Day Four: Poetic justice!

27 May 2007

There's something "country" about the Festival. A walk around the site gives one a glimpse of the lovely 'green' views of nature surrounding it and certainly feels most comfortably appointed. While buckets of rain were pouring incessantly, people still came in droves, garbed in their colourful welly's and rain jackets, like a troop of country farmers marching to a field demonstration.


The poetry menu of the day had all the ingredients that make for good cuisine. Director Peter Florence made sure there was something from all the regions of the world. From Africa to Wales, the audience had a treat of different poetry dishes. The seven poetry chefs were all superb - Simon Armitage, Gillian Clarke, Menna Elfyn, Wole Soyinka, Amir Or, Gwyn Thomas and Nabeel Yasin.

Oneword's Paul Blezard had his bag of wits to chair the discussion on Conrad's Heart of Darkness and Evelyn Waugh's Scoop. He announced, in his comic way, before the session that 'though Conrad and Waugh may have wanted to be part of this discussion, Peter Florence, could not find their email addresses and so the two authors could not unfortunately be with us today.' The audience raptured into laughter. I couldn't agree more with Blezard: great writers never die, they live through their words.

The cast of panelists that included myself, Peter Godwin and Peter Stothard the Times Literary Supplement editor was as varied as it could be. Conrad and Waugh's works intricately touched our pasts and still do resonate on the fundamentals of human relations today.

While my mastery of the Welsh language is limited to the basic greeting salutations, I couldn't resist the temptation to listen to the local funky rock band A'r Barf led by songstress Fflur Dafydd. The magic of music is that it speaks to the heart. The night was still young and had to dance myself to warmth.

Day Three: Rain, rain!

26 May 2007

Now I understand what people meant when they said: the actual festival starts on the first Saturday. Most events of the day are sold out. The site is swarming with people. I walk around. The sky is overcast.

I am assigned to look after Nobel Laureate Wole Soyinka before and after his lecture, already sold out. I introduce myself to him and we talk. He is friendly and pats me on the back. I am tongue tied. What do you say to a man like Wole Soyinka? There is a kind of radiance in the man, just his presence, and of course his peculiar fluffy white hair. His lecture delays with 10 minutes. A cast of young and old people drag each other to listen to him.

There is a sense that while the festival has been growing so too has been its staff and audience. People recognise each other from 10 years ago at a Hay event. I am impressed. Old friends meet and catch up. They talk about families and career changes. And then there are new friendships born through chance encounters in the Green Room, sharing moments on the stage, in coffee shops, in ticket queues.

The heavens poured in a torrent. People ran for cover in the onsite coffee shops and restaurants. Some escaped the rain by queueing their way into this or that event. They tell me, Hay Festival is not complete without mud and puddles. Rain, rain!

From John Major to Gordon Brown, Hay hosts them all. While Major spoke cricket, Brown spoke courage. People turned up in large numbers nevermind the soul drenching weather.

Even in Hay, Zimbabwe still made the headlines. Peter Godwin gave a brilliant introspection of Mugabe's Zimbabwe, a country with a government at war with its own people. I didn't shed a tear, only my heart bled.

Day Two: Eavesdropping

25 May 2007

I eavesdropped to a conversation between Steven Hall, author of The Raw Shark Texts, during his book signing session in the onsite bookshop, Pembertons, when a young writer came to him and asked:

‘I have written a novel. How do I make it great?’

‘It’s easy. Hardwork.’ The young writer looked bemused.

Hall elaborated, ‘You see, it took me 10 years before my first book was published. I am sorry to say but that’s the way it works. It's just hardwork.'

The young writer walked away wearing a dejected face even before he has begun his journey to be a writer. I felt sorry for him.

After reading When a Crocodile Eats the Sun, I was eager to meet Peter Godwin, maybe more because we happen to share the same heritage. So we ended up standing in a corner talking about home - Zimbabwe - our frustrations, our hopes, our yearnings for home, our prayers for the future. Festival encounters like flirts don't last, they quickly melt. Time or some 'ad hoc commitment' pulls you away. New faces chat you. Some lady dances beside me harping an old familiar tune, Can You Show Me Where The Loo is Please? I don't have time for a dance, but I do point out the lady to a toilet nearby. Peter decided we meet for coffee and catch up in detail, possibly tomorrow. I say yes, why not?

The weather has dropped in temperatures. The night air is cold. I regret leaving my coat behind. I steal a few moments to talk to my mother. How serious is it? Why did they take you to hospital. She insists. I am fine. Don't worry yourself to death son, she said. I smile to a group of kids staring at me speaking in a weird language. It certainly was not Welsh. I had to use Shona. My mother has a stammer. It gets heavier when she speaks in English, perhaps it is her violent refusal of the language.

I am holding two fresh Kent roses to hand to the prodigious music composer Michael Nyman and Francine Stock. They had an interesting discussion about music, cinema, collaboration, inspiration. I am wiser. There is certainly more to Hay Festival than just books and their writers.

Day One: 20 Years Later!

24 May 2007

There is something enchanting about writers and politicians and academics and people from all walks of life meeting at a treeless clearing that has been dramatically pitched into a tented village at the foothills of the Black Mountains and especially if the place has a name like DAIRY MEADOWS. The surroundings are beautiful. The weather is warm, but I find the people a lot warmer.

The historic rainy Hay weather took leave today. I decide to walk leisurely from the Bed & Breakfast I am staying to enjoy the teasing sun. The walk keeps my mind jogging. Yesterday my mother was admitted in hospital. I don’t know her condition. My phone is dead with all the numbers in it. It's not the battery. The site is a short 10 minute walk out of Hay.

Yellow signs point towards the Hay Festival site. From a distance the place is abuzz with people. Cars going in and out every minute. Site personnel wearing shiny tabards walk around. A bilingual sign greets me: CROESO/WELCOME. A big white banner confirms: theguardian HAY FESTIVAL. I walk into history.

In 1987, I was a young four year old boy pulling up my hand-me-down pants in a crammed township room somewhere in Zimbabwe. My world was my mother whose skirts I tagged for affection. In 1987 in the Welsh border town of Hay on Wye a small group of people were meeting to arrange the first edition of what has become this famous festival.

Today, 20 years later I have moved beyond the margins of my Zimbabwean township, left behind my mother's comforting presence, to discover the world. I live in Wales and things are still happening in Hay.

I am overwhelmed. People introduce me to people, a lot of them I didn’t know before I met them and then there are some people whose names I knew but whose faces have always been glossy cover images. It is the mixing and mingling that makes any festival experience memorably exciting.

The festival team is an enthusiastic lot, friendly, nice, happy. They warmly embrace me as part of the family. I have not been to any event. The time when you want to attend something you always end up doing something else because you are the only pair of hands available and have to get the work done.

The site is an amazingly laid out tent village. As I walk around I spot people enjoying the sun on deck chairs strategically placed around. Hay fever affects even the young. I see young children yapping towards the children's zone. The future is assured.

At night The Morriston Orpheus Male Voice Choir mesmerise the audience with their classic ballads. In between the music performance, Peter Florence and his mother Rhoda Lewis read some poetry. There’s a wild applause. I leave early. The first day has been exciting. Tomorrow is another day!