The International Conference on the Art and Joy of Wood

Oct. 19^th 2011

When the conference started, I was moved to a new guesthouse where all the people giving presentations for the conference would be staying. I couldn’t believe the room. It was possibly the nicest room I have ever stayed at while traveling (save for this one time in Nicaragua). It had hot water, air-conditioning, lots of space, two beds, a couple of armchairs and even a hot water pot with an assortment of teas and coffee. It was so comfortable, I kind of felt like just staying there for the next three days. The other people at the conference were from all over the world with completely different backgrounds. The only thing that united everyone was some vague association with wood. There were wood scientists, wood architects, wood craftsmen, officials from departments of forestry, and people involved in the international lumber trade. Even by the end of the conference I was trying to figure out who everyone was, their motives for coming to the conference, and what interest they truly represented. Words like sustainability and responsible forestry were thrown around, but I couldn’t tell how much of it was for show. Subtle things from hearing one man snidely refer to conservationists as “huggers” or Vietnamese business people seeming quite interested to speak with forestry officials from Africa.

Every morning there was a breakfast waiting for us in a hotel dining room. At first everyone seemed would come, but most people ended up either confused or disgusted by the simple Indian breakfast of Idli, sambar and coconut chutney. True, it was relatively bad idli, but free breakfast nonetheless. Two of the first people I met were a couple of guys that I would see hanging out throughout the conference. Physically, they were probably the oddest-looking couple of friends I had ever seen. One was a 6’6” Rastafarian wood scientist in his 60’s from Grenada. He was friendly, talktative, a little loud and had a big, boisterous laugh. The other guy was a young 5’4” Bhutanese government official. He was mild-mannered and quiet, but friendly. Throughout the three-day conference, I almost never saw this dynamic duo apart. I ended up spending most of my time with a couple of young Ghanaians from the department of forestry and agriculture who were there to give presentations on the changing use of wood in their home countries and the cultural significance of different building materials. I found them easy to get along with. We also spent some time with a Nigerian man who had recently spent a year in northern India doing some sort of fellowship. He was never too fond of the Indian food and as he explained it, “I passed through India, India did not pass through me.”

The bulk of the conference was a series of lectures and presentations by these people from all over the world. Some of them were incredibly dry and boring, and on at least one occasion snores were heard from the back of the audience. Some of them were truly inspiring or fascinating, even for someone as uninformed on the subject of wood as me. A couple of presentations discussed the possibilities of construction using bamboo, a sustainable and environmentally friendly resource. One of the best presentations was from two men representing a Canadian company that specialized in designing and constructing large buildings from wood. They discussed their plans to build a 30+-story structure from wood, once the Canadian government lifts their ban on the construction of wooden buildings higher than nine stories. Although many of the presentations threw around those buzz-words like sustainability, very few, if any, seemed focused specifically on conservation. Some of them openly spoke about the lumber trade from such unethical sources as Burma, Malaysia, Indonesia, and West Africa, where illegal logging is rampant, as something of a necessary evil. An official from the government of Kerala, one of India’s most forested states, spoke about how they had been able to conserve so many of their forests, but casually noted that they now import most of their wood from Burma and Malaysia. I tried to take in as much as I could, simply because this conference was a random opportunity for an intellectual experience that is not always available when traveling. It turned out that I probably went to more of the presentations than most anyone else in the conference. By the third day, one of the organizers of the conference commented to me that he had seen me around more than anyone else at the conference, and almost felt bad that I wasn’t out seeing Bangalore part of the time. The West Africans that I had met were absent most of the last day, and I asked them where they had gone. They said they had gone to a couple of malls to do some shopping. At first, I was disappointed in them for not going out to see some temples or have a more cultural experience. Then again, I had to remember, that for someone from Ghana, going to a mall was an opportunity equally rare and even cultural as going to see temples or markets. They bought clothes and electronics that were either unavailable or more expensive in Ghana.

A great perk about the conference was that all the meals were provided and some of the dinners were spectacular. The opening night featured a pre-dinner music performance from a local group. The nine or so piece ensemble specialized in classical Indian music. This did not limit them to one style, and the diversity of their sound made you really appreciate all that classical Indian music has to offer. They opened with a piece from the Himalayan regions that featured heavy flute riffs and enchanting chanting. The second half of their ninety minute set, they performed an elaborate raga, a style of music piece popularized by Ravi Shankar that starts out quiet and simple, but slowly grows into an intense climactic cacophony. The whole performance was enthralling, but I could tell that many of the people were growing tired of the raga after fifteen minutes. I could see the relief on the faces of the West Africans after it was finally over and the meal was about to begin. One of my Ghanaian friends, who appeared exhausted from the music was polite and simply said, “that was a great cultural experience…just a little too long for me.”

During the dinner, men with trays of beer, wine, appetizers and entrees walked around topping off glasses and loading up plates. The food was of high quality, and they were so generous with the meat. My typical Indian diet didn’t include much meat, so I was happy to get my fill and avoid the rice and naan. One of the Ghanaians was not interested in eating meat (I believe he said that he only eats meat on Fridays), but kept asking the servers for refills of an appetizer that was basically tater tots. “Please, excuse me. Can I please have more potatoes,” he would repeatedly ask. I don’t know why I thought this was so funny, but I did.

It was interesting to see how people tended to segregate themselves during these meals. Understandably it is easier for people to organize themselves based on a common language. However, most everyone spoke English. Yet one table would be dominated by Asians, another would be westerners, another would be Indians, and the Africans at another. The only people I really connected with their were the Ghanaians, so I ended up sticking with them when I wasn’t sure where else to sit. During one of the dinners, I was at a table that was divided between West Africans and Vietnamese. I got into a long conversation with a Togolese man and was glad to find that I was still capable of getting by in French. As usual, the West Africans were lively and constantly laughing. I think I was definitely among the most fun table.

Oh but wait, why was I actually at the conference? Oh, right, my photos were on display. I had been to other conferences like this before, and when some sort of art or photography is being presented it is usually framed and prominently displayed. I was a little disappointed when I found the poor condition in which my photos were presented. First, the eight-photo series was slapped haphazardly onto one single sheet of glossy poster paper. They didn’t follow any particular order and it was difficult to tell which captions went with which pictures. Worst of all, the quality of the printing was horrendous. They looked like they had been enlarged from tiny thumbnails, and it was almost impossible to tell what the photos were even of. They were also tucked away in a back corner of a random exhibition hall of wood arts. Nobody seemed to even notice the photos. The organizers of the event apologized for the print quality and had them redone after the first day, but at that point it didn’t even matter much to me. On the last day of the conference the photographers that were invited to the conference were briefly recognized for their work by receiving a certificate on stage. For how far we had traveled, it seemed like an awkward token of recognition. There were two other photographers. One happened to be from India, and he was a pretty serious hobbyist photographer. He loved to enter contests and with his limited English he would repeated tell me about all the awards he had won and showed me the pictures on his cell phone. His work was pretty decent for a hobbyist and he had won many awards. He said that he had already been to Singapore and Hong Kong to receive awards. The other guy was an Australian that I didn’t meet until after we received our awards.  His winning photo was of some sort of elaborate wood architecture/monument project in his home town. Since he was also involved in the project (he was an architect more than a photographer) they invited him to give a thirty-minute presentation. I have to admit that I was jealous. Two of the organizers of the conference had spoken to me about the background of my project. When I told them about my time in Mali, one of them was so intrigued that she thought that I should give a presentation too. The other organizer, said we just didn’t have enough time. It would have been fun to actually show all the people I had met through the conference what I was actually there for. Not many of them had actually seen my work, but it would have been nice to show them what I was about.

On the shuttle bus back to the hotel, I spoke to the Australian guy. He was a friendly dude, as most Aussies tend to be, and we got into a long conversation. He interrupted, suddenly, and asked the driver to let him out a few blocks early. He said he was going to pick up some beers and asked me to join. Duh. We bought a few of the strong beers, and walked back to the hotel. It turned out that our rooms were actually next to each other. Somehow we had not yet met before the bus ride. And like a good Aussie, he enjoyed the drink. He said he was going to meet up with his South African friends for dinner and invited me to come along. Aussies and Saffos (sp?) mix well. He drank his big, strong beers incredibly fast, and I struggled to keep up. Before I knew it, we were flagging down an auto rickshaw. One of the biggest conveniences about Bangalore is that the auto rickshaws work like taxis, meaning they go anywhere and also have a meter. The biggest inconvenience in Bangalore was that most drivers did not want to put on their meters. Getting them to do so was a constant battle and sometimes required going from rickshaw to rickshaw to get a driver that would follow the supposed rules.

So I suddenly found myself in the more upscale and trendy urban area of Bangalore on MG (Mahatma Ghandi) Road. It wasn’t too intriguing, but it was definitely more flashy than anywhere in Kolkata. That very day the city’s first subway had opened, with one of its principal stations on this street. We were going to a restaurant called “Ebony” on the 13^th (top) floor of a shopping center. I was nervous to go to such an upscale place, not because I was underdressed (though I was a little) but because I knew that it would be expensive. I relaxed, though, since I had spent almost nothing for the last week, and could afford to splurge a little. The South African couple was already seated on the rooftop terrace with one of the best views in the city. Apparently they had already been there for hours, just downing margarita after margarita. They were an interesting couple of architects in their 50’s. The man had only been in South Africa for a few years and was originally from Germany. The Australian first made sure that the beers were on their way and then we ordered some appetizers. Although the restaurant had French and Thai options we stuck to the more Indian-oriented Parsi options. We were quickly inundated with all sorts of grilled meets and savory appetizers. I was trying my best to keep beer pace with the Australian, but it was not an easy task. I also didn’t know how much they were, and could assume they were far more than I would normally be willing to pay. I didn’t really care, though, since I was having so much fun with these people. When the bill came, the South Africans grabbed it. They had correctly seen through my attempt at seeming professional and that underneath I was just a broke traveler. They told me they’d been young and wild like me before and were happy to treat me. I was relieved, but also felt a little lame, so I at least insisted on paying for our cab ride home as a token of my appreciation.

All in all, the conference was a great time and added another bit of variety to my constantly unpredictable year of travel. When people ask me what I was doing in India, I have to take a deep breath and consider how to answer the question. Do I answer why I was there, or what I did mostly? Usually, though, it’s a lot easier to just smile and say, “traveling”.