running a bit late.  She arrives and I introduce myself, giving her my Unimagined business card and telling her about my book.  John Berendt waits patiently. 

    

Later the journalist, Miranti Hirschmann, calls me in my room and fixes up an interview with me for the next morning.  Bingo!

      

SPECTRE's secret underground headquarters ... or the corridor outside my room ...?

 

At 8 pm we have the Writers and Media Cocktail Party, which conveniently for me is in my hotel. I go up to the main complex’s top level – the wooden deck surrounded by a tranquil pool.  Writers and media people begin to assemble, chat and have drinks on the deck.

   

I spot Camilla Gibb in the crowd.  She’s the author of Sweetness in the Belly, which I read a few weeks ago (it's an absolutely brilliant piece of literature), I’ve exchanged e-mail with her, and I think she’s one of the most talented (and attractive) writers in the programme.  I start to edge towards Camilla.  I’m not sure if she’s seen me. She seems to take a step backwards and inexplicably vanishes.  

      

Dinner tonight is at the nearby Mansion hotel.  We are taken there in cars and I am delighted to meet Elizabeth Henzell – Janet De Neefe’s PA.  She tells me the story behind my invitation. 

     

‘Janet came back from Sydney and handed me your book, saying, “Tell me what you think of this – I don’t have time to read it.”  I started to read it and was laughing out loud.  She asked “What’s that like?” and I replied “It’s wonderful” and she took it from me and I never saw it again.’ 

    

I stay quite late at the Mansion and decide to walk back to the Four Seasons –  a distance of perhaps three hundred metres.  Some of the famous Bali street dogs get wind of my presence (perhaps they’ve read my book) and line up along my route, barking ferociously in greeting.  ‘Remember Tri Hita Karana,’ I keep saying to them. 

 

  

  

Wednesday 15 October

    

I receive an e-mail in the morning:

  

Bridging the West and Muslim World through Literature

  

Ambassador of Canada H.E. John T. Holmes, Mizan Publishing, and Ms. Camilla Gibb, the author of Sweetness in the Belly request the honor of your presence at the launch of the Indonesian version of the work, Lilly, published by Mizan.
 
Thursday, 16th October, 5.00 – 6.30 pm

 

Mizan sounds like the right Indonesian publisher for Unimagined.  I’ll go along to Camilla’s launch and give them a copy.

   

Breakfast in the Four Seasons restaurant.

   

9 am interview with Miranti Hirschmann of Deutsche Welle – the tape recording takes place in the living room of my townhouse. 

   

Relax in my townhouse, entertain a couple of fellow writers, and go for walk in the hot sun of the afternoon.

 

The hotel has an excellent gymnasium.  It's very reassuring to know that it's here, in case I need it ....

 

   

Take car with John Berendt and two others to Ubud Palace, for the 4:30 pm Gala Opening. 

   

    

The Governor of Bali strikes the gong, whilst Janet De Neefe and local dignatories applaud. 

Photo: The Bali Times. 

 

Watch amazing Balinese dance story.  Sit with Sadanand Dhume (who introduced me to Janet De Neefe in Sydney – thanks mate!) and Chris Wood, Editor-in-Chief of the Asia Literary Review.

   

Chris says to me: ‘You know, the Director of the Byron Bay Writers Festival is here.  I’m sure she’ll seek you out to invite you to her Festival.  You should go – it’s really good.’

     

I get a chance to meet Janet De Neefe and thank her for inviting me.  (Until now, she’s been at press conferences in Jakarta, promoting the Festival.)

    

An incredibly vivacious blonde North American woman starts chatting with me.  She turns out to be Carol Bujeau – the wife of the Canadian ambassador to Indonesia.  She introduces me to her husband, His Excellency Ambassador John T Holmes, and I thank him for the invitation to Camilla’s book launch. 

    

After the grand ceremonies are over, a short, somewhat timid Indian man comes up to Chris and me as we step out of the Palace, and asks us what the next event is.

I reply: ‘Well, if you’re with the Festival, there’s dinner at Casa Luna.’

‘Are you with the Festival?’ he asks.

‘Yes, I’m Imran Ahmad, a [famous implied] writer, and Chris Wood here is the Editor-in-Chief of the Asia Literary Review.  And what’s your name?’

‘Oh, I’m Vikram,’ he replies and wanders off.

 

   

Dinner is at Casa Luna, one of Janet’s delightful restaurants and the unofficial home base of the Festival guests and staff. 

 

Casa Luna - I love this place

 

Carly Nugent (front), Catriona Mitchell, Tee O'Neill.  (If only I was three-to-five years younger.)

 

  

 

Thursday 16 October

  

Breakfast in the Four Seasons restaurant.

   

The Festival opens this morning, with Janet giving the opening address in the Indus lounge. 

 

 

Photos: Olin Monteiro

 

 

It’s followed by a panel discussion in which I am a participant – ‘Globalisation and the Collision of Cultures: When Britney Meets Bin Laden.’

   

Beautiful and vivacious journalist Katie Hamann is the moderator; she introduces us (and gives Unimagined a wonderful plug), and then she lets me speak first, as I have some opening remarks to make.

   

‘I’d like to begin my thanking some of our sponsors … KPMG … I used to work for them, they paid me a decent wage, so thank you for that … Casa Luna … thank you for a lovely dinner last night … Four Seasons Resorts … thank you for the room … I wouldn’t mind an upgrade … HSBC … the world’s local bank … please let me keep my house …'

   

 

 

'I have to confess, I had no idea what this session was about …  I didn’t read the information properly … I thought I was on a panel with Britney and Bin Laden … ‘

   

After this, the audience is suitably warmed up and the session goes very well.  No need to thank me, fellow panellists …

    

 

 

  

At lunchtime, I’m wandering between the venues, when Tee O’Neill grabs me and says, ‘You have to meet these people in the food court!  They’re an Indonesian publisher called Mizan and they will love your book.’

      

Mizan?  Mizan ... Mizan ...

    

The three Mizan people are extremely nice and don’t mind a bit that I give them a sales pitch over their lunch.  I tell them that I was planning to give them a copy of my book at Camilla Gibbs’ launch party tonight. (I don’t have a copy right now – I have to go to an ATM and then buy one from the Festival bookshop.)

 

'It's a great book, I tell you.'

Photo: Andityas Praba      

        

In the afternoon, I walk down to the exclusive Como Shambhala estate –  the venue for Camilla’s book launch.  It’s an extremely dignified affair, with excellent canapés and drinks. 

     

Camilla Gibb's book launch

Photo: Andityas Praba

 

  

A lively woman comes up to me, asks me if I am Imran Ahmad, and introduces herself as Jeni Caffin.  ‘I’m the Director of the Byron Bay Writers Festival.’ 

    

‘Yes, yes, YES!  I’d be delighted.’  I must be her easiest acceptance ever. 

      

The Canadian Ambassador, His Excellency John T Holmes, tells me he’s been reading Unimagined and absolutely loving it.  Later, just when I’m wondering what to do for the rest of the evening, Johnny invites me back to his villa for dinner and gives me a ride there with his family and Camilla.

   

  

  

Friday 17 October

  

Breakfast in the Four Seasons restaurant.

   

I spend the day at various sessions.  This is the magic ‘in between’ time of literary festivals, when you just relax and enjoy the sessions – after the joyful opening ceremonies and before the tearful farewells.  There’s a sofa at the back of Indus lounge which is my favourite place to sit.  The discussions are busy, engaging and stimulating, with excellent audience participation.

   

  

     HSBC lounge - between sessions

  

 

   

    'Hey, that's my sofa!'

   

 

Food for mind and body

 

This evening there are a number of separate dinners, hosted by notable residents of the Ubud area.  I am amongst a small group invited to the home of Ronald Stones OBE.  The architecture of his villa is so stunning and original, I’m not even going to try to describe it.  Ronald Stones began his career as a primary school teacher in the North of England in the early seventies, but then took a series of educational positions around the world – culminating in being Principal of various international schools.  He is currently building a school in Singapore from ground-up.  If only he had stuck with his job in England, he could have had a nice terraced house in Lancaster now and be receiving the government heating allowance.  Any regrets, Ron?

     

After dinner, it’s too early to retire, so I text Catriona to find out where the action is and receive the reply that it’s the Mexican Festival at Casa Luna.  I tell the driver my destination. 

 

'I heard her say that book is rubbish.'  

  

 

 

Saturday 18 October

  

Breakfast in the Four Seasons restaurant.

     

Today is my really important day.  It’s my dedicated Unimagined session at the Three Monkeys restaurant.  My book club hosts collect me by car from the Four Seasons.  They are extremely kind and gracious about Unimagined.  My facilitator is Kerry Pendergrast, whom I can only describe as a grown-up, responsible hippie.

     

 

  

The Three Monkeys is a delightful restaurant and the owner (and book club member), Denise Abe, is utterly charming. This is a ticketed event and it’s sold-out.  Unfortunately, people are being turned away at the door (which I feel terrible about). 

    

The event goes well, no-one asks me where the other two monkeys are, and we drift towards noon in conversation.  There’s a chap from Mizan in the audience, shrewdly watching the proceedings.

 

Free cake always makes me smile

Photo: Nick Bale 

 

An English woman comes up to me and says, ‘I think everyone in the UK should be required to read Unimagined.’

    

I reply, ‘I think it would allow us to have an informed discussion, instead of the hysterical ones we keep having – always defined by the extremes.’  (And everyone should buy their own copies, instead of sharing them.)

 

 

With Carol Bujeau - an amazingly charming person

 

In the evening it’s the Street Party and I have some entertaining to do.  I meet my team in Casa Luna, then we head for the designated street.

 

    

Up-and-coming Australian playwright Carly Nugent excites my audience with an introduction, telling them three interesting facts about me:

-         ‘He’s a qualified accountant.’

-         ‘He’s in upper-middle-management.’

-         ‘He drives a Honda.’

  

 

  Carly Nugent warms up the crowd

 

Suitably impressed, the audience gives me a warm reception.

 

   

   

After the Street Party, the night is still young, so back at Casa Luna I apply the dancing instruction which is narrated in Unimagined.  ‘Apparently, in the music there is a rhythm, and you just have to tune your body into this rhythm, and shake your arms and legs accordingly.’  I'm sure that all the ladies are suitably impressed. (I write books too.) 

      

It’s so late when I emerge, there are no cars in the street, offering transport.  The Casa Luna security guard offers me a lift to the Four Seasons on his motorbike, for a fee. One of those Bali street dogs must be a real athlete – I hear him barking on my heels for ages. 

  

  

   

Sunday 19 October

  

Breakfast in the Four Seasons restaurant.

  

Bittersweet mood, it’s the last day of the Ubud Writers and Readers Festival 2008.

   

I attend sessions, sitting mostly on my favourite sofa at the back of Indus lounge.

  

   

    'I'm not budging from my sofa.'

 

  

  

Katie Harran interviews me in the media centre, making a tape for editing and regional broadcast.

 

'I said "off the record" '  

 

 

With Sadanand Dhume

Photo: Jen Richardson

 

  

Back at the Four Seasons, I run into John Berendt in the gift shop. 

-         He lets me see his villa.

-         He lets me take his photograph (just once).

-         He gives me a signed copy of his book, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.

I think there’s an implication that I am never to trouble him again.  It’s a deal – like when am I ever going to see him again?

   

Patient and dignified John Berendt (smiling about his villa)

 

I tour his villa, and suddenly I realise the truth – I prefer my townhouse, with its indoor sitting area and its direct access to the main complex.  The townhouse was much better for my personal needs and disposition.  Why couldn’t I have known this sooner?  Then I would have been so happy.   Why, oh why …?

   

In the evening, I catch the end of a poetry session at Casa Luna, by a softly spoken Irishman called John O’Sullivan.  That name seems familiar somehow (Irish names are not unusual, but I feel I heard this one very recently).  He’s a charming man, and gives me a signed copy of his book, ‘Odd Poems and Slogans’.

 

     Dinner with the lads

  

I have dinner with some of the crowd, and then we head to the closing night party, in the grounds of the Antonio Blanco Renaissance Museum.

 

      Who's driving the car?

 

Kerry Pendergrast’s husband and I hug each other as the band plays Imagine.  I’ve become a hippie too.

 

  

 

  

Monday 20 October

  

I awake very early – time is precious.

  

Breakfast in the Four Seasons restaurant.

 

I always sat here for breakfast  

 

Packing.

  

Hotel car to Casa Luna.

 

Jean Bennett, Martin Jankowski ('Yan, not Jan'),  Edwina Blush

  

Hilary Bonney, Sharon Bakar, Shelley Kenigsberg, Caroline Brothers

 

With Shelley Kenigsberg

Photo: Sharon Bakar

 

'Where are we off to now?'

 

Meet other writers and get transported to John Hardy’s Design Studio for final writers’ lunch.  Standing outside at the long tables, I drink coconut milk and eat the delicious spring rolls and cassava chips dipped in exquisite sauces, until I’m quite full. Then someone says ‘Lunch is now served’ and we are directed inside an enormous bamboo structure in which the most sumptuous feast I have yet seen in Bali is laid out for us. I barely touch it.

 

 

   Edwina Blush

 

The final lunch

 

Janet De Neefe is chatting about the planning process.  “You know, I invited [famous writer] and I didn’t get a reply.”

  

Didn't get a reply?  I don't believe it!

      

(NB: If you are a writer – it doesn’t matter how famous – and you get an invitation to Ubud, and you don’t even bother to reply, then you are an idiot.  This has been the most wonderful experience of my writing career.  This is a very special literary festival and it is a privilege to be invited.)

 

 

"I recommended 'The White Tiger' to [famous publisher] and he said he didn't really care for it - can you believe it?" 

  

Say goodbye to wonderful writers and friends.  Catch a ride back to Four Seasons.

   

I don’t want to leave Bali. I want to live here forever.  Magic and synchronicity are in the air here – they’ve become a normal part of my daily life.  If I never check out of the Four Seasons, then they would never ask me for payment, right?  If I drop into Casa Luna every evening, then I would still be given food and drink for free, right?  Sigh.

 

 I'm going to wear this forever

 

Finish packing. Check out.  The Four Seasons staff are so genuinely wonderful and friendly – they are not faking it.

   

Hotel car to airport.  Four Seasons facilitator helps me through the entire airport process.  Take two hour flight to Singapore and hurry aboard Airbus A380 to London.

  

Sleep. 

   

 

  

Tuesday 21 October

In morning, read John O’Sullivan’s magic book, ‘Odd Poems and Slogans’.

Arrive 6:30 am at Heathrow.  Take a bus home around 7:30 am, so it begins to fill with commuters.  I don’t remember England being this cold.  Why does everyone look so unhappy?  Not smiling, like the Balinese.

     

At home, I check e-mail.  There’s one from Mizan – the Indonesian publisher.  They want to publish Unimagined in Indonesian.  Well, at least something good came out of this arduous trip.

  

Back to work. 

 

   

www.unimagined.co.uk

  

www.unimagined.org

   

"If I'd known you were coming, I'd have worn long trousers."

  

PART ONE

 

EDBOOKFEST 2008: 9 - 11 AUGUST

   

In March 2007, the hardback of Unimagined was published and the Daily Mail gave it a stunning, full page review.  I could barely contain my excitement on the commuter train to London Waterloo, as I turned the page of the newspaper and beheld a massive photo of myself in my suit at the age of one.  Would my fellow commuters, those reading the same paper, recognise me?

 

 

  

 

  

A few weeks later, Catherine Lockerbie – Director of the Edinburgh International Book Festival – invited me to have an event at her Festival in August.  Of course I accepted, my event went brilliantly, and I had the most wonderful time (as well as meeting the Director of the Sydney Writers’ Festival, who invited me to her Festival in May 2008, where I consequently got an Australian publishing deal and met the Director of the Ubud Writers’ Festival in Bali – who invited me to her Festival in October).

  

A year after my Daily Mail review, Jane Mays, the Literary Editor, contacted me and asked if I would review a book for her.  In just a year I had gone from reviewee to reviewer. Of course, I said I’d be delighted. 

  

When the book arrived, I took it out of the padded envelope and groaned.

 

        

The subtitle screamed ‘misery memoir’ and the photo of the cute little boy I found strangely annoying.  (That’s my turf!)

  

I considered how best I could further the cause of my own book by trashing this one in the review.  Alas, it was not to be.  Sathnam Sanghera’s book is fresh and compelling, funny and sad, insightful and informative.  Its content, style and structure are completely unique.  Reluctantly, I had to give it a glowing review, which is here.

  

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/books/article-522900/Breaking-free-ties-bind.html

 

In fact, I had written an even longer and more complimentary review, but the editor cut it down. I did trash the cover and subtitle though.

  

On his website, Sathnam Sanghera quotes me as follows:

  

“Gripping… elegant… there is no shred of misery or self-pity in this story, rather an endearing and intelligent humour which provokes honest laughter and absolute respect.”
The Daily Mail

  

So I’ve become the voice of The Daily Mail.  Who would have thought it?

   

Sathnam emailed me via my website and thanked me for the review. 

   

“I thank you and wish you the very best with your book and your life.”

  

He’s such a genuinely nice guy.  Bastard.

  

We exchanged e-mails and text messages and agreed to meet sometime.  He also texted nice things about my book, but we never spoke.  

  

When I finally got to meet him (as described below), it just added to the list of reasons why I hate him. This is not a comprehensive list, but these are the key reasons:

  

·        He’s a genuinely decent person.

·        He’s articulate and intelligent.

·        He’s good looking and very slim.

·        He’s only 31 but, dressed appropriately, could pass for a student or even a Prefect in sixth-form.

·        One of his part-time jobs is to review flashy cars for Management Today.  He is given these for free, with a full tank of petrol, and typically has a review car whenever he actually needs a car (to travel away from London).  And they give him money for doing this.

·        His mother has given him permission to marry virtually anyone he wants to (as described in his book).  (Latest update: even someone from the Sikhs' leatherworker caste.)

  

A few weeks after my Daily Mail review of Sathnam’s book, Catherine Lockerbie emailed me, offering me an event at the 2008 Edinburgh International Book Festival, on its opening day – Saturday 9^th August.  And the event was to be jointly with Sathnam Sanghera.  (Judging by her wording, she was not aware that I had reviewed his book for The Daily Mail.)  (It’s a good thing I didn’t trash his book.)

  

I purchased my First Class return train tickets (for a specific seat on a specific train, non-changeable, non-refundable, purchased months in advance to get the best possible price) and I was looking forward to travelling to Scotland on the train – which I consider to be a wonderful treat.

  

A few days before the much anticipated magical journey, Sathnam texted me offering me a ride to Edinburgh in his latest free car – a Bentley Continental GT Speed (apparently the fastest Bentley ever built, not that speed is an interest of mine).

  

Somewhat reluctantly, I agreed.  I had been looking forward to that train journey, but this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and with the oil age coming to an end, one never to be repeated.  I would not have said ‘yes’ for any Mercedes, BMW, Ferrari etc, but a Bentley is the ultimate, elegant supercar and surely this would be a spectacularly refined trip?

  

Sathnam advised that I would not be able to drive the car for insurance reasons, so I had to sell this to myself as being a chauffeur-driven journey to Edinburgh.

 

With our event being on Saturday afternoon, we would drive up on Friday evening.  On Thursday, I slipped out of the office at lunchtime to visit Marks & Spencer to get supplies for the epic journey.

  

·        4 sandwiches (assorted) (expiry date: Saturday)

·        1 tray of sushi

·        4 bottles of freshly squeezed fruit juices

·        2 packets of crisps

·        I packet of prawn crackers

·        1 tub of mini-meringues with Belgian chocolate centres

·        I packet of chocolate-covered Brazil nuts

·        1 packet of chocolate-covered American peanuts

  

Back at the office, I finished the chocolate-covered American peanuts within about five minutes.  I told Sathnam about the supplies and he compared me to his mother.  He also said I could bring my ‘driving to Scotland mix’ CDs to play in the Bentley’s multi-CD deck, but he reserved the right to skip any track after a few seconds of listening to it.  Fair enough.

  

On Friday afternoon, I received text updates from Sathnam as he approached my house.  On getting the five-mile warning, I shut down my computer, packed it and stood peering out of my hallway window towards the entrance of the cul-de-sac.  Suddenly, there it was, a Bentley Continental GT Speed – midnight blue with cream leather interior (okay, I couldn’t see the colour of the leather yet).  Growling smoothly, ominously almost – the Bentley turned into the cul-de-sac and paused, seeming to eye up the terrain for possible dangers.  Then suddenly it sped forward with a roar and reached my house in 1.7 seconds. Sathnam thoughtfully parked the Bentley in the very centre of the turning area, from where it was most conveniently viewable by all my neighbours.

   

I had to put my own luggage in the boot (and M&S bag in the back seat) and he refused to put on the chauffeur’s uniform I had hired for the occasion.

  

During the (alas, due to traffic) eight-hour journey, I was able to determine that Sathnam Sanghera – despite being an acclaimed writer and successful journalist – has not one shred of arrogance, narcissism or self-absorption.  So, my initial assessment was correct – a complete bastard.

  

I inserted my CDs into the somewhat awkwardly positioned multi-CD deck in the glove box, and spent hours on the master control panel trying the different settings and sound effects (surround, concert hall, jazz club, outdoors etc).  Sathnam allowed Paul Simon, Simon & Garfunkel, Joni Mitchell, the Bangles, Janis Ian, the Eurythmics, the Isley Brothers and Blondie, but whenever he recognised Abba, his twitchy trigger finger hit the ‘Skip’ button.  When we’d worked through my mix CDs, he allowed me to play my Ultimate James Bond collection.  As I pointed out, the authentic James Bond in Ian Fleming’s books drove a Bentley Continental.

  

The Bentley had a huge centre console of polished wood, with many shiny silver-coloured switches.  This proved immensely useful for placing food items within Sathnam’s reach.  I placed the tub of Marks & Spencer mini-meringues with Belgian chocolate centres on the centre console, and after a while Sathnam asked me to remove it, as he found himself unable to stop eating them.  As I lifted the tub back towards myself, I accidently dropped it in my lap, and the min-meringues fell out in a swirl of thick chocolate dust.  I replaced the mini-meringues in the tub and brushed the chocolate dust off my trousers – doubtless causing tens of thousands of pounds of depreciation to the Bentley.

  

The centre console was also useful for placing the chocolate-covered Brazil nuts in Sathnam’s reach, but one of these rolled into a little well which housed a shiny flick-switch.  The well seemed to be designed to hold one Brazil nut, so cosily did the nut fit in there.  I tried to prise the Brazil nut out with my fingers, at which point Sathnam snapped: “Don’t touch that!  It’s the electronic handbrake.”

 

 

  

 

 

Photos: Satnav Sanghera    (yeah, I know)

 

There was a big shiny knob in front of me, which controlled the airflow to the passenger side vent.  It was perfect for hanging the plastic carrier bag I used as a bin during the voyage. 

   

A real problem arose after we stopped at Southwaite service station, just before the Scottish border.  There was only one cup holder, and this was under the pair of armrests in between our seats.  It wasn’t very conveniently placed for the driver, being a bit far back, but, as Sathnam pointed out, had it been placed to the front, where it was easier to reach, it would have spoiled the perfect visual aesthetics of the dashboard and console.  Sathnam never finished his coffee, so I had no way to dispose of the cup, and I spent the rest of the journey without my armrest. What an inconsiderate bastard.

 

  

"So, how do you get these cars?"

 

"Oh, I wrote a review of a Bentley recently, and they called me up and asked if I would like to try a GT Speed ... I wrote a bad review of a Maserati once, and they never offered me a car again ..."

   

(Dear Maserati, I would be delighted to review one of your cars.  I had a Matchbox Maseratia Bora when I was a child, and I noted the very positive mention in my favourite James Bond film – 'On Her Majesty's Secret Service'.  "... she married ... an Italian count who was killed in a Maserati with one of his mistresses."  Best regards, Imran.)

   

A word on the Bentley’s performance.  It was a very fast car, and could close the gap in all the traffic jams we encountered in nearly a second less than ordinary cars.  But it was disappointingly noisy.  I thought that a Bentley was supposed to be so smooth and quiet that you could never tell how fast you were going.  But I was always able to guess how fast Sathnam was driving reasonably accurately (I could not see the speedo clearly from my side).  So, it was not as ethereally silent as I thought a £140,000 ($250,000) Bentley would be.

  

But the biggest disappointment was the satellite navigation system.  During the journey, I had hours to try it out.  It was one of the integrated functions of the central control panel and shared the screen which also served as a television, audio control, mechanical status display, trip data display and so on. This is probably why it failed for me.  Not having a touch screen, it was controlled by knobs which you use to scroll though letters and numbers, then hit the button to select each one.  It was a nightmare to set, and completely impossible to use whilst driving.  Not only that but, (perhaps I am really stupid), I was unable to find any way to enter a complete postcode.  It would only accept the first four digits of our hotel’s postcode and that was it. 

  

Frankly, a £99 TomTom is superior to this nightmare of user-unfriendliness and would be an essential accessory to mount onto the dashboard of your Bentley Continental GT Speed.  (Even though it would spoil the perfect visual aesthetics of the interior.)

  

We reached Edinburgh in rainy darkness, spent some time looking for the Bonham hotel – as the Bentley knew its location only very approximately – manoeuvred the enormous car into the one remaining parking space of the hotel car park, checked-in and agreed to meet in the Writers’ Yurt (tent) the next day, shortly before our event at 2:30 pm.

  

The next morning it was overcast, but not actually raining, when I formulated my plan for the first part of the day.  Dressed very casually in sandals, shorts and my 19-year-old ‘happy man’ t-shirt (as in photo above), I decided to drop into the Festival before it opened to collect my pass and say hello to the amazing Catherine Lockerbie, then walk over to Milton’s flat, and finally return to the hotel to shave and dress properly before my event.

  

The Festival opens to the public at 9:30 am, but I got there at 8:50 am.  Something strange was going on – there were police everywhere around Charlotte Square Garden and the array of elaborate tents and covered walkways which constitute the Edinburgh International Book Festival.  (It was funny, because I didn’t think that policemen, as a demographic group, were that interested in literature. Although thinking about it, I suppose that they might read a lot of, say, Agatha Christie, to help them with their exams for promotion to detective.)  Also, it had started to rain.

   

I approached the security man at the gate and gave him my name, which he repeated into his walkie talkie.  While we were waiting for a response, I asked him what was going on – why all the police?

  

“Oh, there’s a very special guest this morning,” he replied.  (It couldn’t be me, as my event was in the afternoon and they had no idea I would drop-in this early.)

  

He let me in and I proceeded to the Writers’ Yurt, very conscious of the fact that it was now pouring with rain.  The policemen seemed to have known this in advance, as they had their anoraks, whereas I looked as if I thought I was in Arizona. 

  

I was graciously welcomed back at the reception of the Writers’ Yurt by a couple of the delightful Festival staff.  

  

“Who’s the special guest?” I asked.

   

“It’s Gordon Brown – but it’s a surprise.  No-one knows he coming.”

    

“Is he speaking at an event?”

   

“Oh yes – it’s sold out.”

    

“But if no-one knows he’s coming, how can it be sold out?”

  

She showed me the Festival programme, and specifically the entry for the 25^th Anniversary Opening Event at 10 am – a ‘special guest from the world of politics’, to be interviewed by Ian Rankin.

    

“Is the Prime Minister coming in here?”  (All Festival speakers come into the Writers’ Yurt.)

   

“Yes, he’s supposed to be.”

  

“So I can meet him?”

   

“Oh yes!”

  

The excitement of this was sombrely tempered by the fact that it was now raining buckets and quite chilly.  In my sandals, shorts and ‘happy man’ t-shirt, I looked like a complete idiot. 

  

The Writers’ Yurt was devoid of writers, it being so early, but the Festival staff were being briefed by Catherine Lockerbie in the ‘quiet area’.

 

   

    Photo: BBC News  

   

I settled down on a strategic sofa with a cup of tea.  Men-in-grey-suits began to appear, some taking up positions in the tent and talking into their wrists. There were more policemen outside, a crowd of photographers gathering (so, someone knew) and umbrellas and anoraks everywhere. 

   

The men-in-grey-suits didn’t overtly watch me (I’m sure that they are very skilled at doing this so that you don’t notice). Obviously, dressed the way I was, I must have looked too stupid to be an Al Qaeda assassin.  (Our men-in-grey-suits look a lot friendlier than the American men-in-grey-suits.)

  

I had a chance to talk to Catherine when her meeting ended.  I thanked her for inviting me, she thanked me for coming. Suddenly, the place was buzzing with immediate anticipation and Catherine walked off to greet the Prime Minister. 

   

As he advanced through the room, with his PA in tow, the Prime Minister paused to speak – with expert, interested affability – with each individual who had placed themselves in his path. When my turn came, Catherine made the kindest introduction.

  

“Gordon, this is one of your fellow authors, Imran Ahmad.  He’s just been to Australia with his book.”

  

The Prime Minister gave not one hint that my sandals, shorts and ‘happy man’ t-shirt made me look like an idiot in this cold, heavy rain.  We shook hands and he asked me how it was going. 

  

I reminded him that he already knew me.  “We met last year at Lancaster House, when I slipped you a copy of my book with ‘Good luck with the new job’ inscribed inside it.”

  

“Ah, yes,” he nodded expertly and reassuringly, indicating that he remembered it well, but leaving me with a troubled feeling that this was a seasoned politician’s response. (At least he didn’t say he thought it was crap.)

  

“If I’d known you were coming, I’d have worn long trousers,” was my final comment, to which he kindly laughed. 

  

I meant to ask him if he had a briefcase with the launch codes for our independent nuclear deterrent, but I completely forgot. 

  

The Prime Minister moved on to the quiet area, where he sat signing a huge pile of books.  I finished my tea in full view of the scrum of photographers outside the tent, wondering what they thought of this idiot wearing sandals, shorts and a ‘happy man’ t-shirt in this downpour.

  

I was given a ticket for the Prime Minister’s 10 am event, and was one of the last to enter the main auditorium (my morning visit to Milton’s flat now callously forgotten).  The entrance was at the front, so about one thousand people in anoraks were able to witness the idiot in sandals, shorts and a ‘happy man’ t-shirt come in and look around for a seat.  The event was a sell-out, even though there was no overt indication of who the special guest was.

  

The PM’s session with Ian Rankin was a very bookish conversation, leaving me the impression that Gordon Brown is an intelligent, measured man who lacks the easy, flashy media charisma of Blair and the Clintons.  (But we already knew that, didn’t we?)

  

He was asked when he found the time to write, with the job of Prime Minister.  The answer was early in the morning, but most of his books had already been written before he became PM.  One hostile woman asked something like: was there any area in citizens’ lives, apart from sex, in which his government hadn’t tried to interfere?

 

  

Photo: BBC News

      

Back in the Writers’ Yurt, there was still a buzz of excitement as the Prime Minister hung around for a while, then he made his exit, the men-in-grey-suits and the police followed, and suddenly there was normality again.  I mean, as normal as you can get in the Writers’ Yurt of the Edinburgh International Book Festival, which is the one place in the world I most like to be – you never know who you are going to meet (well, you can guess if you check the programme).  Catherine Lockerbie does an amazing job putting this together (750 events!) and making it all work – she’s always on the go with her clipboard and her walkie-talkie.  There’s one thing I’ve never seen her do – sit down. 

  

The event with Sathnam seemed to go well (of course, I had put on long trousers by now), although the moderator, Roy Cross, dwelt too long on my appalling lack of success with women at university – prompting me to retort: "Ask about something else, dammit!"  In the audience I was delighted to spot Professor Ruth Evans – Head of English Studies at Stirling University – who very kindly recently wrote the ‘Suggested Questions for Discussion’ for the Australian edition of Unimagined, which is coming out next month.  (Does this mean that Unimagined is almost like, you know, literature?)  Sathnam and I both had decent signing queues afterwards. 

   

 

            

 

 

  

     

  

  

       

    

  

 

  

 

 

 

  Photos: Alison Campbell

 

In the evening was the opening night party in the Spiegeltent.  I rushed in early and grabbed a ‘strategic’ booth, waiting to see who Fate would bring my way.  A charming American woman came up to me and asked if I was Imran Ahmad.  She was Lisa Vickers, the American consul in Edinburgh, and she kindly spent a few minutes with me saying nice things about my book.  I asked her how she recognised me and she said from the author photo on the book jacket.  (To my friends:  “See!  It isn’t a too old photograph!”)

  

Bizarrely, we both got a mention in The Scotsman’s account of this party.

  

http://news.scotsman.com/johngibson/-It39s-jackets--off.4378659.jp

   

The next day I was going to be heading south in the train in the afternoon.  I enjoyed again the fabulous breakfast buffet in the Bonham’s restaurant (deserted at 7:30 am on a Sunday).  Whilst they were grilling my kippers, I quickly assembled my lunch rolls and wrapped them in paper towels.

   

I enjoyed a wonderful morning in Charlotte Square Garden and had a chance to thank Catherine Lockerbie again.  One of the Festival staff said something very nice:  “You’re always the writer who seems happiest to be here.”  (That’s because I can’t believe my luck at being mistaken for a writer.)

 

   

 

 

  

 

 

Forlorn as usual to be leaving the Edinburgh International Book Festival, I took the train south in my annual state of melancholy, longing wistfully for a return.  I got home at 10:30 pm, unpacked, then packed again, went to bed at 1 am, got up at 6:30 am, the taxi came at 7:30 am, to take me to Heathrow for the flight to Helsinki … they love their saunas, these Finns … and they are always on time for meetings ...

  

 

www.unimagined.co.uk

 

Unimagined in America: www.unimagined.org

 

   

PART TWO

 

EDBOOKFEST: 22 - 24 AUGUST

 

I returned to the Festival on the weekend of 23-24 August, taking a train up to Edinburgh on Friday night.

  

At Kings Cross, there was a huge crowd waiting to board the train, but I was quite relaxed.  This being the last train to Edinburgh on the Friday evening before a holiday weekend, I wouldn’t even contemplate this journey without a reserved seat in First Class. 

  

The crowd surged forward as soon as the platform number was revealed, and I still got caught up in the herd mentality – even though I knew I had a comfortable seat waiting for me. I boarded the train and began to arrange my stuff around my seat (suitcase in the luggage rack, jacket on the overhead shelf, food bag at my feet, book on the table etc). 

 

A man in the next carriage was yelling into his mobile phone.  An attractive woman seated at the next table smiled at me, as we both realised we could hear a phone conversation taking place so far away. 

  

“… THERE ISN’T A SINGLE UNRESERVED SEAT! …”

  

He was moving towards me …

   

“… THIS IS A COMPLETE TYPICAL F--- ING FIASCO! …”

 

He came into my carriage … He was a thin man, with very short, dark hair and wearing jeans and a t-shirt …

  

“… MY TICKET?  IT’S A STANDARD SAVER RETURN …”

  

He sat down in the reserved seat opposite me (although a Standard Saver Return would not entitle him to a seat in First Class).

  

“… WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO F---- ING DO? …”

   

An elegant Japanese couple stood hesitantly alongside me, conferring together and looking back and forth between their tickets and the seats opposite me. 

   

“May I see?” I asked them, and examined their seat reservations.  “Will,” I said to the man on the phone, “these visitors to our country are waiting to take their seats.”

  

Studiously not acknowledging that he had heard me, Will Self moved off down the carriage, back in the direction he had come from – still yelling into his phone. 

  

Later during the journey, I was unable to overcome my curiosity.  I made the hazardous expedition into Standard Class and down the length of the train, to find out what had happened.  The aisles and connecting areas were strewn with people on the floor: reading, talking, sleeping and (in some cases) drinking far too much.

  

Eventually, I found him.  He had a seat and was furiously scribbling notes and using a purple highlighter in a copy of Richard Dawkins’ ‘The God Delusion’.

    

 

On Friday night I slept at Milton’s, but on Saturday I had to look elsewhere.  Being the height of the Festival, my choice of accommodation was somewhat limited: a £450 suite in the Balmoral Hotel or a £34 student room at Heriot-Watt University (even Milton’s sofa had a longstanding prior booking on this night.) 

      

I booked the Heriot-Watt room, but it was really only just a fall-back, as I expected my prestigious and irresistible Writers’ Badge to provide me with sleeping opportunities on Saturday night (as well as free food and drink in the Writers’ Yurt).

        

    

    

   

Well, anyway, the bus to the campus only took 45 minutes.

  

The next morning, I took the 8:32 am bus from the university back to town.  A party of Japanese students boarded the bus on campus, managed by their English teacher – a young woman from London (south to southeast London, in my judgment). The teacher and a student sat immediately behind me.

 

"What did you do last night?" asked the Japanese girl, in a soft, clear voice.

 

"Oh, last night I really did nuffink," replied the teacher.

 

"You did no-thing?" repeated the Japanese girl gently.

 

I shook my head in despair.  It's over.  We're finished.

  

  

During the Festival, I had the most delightful time (as usual), and even the weather was wonderful this weekend.  It looked just like the photos on the EdBookFest website (taken that year we had a summer – when was it?). 

    

  

 

     

  

I attended some wonderful sessions, which reaffirmed my belief that Charlotte Square Garden

is the most civilised place on the planet at this time: Carol Ann Duffy read her beautiful poetry; Ben Macintyre gave a fascinating talk on the life of Ian Fleming; Linda Grant and Rose Tremain spoke evocatively of their latest novels.

  

I met the delightful Linda Grant, gave her a copy of Unimagined, and thanked her for linking to this blog from hers.  I had a wonderful chat with Ben Macintyre and gave him a copy of Unimagined, telling him that it had a James Bond thread running right through it.  Two hours later I happened to pass Ben and his beautiful wife Kate Muir, who said to me: “Ben’s been reading your book and laughing out loud – he’s absolutely loving it!” 

   

   

On Sunday morning, a quiet, unassuming chap wandered into the Writers’ Yurt.  I could see that he had no Festival ID and obviously wasn’t supposed to be in here – maybe another wannabe writer?

   

The Festival staff were all very busy, so gallantly I stepped in to deal with this situation, with my characteristic sensitivity and tact.

  

I shared with him some advice on writing and getting published; I gave him a signed copy of my book (so that he would gain an appreciation of the standard of writing which has to be attained in order to get published); I let him have his photo taken with me; and then I gently nudged him out of the Writers’ Yurt.

  

Although I am a successful internationally-published writer, I’m always ready to help aspiring writers on their long journey to some form of publication.

 

 

   

PLEASE NOTE: The Writers’ Yurt is strictly for invited writers, authorised Festival staff and nominated guests only (all to be wearing Festival IDs, unlike this gentleman). 

    

   

  

On a serious note, this is what really happened.  Salman Rushdie strolled into the Writers' Yurt with his cabin-baggage-size wheeled suitcase.  He was extremely friendly and approachable – graciously willing to give anyone time for a chat.  He accepted a signed and inscribed copy of my book, which I had prepared for him.  (This was a very good thing, otherwise I would have had to find another 'Salman' to give it to.)  I told him that he was mentioned in it.  At that precise moment, Catherine Lockerbie came up to us and said to him, "That's a delighful book."  (She's the best!)  Then she dragged him off to his event in the main theatre, which was on a live link with the Melbourne Festival.  I rushed there too and found a seat.  His latest book, The Enchantress of Florence, is complex, rich and magical – as always.  Sir Salman also spoke evocatively of his early life and his inspiration for writing (and his gossipy mother).

 

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/uk/scotland/article4602319.ece

    

I was expecting Salman Rushdie to be aloof and distant.  In actual fact he was utterly charming.  I have great respect for him. I don’t agree with all of his opinions, but he has the right to express them.  If we aren’t free to explore and challenge our fundamental beliefs, then we become enslaved by them.

   

  

Later that afternoon, I said goodbye (again) to Catherine Lockerbie and she breathed a sigh of relief that her pastry budget for the Writers’ Yurt would no longer be subjected to the strain caused by my extended presence. She eyed my badge, as if to say, "Shall I take that from you now?"  I clutched it to my chest, as if to say, "From my cold, dead fingers."

  

I returned to London on the train on Sunday night.  Thank God it’s a holiday on Monday.

     

www.unimagined.co.uk

Unimagined in America: www.unimagined.org

  

 

Sydney Writers’ Festival: The Governor and the Canapé

I have just returned from Australia, where I had the most wonderful time as a guest of the Sydney Writers’ Festival.  If you read this blog, you may recall that I met a beautiful woman one rainy night in the Writers’ Tent of the Edinburgh International Book Festival last August and – when she turned out to be the Director of the Sydney Writers’ Festival – I immediately gave her a sales pitch on what a great book I had written.  (She looked bored – this must happen to her all the time.)  However, six months later, when Wendy Were had had a chance to read Unimagined, she actually invited me and I leapt out of my chair at the office when the e-mail came in.

 

I had a packed schedule in Australia.  On arrival in Sydney, I flew straight to Melbourne to appear in an episode of Salam Café (which you can view here – I appear after 11 minutes).  Then, returning to Sydney, I had three events at the Festival (including one with Australian comedienne Judith Lucy – 'Not Another Misery Memoir'), plus other media appearances and a talk in Canberra. 

 

My main event was on Sunday afternoon: 'An Unimagined Journey' – a combination of my addressing the audience and Bruce Elder interviewing me.  The cabaret style location, with round tables, had a capacity of 250 and was absolutely packed.  You won't believe me if I tell you how brilliantly it went – please find an independent witness.

 

When it was all over, I left the sunny blue sky of Sydney’s autumn for the damp greyness of London’s spring – no, that doesn’t make any sense.

 

It was a very memorable trip, but the most memorable event was for a less-than-satisfactory reason …  (See account below.)

 

 

 

Venue filling up for my event

My signing queue!

Who's the attractive blonde woman?  Is she an official?  Where's her SWF ID?

 

My crowd waiting.

 

Venue filling up nicely

 

Yep, I was really here

 

Judith Lucy and me

 

"Not Another Misery Memoir ..."

 

She's got two copies of my book!

 

Nice jumper

 

"Thank you, I really appreciate you buying my book ... Thank you, I really appreciate you buying my book ... Thank you, ..."

 

"I'm having a great time."

 

"Excuse me, where can I get the ferry to New Zealand?"

A magic moment on Sydney Harbour Bridge early one morning

 

A big rock

 

The best airport pick-up ever

 

With Anton Enus - SBS newsreader

Vibrant Festival location

Bruce Elder interviewing me: "An Unimagined Journey"

 Aggressive action against global warming

What an amazing place

Wonderful Wendy Were, who very kindly invited me.

 

 

 

 

On Saturday evening, I was invited to a reception for the international writers at Government House, hosted by the Governor of New South Wales – Her Excellency Professor Marie Bashir.

  

As we walked in, we were each greeted by the Governor herself, who kindly spent a moment welcoming each of us individually. I presented the Governor with an inscribed and signed copy of my book, which she seemed to greatly appreciate.  She thanked me generously for the gift.

  

I appeared to be the only writer who gave a copy of his/her book to the Governor, but I don’t think this is the main reason I made an unforgettable impression on Her Excellency.  That was to come later …

  

I was standing with the Governor and her Chief of Staff, Brian Davies Esq LVO, as Her Excellency kindly recounted a fascinating story about the First Fleet.  The Governor was on my right and the Chief of Staff was opposite me – we were huddled quite close together.  I sipped nonchalantly from my glass of orange juice.

   

A tray of canapés came by …

  

[Note to self for future reference: Never, ever, eat a canapé whilst standing in distinguished company.]

   

To show how at ease and relaxed I was standing in the company of the Governor (I do this sort of thing all the time, you see, keep the company of Captains and Kings), I reached for a canapé.  I noticed it was topped with a creamy white blob of sauce.

   

This was a substantial two-bite canapé, so I took the primary bite.  The magic of this dignified private moment with the Governor seemed to suddenly evaporate as I felt the blob of white creamy sauce miss my mouth, and slide down the side of my chin, and fall into oblivion.

   

The Governor stopped talking.

    

The Governor, the Chief of Staff and I all looked down to the floor.   The large creamy white blob had landed on top of my right shoe.  I had the orange juice in my left hand, the other half of the canapé in my right hand, and it seemed a long way down to my right shoe.  There was silence. Time stood still.

   

I had a vague awareness of Her Excellency’s voice: “Brian …”

    

Suddenly, the Chief of Staff was addressing me: “Don’t worry Imran, we’ll take care of this” and simultaneously he was crouching in front of me, wiping the creamy blob off my shoe with a paper napkin.

   

I apologised profusely to the Chief of Staff, but he dismissed it as nothing to worry about. 

   

Words cannot express the embarrassment I felt.  Idiot, idiot, idiot!  Never, ever eat a complex canapé in front of distinguished company. 

   

Her Excellency finished her story, but somehow I felt that the dignity had gone from my private audience.  She moved on.

   

When something really embarrassing happens, I believe that the best way to overcome the pain of the humiliation is to recount the incident as a funny anecdote, as many times as possible. The pain is then anaesthetised by humour. 

   

A little later, I was chatting with an officer of the Australian Airforce.  He was a Squadron Leader, his blue uniform emblazoned with medals – a very distinguished gentleman indeed. So, I thought I would begin the self-healing process, by telling him the anecdote.

   

“Something really embarrassing happened to me this evening,” I said, by way of introduction.

   

His reply was swift.

   

“You mean with the Governor and the canapé?  I already heard about that.”

  

 

[Update: The Sydney Morning Herald reports that Unimagined ranked 11th in the Festival sales.]

 

Unimagined in Australia:  http://www.unimagined.co.uk/Australia.htm

     

Unimagined:  http://www.unimagined.co.uk/

YoungMinds Book Award 2007

   

YoungMinds is a charity devoted to the mental health of children and young people - an issue critical to the longterm health and well-being of society.

   

http://www.youngminds.org.uk/

       

The charity has an annual book award.

         

    

The 2007 Short List   

             

http://www.youngminds.org.uk/about-ym/youngminds-book-award/youngminds-book-award-2007

   

 

   

My Preparation

   

I've been practising my two possible responses for the YoungMinds Book Award ceremony, so that I look natural and unrehearsed. 

   

("And the winner is ...")

   

Scenario One:

- Nod head several times in wise, assenting manner, clap hands in a measured way, and exclaim: "Bravo!  Well deserved!"  (Mutter: "'Book Thief'? Bloody 'prize thief', more like.")

      

Scenario Two:

- Look shocked, prod chest with fingers of both hands, shake head in disbelief and mouth the words, "Who? Me?", in exaggerated fashion. Wipe tear from eye. (Mutter: "Ha! Losers!")

 

    

    

   

The Event

         

At the New Players Theatre in London, on the evening of 15 November 2007…

         

At the VIP Reception, Barbara Herts, the Chief Executive of the charity, shook my hand very firmly – gripping it tightly for an extended period – looked me in the eye and said; "I really, really enjoyed your book."  (“Yes! I've definitely won!”)

          

I was then taken to meet renowned writer Phillip Pullman – the sponsor of the award and donor of the prize cheque.  I shook his hand firmly, looked him in the eye and said: "How do you do? I'm Imran Ahmad."  I articulated my name very clearly, but not a flicker of recognition crossed his face.  (“No! I've definitely lost!”)

            

The others books were about: death of family members in the Holocaust; murder of childhood friends by a serial killer; imprisonment and torture in Iran; teenage prostitution, drugs and gang culture in LA; a collection of interviews with children who had been traumatised by the death of a parent. 

            

The writers, or their representatives, each read an extract from their books.  We had been instructed in advance that each reading was to last about three minutes.  I had rehearsed mine earlier in the day, and my initial selection was 3 minutes and 45 seconds, so I had cut that further to get it down to 3 minutes. 

            

When the readings kicked off, it was obvious they weren't keeping to 3 minutes.  (“'The Book Thief'?  The bloody 'Time Thief', more like.”) 

            

I was the fifth to read and – after having heard four long, sad and traumatic extracts – the audience was ready for a change. I announced that my reading would last 3 minutes and 45 seconds and they all laughed.  They continued to laugh very loudly throughout my selection of extracts, so I was very pleased with that. I would have read for longer, but I didn't have my book – I had printed my extracts on sheets of paper (like a business professional giving a presentation – oh yeah, that’s my day job) and I had no more material.

            

Will Self gave an excellent, very droll talk about the judging process – the final meeting had taken place in a private room in a restaurant.  He explained that, on this occasion, the judges were prevented from throwing each other out of the window – because the room was in a basement.  The YoungMinds Book Award is for a book which gives the reader an insight into the mental trauma and emotional pain which can be experienced by children.  Will Self explained that the prize did not necessarily go to the book with the most literary merit, but to the one which the judges felt best gave that specific insight. (“Dammit – what is he saying?  Have I won, or haven’t I?”)

      

They called the writers, and representatives, back up on stage (I was the only man) and gave each of us a big bunch of flowers (“Hey, I'm a guy!”).  We lined up in a row and had to face the audience in the glare of the spotlights, so that they could see our faces perfectly, as Phillip Pullman announced the winner...

                  

“… And the winner of the YoungMinds 2007 Book Award is … ‘Still Here With Me’, by Suzanne Sjoqvist … “  (The non-fiction book of interviews with orphaned children.) 

                         

I did my best forced-smile, locking my face muscles into an entirely natural and relaxed-looking stone façade, looked over at Suzanne and gave her a generous, congratulatory, vigorous nodding of the head.

             

Actually, I had chatted with Suzanne extensively earlier, and her book really is heartrending. My personal traumas (such as being cheated out of First Place in the Karachi Bonny Baby contest) are just not in the same league.  She is a well-deserved winner.   

               

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Still-Here-Me-Teenagers-Children/dp/1843105012/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1195205481&sr=8-1

                  

Afterwards, they nearly sold out of copies of my book, apparently, and countless people sought me out in the canapé reception to get it signed, saying how much they had enjoyed my readings.  I promised the Chief Executive that I would do some kind of reading event for YoungMinds.    

            

Phillip Pullman took me aside to tell me that he had really enjoyed my book, so he must have been doing his ‘I’m not giving anything away’ look earlier.

            

So, overall, I had a wonderful time and I was very grateful to have been short-listed.

 

(Double-click to view full size photos)

     

      

         

 

      

 

'Hey Phillip, just wink if I'm the winner.'

       

               

             

 

          

          

   

         

'You wouldn't be laughing if it had happened to you!'

   

    

               

            

    

    

   

      

                        

'I have a very natural, gracious smile.'

               

             

 

Photos credit: Many thanks to Ian Cundell 

                  

                  

                  

                  

                     

                  

    

            

         

 

 

 

   

      

      

Photos credit: Many thanks to Nigel Scott

Edinburgh International Book Festival

Edinburgh International Book Festival

CLICK TO ENLARGE EACH PHOTO

         

    

       

       

       

         

            

            

         

THURSDAY

 

At lunchtime, I left the office with joy in my heart and a bag-full of snack food and set off for Kings Cross, to journey to Edinburgh on the train. I arrived in glorious sunshine, checked into the Channings Hotel and headed for the Edinburgh International Book Festival. 

A very good portent was here.

 

 

FRIDAY

   

I arrived early at Charlotte Square Gardens and was given a desk and phone in the media tent, from which I participated in a live discussion with BBC Asian Network between 9:00 and 9:30 am.

My Unimagined event (at 10:30 am) was in the largest theatre (apart from the main auditorium).  It had a capacity of 240 seats and there were about 200 people there. I made a joke about what an ordeal my first ever book reading (in Islington) had been, when Unimagined first came out (only two people were there).  I read a selection of passages from Unimagined which formed a coherent narrative over 20 years. The audience were marvellous people.  They laughed generously when they were supposed to and listened intently when they were supposed to, and asked thoughtful questions.

      

I was guided out to the book signing tent, and somewhat worried to see that there was only one person in the queue. But then I realised that they have to pay for the book first.  Eventually, there were about 25 people in the queue, which was a relief. My chairperson said it was the longest queue of the events which she personally had overseen.

                  

Several of them very generously said to me that it was the most enjoyable event they had been to so far.  I found this deeply overwhelming. One woman in my signing queue said something like: "I'm sorry I slipped out early to go to the session by [someone famous]. It was so dreadfully dull.  I really wish I had stayed at yours.'

               

One of the outdoor Festival crew said: 'We kept hearing loud booms of laughter coming from your tent.'

                    

As I walked back to the Writers' Tent, I noticed a Scandinavian woman nudge her friends and point at me.          

                     

Back in the Writers' Tent, the Festival staff told me that a Norwegian TV crew wanted to interview me, as they had heard the booms of laughter too.               

                               

The Scandinavian woman and her companions were, of course, the Norwegian film crew. I was interviewed on the lawn by Hans Olav Brenner of NRK (Norwegian Public Television).            

                   

Back in the Writers' Tent, I was approached by the Director of the Bath Literary Festival and she asked me if I would be willing to come to hers (in February).  I said I would be delighted.       

                  

In the afternoon, I attended the session by David Dabydeen, editor of The Oxford Companion to Black British History and learned some unexpected things.  Apparently black people came to Britain around 400 AD, with the Roman army (before the Angles and Saxons) and Queen Victoria could read and write Urdu and Hindi (which is more than I can do).         

                  

My evening event was a panel discussion about Immigration and a Multicultural Society, with Philippe Legrain and Sir Bernard Crick. The moderator was Alan Little of the BBC, who asked me to read some pertinent passages from Unimagined as part of the debate.  They were very well-received.  Afterwards there was another book signing and I signed more copies of Unimagined. I had a long conversation with Sir Bernard Crick and Alan Little.  Sir Bernard Crick said that I had expressed many sensible things, which was very kind of him.          

               

I spent the rest of the evening (until midnight) with David Dabydeen, sitting outside the Spiegeltent bar.   He rushed over to the bookshop and bought two copies of Unimagined for me to sign – one for himself and one for his PhD student. He said: "You have to get a US deal!  America will love to read this book!"         

                      

I was hungry on the way back to the hotel and bought some fish and chips from a late night takeaway. I ate them in my room and fell sound asleep in the armchair.         

    

         

SATURDAY      

          

I spent all day at the Festival and much of it in the Writers' Tent.  I spoke with many established writers who very kindly asked me about my book. Whenever I showed it to them, they always said what a marvellous cover it was and a very attractive book design in general.       

                

There was a brilliant session by Ali Smith, speaking enthusiastically about the adult works of Tove Jansson.  I loved her children’s books (who could forget Moominland Midwinter?) and Ali Smith brought real passion to a reading of one of her adult stories.          

             

I met A C Grayling and enthused about how so much of what he had talked about resonated with themes in Unimagined.  I gave him a signed and inscribed copy.    

             

In the evening, as the rain fell hard and made me reluctant to venture out, there was an attractive woman in the cosy Writers' Tent whom I nervously began to converse with.  She turned out to be the Chief Executive of the Sydney Writers' Festival and my tongue loosened as I spoke passionately about Unimagined and how it was a good book for Australia right now, with that country's concerns about Muslim integration and potential terrorism. She seemed genuinely interested.  (Or was I, in fact, a gibbering idiot? – only she knows). I promised to send her a copy (I had none left on me, having just given my last one to A C Grayling).          

                         

Saturday night I slept on Milton's sofa at his nearby flat, as I couldn't get a hotel room. He had a spare copy of Unimagined, so I took that.         

            

         

SUNDAY         

                  

I had a private conversation with Fay Weldon in a secluded area of the Writer's Tent. She claimed that she knew who I was.  I thought she was being too kind and said: "You can't possibly have heard of me."  I gave her a signed and inscribed copy of Unimagined, (Milton's spare copy), which she accepted graciously.          

                                    

I thanked Catherine Lockerbie (the Festival Director) profusely for having me and I expressed my appreciation to all the Festival staff for their welcoming and generous attitude throughout.          

                      

I left the Edinburgh International Book Festival with a heavy heart, as if I had had a brief but overwhelmingly intense love affair and was now leaving my love forever (or a year, maybe).         

                         

             

MONDAY            

                        

I went to the office on the train. I had to get the weekly updates from the team, in preparation for the Steering Committee meeting …

Charity Book Launch

The Charity Book Launch of Unimagined took place on the afternoon of Saturday 3rd March, at Hampton School (my old school, described in the book), and was in aid of The Shooting Star Children's Hospice.  Copies of Unimagined were given away, in exchange for donations to TSSCH. 

I think it was quite successful, because I barely got away from the signing table to get to the food.

                           

 

                           

         

                   

                     

                        

Many thanks to:

Hampton School for providing the venue free of charge, and some of the excellent music and song.

Barclays, Aurum Press and Mulcahy & Viney for funding the refreshments.

The Shooting Star Children's Hospice staff and volunteers for managing and staffing the event.

Roger Perrin and the fabulous jazz band for playing for three hours.