One day, one world, many cultures

After a soggy start, ARMINTA WALLACEwent around the world in 15 passport stamps at this year's Festival of World Cultures in Dún Laoghaire

FOR ONE weekend every summer, the world comes to Dún Laoghaire in Dublin for the Festival of World Cultures. This seemed like a fun idea: spend a day at the festival, sampling the music, the food, the stalls and the street performances. Collect a “stamp” on a notional “passport” for each country thus notched up, and see how many countries you collect. No problemo.

Alas, my round-the-world trip gets off to a soggy start. It’s Saturday morning, it’s 9.30am, and the East Pier is being lashed by wind and rain. Mist has descended on the choppy waters of the harbour; if there are any Chinese folks conducting a class in graceful t’ai chi out there, I can’t see them.

I squelch hopefully into the middle distance. I don’t want to give up on my first passport stamp. On the other hand, I can’t feel my toes any more. And you can’t really do t’ai chi while brandishing an umbrella. I need an indoor activity for a while. A large sign tacked to the wall of County Hall reads “Health and Harmony: a Global Therapies Fair”. I flee inside and up the carpeted stairway. In the well-appointed Assembly Rooms, where local councillors from Dún Laoghaire-Rathdown borough usually transact affairs of state, there are stalls purveying organic cosmetics and handmade soap and reiki. Would you like a Maori massage, a woman asks. Is she kidding? I’m on the table before you can say, “purely in the interests of research”.

Julia Szvath is Hungarian, is based in Bray, and studied massage in New Zealand. She does stuff to my back with her forearms that involves lots of popping and cracking and – to my astonishment – a new pair of shoulders. I set off for an exhibition of Cuban photographs at the Pavilion Theatre. Buskers on the Malecón, dancers in outrageous costumes, the pianist Roberto Fonseca in full flow, colour and music and sunshine. It seems like an omen.

Sure enough, out on Carlisle Pier, the Global Village market is hotting up. There’s a guy selling wooden animals from Kenya; there are silk scarves from northern Thailand. Kerching! The countries are notching up nicely. I could cheat by trekking around a dozen stalls, but I don’t. I just sneak a quick breakfast crêpe, thereby adding France to my list, before heading to the People’s Park for the Mela Asian fair.

Under the trees a happy crowd has gathered around the Indian acrobats and dancers from the Kawa Circus. Bollywood music drifts across the grass. And from inside the Lotus Tent, a low-frequency but mellifluous buzzing turns out to be a group of Tibetan Buddhist monks from the Drepung Loseling monastery, giving a demonstration of the chant that forms part of their daily spiritual practice. If you close your eyes for a second, you could be in a shrine room in the Himalayas. Next to me, a little girl is solemnly exchanging her pink welly boots for a pair of diamante slip-ons.

The sun is breaking through, the streets are filling up, and the sound of samba rhythms is summoning hordes of people to the East Pier. This is La Banda del Surdo, a flamboyant Spanish company composed of drummers and stilt walkers. Within 10 minutes, they’ve put a smile on the face of everyone in their airspace. They’ve also given me an appetite. I can’t decide between Chinese skewered prawns and Lebanese falafel and vine leaves: so I go for both.

On the Newtownsmith Main Stage – aka Glasthule – the band Mdungu is blowing up a storm. “African rhythms!” the singer cries. “Who wants to party?” The rhythm section is fabulous. The sax player is extraordinary. The ethnicity is a little complicated. “Nigerian Afrobeat,” says the festival programme. “Senegalese mbalax.” Strictly speaking, Mdungu hail from the Netherlands – so that’s what goes on my passport.

I belatedly realise I should be at a workshop with Amiina, the electronic gurus from Iceland. I race to the Royal Marine Hotel to find four ultra-cool Nordic types – two boys, two girls – speaking very quietly about how, instruments being in short supply in rural Iceland, they built their own from wine glasses and a garden saw. It’s hard to believe they are the international heirs apparent to Sigur Ros. They’re so resolutely non-rock-star. Or should that be non-stick rock?

Back at the main stage – the main road has been closed to traffic all day and is now crammed with strolling people, babies in buggies, dogs, and bicycles – there’s a big crowd for Mahala Rai Banda, a jolly band of virtuoso gypsy musicians from Romania and Moldova. There’s an even bigger crowd for Khaled, the Algerian superstar whose funky, reggae-based rai gets everyone on their feet. Who needs the Malecón when you have Newtownsmith Promenade?

Among the bopping, laughing crowd is the festival’s director, Jody Ackland. She’s happy – but also, having just announced that she’s stepping down after this year, a little bit sad. “I feel so incredibly proud of the festival today, and I’m happy to be leaving it on a high point,” she says. She is, she says, looking forward to expanding her horizons. For the moment, I’m quite happy with mine. Around the world in 15 passport stamps. Not a bad day’s work, all told – and a great day out.