I LEAN ACROSS the table trying to talk with Alma Lee, producer of the Vancouver International Writers` Festival, above the Hey, hey-a hey-a and heavy beat of native ceremonial drums. Two young women are doing a sound check for tonight`s First Nations Cabaret, although it seems to be developing into an impromptu concert. Brian Fawcett, who joined me when one of Lees staff dragged her off for the third time, may be smiling nicely at me, but I fear he`s smirking. Here`s this guy who does a weekly column for the Globe, writes books so intelligent most people are terrified of him, and my questions are going glutinous and insoluble as lumps in gravy. The five-day festival (October 24 to 28 in 1990) takes place on Granville Island and has events going all day. Lee gets the mayor to open it, which in this city is worthy of remark. The location is great because of the energy of the Market, not so good in terms of building atmosphere. The minute you walk out of the festival, you`re absorbed in shoppers. The emphasis this year is on First Nations, a decision made before Oka. The native writer Lee Maracle, who is one of the endearing presences at the festival for her strength and honesty, shakes her head at any suggestion of trendiness: "I have a great esteem for Alma Lee." Every writer I speak to respects Lee, but in its third year, the festival is a source of mingled embarrassment and pride to Vancouver literati. It`s so, well, small-time. There are no Arthur Millers, no Margaret Drabbles. The best you can say about it is that it`s here. The panel on Native writing and humour is snips of readings. The program promised that Raven would be investigated, perhaps even cornered for his opinion, in this "lively forum" Its liveliest moment is at the end when a Native member of the audience jumps to his feet and yells that he feels ripped off. He wants to see some coyote shit on stage, man. I feel the same sense of blandness, of sliding away from issues on the panel on Native writing and use of language. When a member of the audience brings up the issue of cultural appropriation and Bill Kinsella, Thomas King rebukes us by saying he prefers "not to be entertainment" Jeanette Armstrong blasts Europeans in the audience (calling people Canadians is not on because the word "Kanada" has been stolen from natives, too), saying "Our people have been violated for over 400 years" What she has to say about the residential school system really brings out the white guilt in me, but why, I wonder, is grappling with issues seen as entertainment, and condemned? Was I wrong to come to this event expecting my thought to be challenged? When did entertainment come to be seen as a negative moral force? The First Nations Cabaret is claustrophobic, with chairs arranged nightmarishly close together. Rumour has it that the event has been oversold by 25 per cent. The Chief Dan George Band reunited for tonight. The traditional blessing is moving, then the band sings C&W. An ancient-looking man on crutches leads in a quavering love song. I wish the band had stayed retired. Russell Wallace is a decent musician, but his monotonous chant about a gunslinger and his gruesome exploits goes on and on. Am I racist to want good entertainment? Or shorter sets? The group from the Okanagan Nation, with Jeanette Armstrong, is my favourite. Their haunting vocals and traditional flutes interlaced with poems lift hair on the back of my neck. Eerie. Beautiful. The festival is certainly affordable, $10 a ticket instead of the $15 charged at Toronto`s Harbourfront literary festival, but presentation can be slapdash. An employee at the Arts Club Review Theatre drives me nuts by pounding downstairs and backstage dozens of times a performance. And the Quebecois writer Cecile Gagnon, author of more than 60 books for children, arrives in Vancouver to find herself billed as a storyteller. Gagnon has never even given a reading in English. She improvises valiantly, but Richardo Keens-Douglas from Toronto and Gcina Mhlophe from South Africa, both powerful and popular performers, wipe the floor with her. To add insult to injury, Gagnon is the last to go on. The audience demands an encore from Mhlophe. Pira Sudham, the Nobel Prize for Literature hopeful from Thailand, is a dreadful reader. Every two paragraphs he tells the audience -in barely understandable English - that exactly what happened to his hero also happened to him. Lee has deliberately "stayed away from elitist literary events" The festival offers shows geared to schoolchildren (Gagnon had a full house of French Immersion kids), forums for aspiring writers, panels on crime fiction, writers from around the Pacific Rim, and, with a nod to the International Year of Literacy, writers who learned English as a second language. This type of general offering does not draw the literary community, but it employs them; fully half the writers who appeared in the festival are from B.C. Most events have very few seats left. A number sell out well ahead of time. The one reading the literary community really turns out for is the International Writers evening with Sudham, Mhlophe, Patricia Grace, Jonathan Raban, Richard Ford, and Matt Cohen. "Were all too polite," one writer tells me after "ReVisions," a wonderful idea for a panel dreamed up by Jack Hodgins. The premise for debate is, "When political systems fail, it`s time for a revived cultural vision:` Hodgins is billed as a participant, but does not show up. Later I find he backed out, saying he was a writer, not a politician. (Only in B.C., you say?) Brian Fawcett calls writers "janitors of the language," and laments the lighting, which cuts off the panel from the audience. Robert Bringhurst confuses the subject with Anthropology 101 and enrages Maracle by acting as a spokesperson for hunter-gatherer society. Maracle defines hypocrisy as "when you layer the truth with silk sheets" I wish they`d unmake more comfortable beds. The Poetry Bash features eight poets. Roy Kiyooka is garbed like a `60s sage, headband and all. With an accompanist, he really works at making noise. Sheri-D Wilson delivers a polished, assured perfor mance. Annie Frazier`s act includes a juggler, who is voted the best part of it. Bringhurst`s "New World Suite:` a piece for three voices, is premiered, an extraordinary, moving piece that shines gold in this coinage of varnished egos. Phyllis Webb calls herself the "superannuated aunt of poetry" and says, "Perhaps I`ll really make you suffer before I leave, since I feel I`ve suffered . " Is she refer-ring to the length of the afternoon (three hours) or some of the abysmal poetry? Webb gives a wonderful reading. This is not the polished banquet more established literary festivals serve, no. The Vancouver International Writers` Festival is more like a potluck dinner, where everything you taste is either great or awful. Ironically, the festival`s reputation may be higher than Vancouverites suspect. While it`s seen locally as a very low-profile event, organizers from Poetry International Rotterdam were on hand this year, looking at the possibility of writer exchanges; various publishers also attended, including the editor-in-chief of Doubleday Canada. Alma Lee has tried to make this festival "user-friendly," to offer something for everyone. I`d like more consistency and discrimination in the menu, but there`s no doubt that what she`s serving is popular.