Wednesday, 30th June, 2010

http://matadornetwork.com/nights/londons-best-pubs-for-a-sunday-roast/ 

From The Recesses Of The Mind This Month

Sunday, March 15th, 2009

If I was going to tell the story of the first decade of the 21st Century (aka the noughties) to a distant future generation, I’d use South Park. It’s a neat, concise DVD collection of our recent history, perfectly packaged to fit into any time capsule. Hang on, you say, it’s not history it’s a cartoon! Well, consider this. Politicians, dictators, historians, religious prophets and the media have always tried to skew history in their favour or rewrite it, and a recent trip to see the British Museum’s Babylon: Myth and Reality exhibition proved that they’ve been doing this for centuries.

Most of us think of Babylon as this evil place or a ‘city of sin’, which eventually suffered an apocalyptic downfall, as portrayed in fantastic stories and awe-inspiring images in paintings, such as those of the Tower of Babel. We’ve got most of these porkie pies about Babylon from the Old Testament, which was humankind’s history book up until fairly recently. The main reason for all the lies is because the Jews were pretty ticked off with the Babylonians and particularly King Neduchadnezzar, because he captured Jerusalem, destroyed it and deported its elite to Babylon. So the religious prophets had an axe to grind, and painted the city as this evil, downright dirty place, representing the antichrist and despicable side of all humanity. And this we accepted as the truth until archaeologists dug up the reality and discovered that Babylon was a centre of learning from which we inherited the division of time into minutes and hours, the zodiac and useful knowledge of constellations. But a large percentage of people still believe the myths of the Old Testament.

So what’s South Park got to do with all this, I hear you ask? Well, let’s start by comparing its stories to those of the Old Testament. Both use over-the-top, dramatic narratives that are crude and surreal to capture the audience’s attention and to get their point across. They both criticize society. Yet South Park does it through satire, ridiculing the vices and follies of the whole of humankind. Whereas the Old Testament slanders and maligns to bring certain groups into disrepute, those which don’t tow the Christian line. Although isn’t history about learning from all our mistakes, not just a chosen few?

The Old Testament has its tale of the Whore of Babylon, a figure who’s unmistakably cast as the evil bitch of the earth. She’s described as having a golden cup in her hand that’s full of abominations and the filthiness of her fornication. Well I never. And on her forehead is written, ‘Babylon the Great, the Mother of Harlots and Abominations of the Earth.’ She also gets drunk on the blood of saints. Meanwhile, South Park has the ‘Stupid Spoiled Whore Video Playset’ episode, where Paris Hilton represents the overt sexualisation of society. Her cartoon character wears lewd clothing and constantly coughs up semen, while her new shop, ‘Stupid Spoiled Whore’ encourages the young girls of South Park to emulate their role model, by wearing skimpy outfits and throwing sex parties.

The Whore of Babylon never existed, and is just a Christian allegory of evil, representing the sins of the world. The Stupid Spoiled Whore of South Park on the other hand, although exaggerated for comic effect, it can be argued that she does actually exist. 




Then there’s the Old Testament’s story of one of its most hated figures, King Neduchadnezzar, the geezer who captured Jerusalem and deported its elite to Babylon. This conqueror of Jerusalem, according to the religious prophets, got his comeuppance by going mad, becoming a crazed and terrified man, who spent his last days crawling on all fours like an animal and eating grass. In the South Park episode ‘Trapped in the Closet’, the former King of Hollywood Blockbusters, Tom Cruise, is depicted as a fanatical follower of the Church of Scientology and is seen exhibiting insane behaviour, for instance, he locks himself in the toilet when Stan (who he considers to be the reincarnation of L. Ron Hubbard) says his acting’s not really that great.

The Old Testament created a slanderous myth against the reputation of King Neduchadnezzar, as archaeologists have found that it wasn’t him who went mad at all, but the more insignificant King Nabonidus. But again, it can’t be said that South Park’s portrayal of the erstwhile King of Hollywood and Paramount Pictures is entirely inaccurate.

Of course, it’s not just the Old Testament that has attempted to create myths of the past for its own ends. Many leaders have too. Take Saddam Hussein in our recent history. The British Museum’s exhibition shows how he attempted to create an image of himself as the modern day successor to the Babylon Kings, as Babylon was where Iraq is today. He had a painting commissioned in which he’s illustrated as this huge Colossus of Rhodes, standing tall above Babylon’s famous Ishtar Gate. In another, he’s transformed into a heroic warrior, riding a chariot into battle.

In contrast, South Park portrayed him as a whiny-voiced homosexual, who had a love relationship with Satan. Again, you can decide for yourself whether you think that South Park’s interpretation of events is a great deal closer to the truth than Saddam Hussein’s.

The point is (and there is one), that these days it’s harder to tell myth from reality, what with all the media spin, conspiracy theories and political propaganda. We don’t know the truth now about certain events in our recent history, let alone in over two thousand years. So why not have the noughties’ history represented by South Park? Every episode is based on the truth, albeit occasionally a small grain, and its creators Matt Stone and Trey Parker are ‘equal opportunity offenders’. This means they don’t just represent one view, but lampoon all sides of a contentious issue, so in that way it’s pretty objective as far as historical accounts go, and it doesn’t preach. And yes it illustrates the sins of humanity, but also its virtues, as every episode ends with the identification of one of society’s morals in the form of an important lesson from which the young of South Park, that is Stan, Kyle and Butters, are seen to have learnt from.

The reality might never be separated from the myths of our times, but I for one would much rather have South Park as our historical document than, say, Sky News reports or any religion’s interpretation. For one, it’s likely to be more honest, and most importantly, a hell of a lot funnier.

Friday, 28th May, 2010

A tourist’s guide to the Indian jungle.

Some say that Indian society has turned into a jungle since the British left in 1947. It’s a monkey eat monkey world. Well most tourists who stay briefly might not get enough of an insight to find out whether that is true or not, but they shouldn’t be disappointed, as there is a jungle in India that every visitor will discover immediately on arrival. The Indian road. Now there are 5 main species of animal in this jungle – the big 5 - that every traveller should be aware of before coming to India.

Let’s start with the langur monkeys. These are the taxi drivers who work for hotels and are the creatures that most tourists are likely to come across first. They’re the weary traveller’s ‘free transfer’ to and from the airport, and so have to work at all times of the day and night. The problem there is that they aren’t nocturnal and don’t appreciate being woken up in the middle of the night. So be warned if you’ve got an early morning flight to catch. They’re liable to arrive late for a job that’s before 7am, if at all, as they appear to do as they please and all this seems even less acceptable when they turn up looking like they’ve slept in the car anyway. And if the car is their bed, then it’s a logical progression to have the side of the road as the bathroom. Therefore when nature calls, this species of taxi driver will just stop, get out and relieve themselves. They won’t even walk out of view or into the bushes. They’ll just do it right there, in front of you.

The langur monkey driver likes a drink, and has been known to turn up drunk if he’s picking you up after 10pm. At these times, when questioned on whether he’s fit to drive or not, he’ll put a hand on your shoulder, possibly to steady himself, look into one of your four eyes - usually the one in the middle of your nose - and tell you through breath that makes your head spin, that he’s only had a couple, my friend. He gets away with this behaviour because after 10pm, a remote small Indian town, with its dirty handed beggars crowding round you pulling at your t-shirt while dogs on heat encircle you, can be slightly daunting.

Consequently, unless your taxi driver’s lying in the middle of the street, chanting some Hindi song extremely loudly with a bottle of strong homemade Mahua in one hand, and a wine soaked piece of paper with your name scrawled on it in the other, then you’re very likely to get into his car with no complaints just to hightail it out of there as quickly as possible.

What’s characteristic about this type of monkey is that it has big balls. So even after he’s turned up drunk to pick you up, don’t be surprised if he tries to get you to hire him for the day with the promise of taking you round all the sights at a very cheap price.

The taxi drivers that swing from street to street waiting for tourists to hire them are the macaques of the road jungle. Be careful around these mammals because they’re known for their nasty bite. This can come in the form of an extortionate price that you need to haggle down to an eighth of the one they’re suggesting. Or fleas. These fleas jump out from the clothes of the gentleman sleeping in the back of their cab, who they shoo out when they get a job. Another reason to be wary around the macaque taxi driver is that he isn’t afraid to f*** you up the ass. Be prepared to resist his price of 5,000 rupees for taking you 5 minutes down the road.

What’s particular to this species is that they’ve learnt English, and use their bilingual skills to emotionally blackmail you into giving them a big tip. They’ll look at you sadly with their big brown eyes and tell you how little money they receive as a macaque taxi driver, yet need to feed their family of 6 children, 1 wife and 2 mothers. Their rehearsed conversation usually starts with a ‘So which country are you from?’ knowing full well that you’re, English, American or Australian. When you answer, ‘England, London’, they pounce on you and chatter excitedly about how rich a ‘country’ London is.

Higher up the food chain are the drivers of the air-conditioned people carriers that you can book through the many local and independent Indian travel agents online. They’re the ones who take you miles and miles across the Indian highways, up-down-and-almost-sideways, and no-ways, to reach remote places that haven’t been made part of the railway network yet. These are the tigers. Majestic at the wheel and unfazed by anything, the tiger makes light work of the harshest terrain on the planet, that is, the Indian road. He’s the king of it, devouring anything that gets in his way and deftly avoiding danger such as potholes, sliding into ditches and unexplained traffic jams.

He’s quietly aggressive when the road becomes menacing, never emitting as much as a low growl when faced with a fallen down bridge or an oncoming lorry on a single lane of tarmac, tyre puncturing rocks and stones on either side. He remains totally focused on the road ahead, his eyes fixed, shining in the dark. This means he never speaks or makes conversation, but doesn’t mind listening to a bit of music - as long as it’s Hindi. In fact, this species of driver doesn’t speak much English at all, yet curiously, when driving through the bandit country of Bihar, he’ll surprise you with the well-spoken command of ‘Lock your doors.’ So although in the wussy-powered people-carrier there may be no tiger in the tank, there’s definitely one behind the wheel.

Now we come to the most infamous inhabitant of the Indian road jungle. The tuk tuk driver. He’s the hyena, hanging out in a pack, scavenging for tourists around every station, sight and ‘5 star’ hotel. Or simply curb crawling down the street after you. He has no shame, and uses this to his advantage when telling you his price to take you to B, which is in fact, only a few metres away. But because he drives around the block a couple of times before dropping you off, you’re none the wiser and pay him his laughable price. Therefore before taking a ride with one of these hyenas, make sure you’ve got a map with you indicating how far away B actually is. Although on the positive side, he’s a bit of a coward, and when challenged he’ll completely back down and take you where you want to go for practically nothing.

He loves to talk about himself and emits a high-pitched laugh at most things he says, if only to ingratiate himself to you. Always foraging for a tip, he’ll almost kill himself and you to get a good one. So never say you’re in a hurry to get to the station, because he really will put his foot down on that accelerator with a haunting laugh that you’ll never forget, if you get to live to remember it.

Then, at the bottom of the food chain and budget scale is the bicycle rickshaw driver. He’s the buffalo of the road jungle, but doesn’t look like one at first glance. No, his appearance is more of a scrawny, fragile gazelle. This means when he tries to undercut the tuk tuk guy with his, ‘I’ll take you all for 3 rupees!’ you look at his staring, vacant eyes with pity and politely decline. Yet when you see one pulling three obese Americans and all their oversized luggage up the hill without breaking a sweat, you gain a great deal of respect for this humble creature.

So remember to have your wits about you as soon as you leave the airport, as the Indian road jungle is awaiting you, with all its weird and wonderful creatures, who’ll try and tear as much flesh off you as possible, so they gain enough energy to get the hell out of there themselves.

From The Recesses Of The Mind This Month

Sunday, June 7th, 2009

When I worked from home on Tuesday, I entered an altered state. I was half in the world of work, and half in holidayland. But actually in neither. I was in limbo. A place where my mind could float. Like a ghost that belongs nowhere, so can just drift aimlessly as it waits to be summoned to God’s office for its appraisal. Here in this limbo, I was susceptible to idle thoughts, ones out of the office and which no one could catch on my mobile or Blackberry.

I found myself drifting down the street at two in the afternoon on a weekday. It felt weird to be wandering, wondering, at that time of the day. And the streets seemed unfamiliar. The people were strange, alien even. Who were all these old folk anyway and where had they come from? They took over the buses, pavements, benches and supermarkets. It looked like an invasion by old-age vampires, who only come out in the day, with hospital bed-sheet white skin that’s so worn it’s become thread bare, semi-translucent. They hang upright from bus stop benches, glaring in the June sunshine and baring their badly fitted teeth at dogs, cats, pigeons and children passing by.

The species that shares this 9-5 territory with the vampire OAPs, is the yummy mummy. I see one drearily pushing a buggy containing her little monster wielding a dripping ice-cream. I float past two more, invisible, as they speak to each other in an unfamiliar language. 60 Minute Makeover, Trisha, Jeremy Kyle and Lie Detector Tests.

Then through the hazy sunshine, familiar faces appear. Those I usually only see swimming against the tide of the commuters. The bloke in the pork pie hat, strumming his guitar with an irregular rhythm, as if he’s trying to find the right chord. At low tide, I can see him more clearly. The bright yellow flower in the lapel of his jacket. The perpetual smile dancing on the corners of his mouth. The intense concentration, which appears to come so easily. Like he’s a Zen Master of meditation.

Then there’s the old black guy, who’s always dressed smartly in an unknown army’s uniform, sitting outside his favourite Costcutter franchise. Guarding it, so it’s protected from an unknown enemy. He watches time slip casually by in the reflection of his shiny boots. But at least time is his to lose. In the office, you’re not the boss of your time. It’s work’s possession and it devours it, until there’s nothing left but just the skeleton of the day. The scraps are all we have to remind us of who we are. Even in holidayland we’re too occupied with must-seeing things, being with friends and family, or catching up on sleep, to have much time for ourselves. Although in this state of limbo I got to snatch back some time for me. As if this limbo was a cool lake, refracting time on its surface, bending it in my direction. All I had to do was reach out and grab it.

I ended up in the park by my flat. The grass was verdant, luminous. Shiny crows glittered from within it, like black diamonds. A guy lounging on a bench sucked on his cigarette, fashioning a piece of amber to add to the setting, with just his lips and lungs. The creases in his face had turned him into a permanent smoker, even when he didn’t have a cigarette in his mouth. Time takes a cigarette, to escape its timelessness. These outsiders, who’d escaped from 9-5 jobs, did everything slowly. Because they had all the time in the world. Time gives them bonus points. The counting crows make a mental note of them. Pointless points for the idlers. When you slow down, your thoughts become clear. They crystallise. Becoming rare gems. Epiphanies.

From an open window, a flute unfurled its music. Then from another, I could hear the calling of the violin. They flowed together, creating celestial music. Separated in body, but not in spirit. In that moment, I felt elated. Everything made sense. My mind and body were connected. Then suddenly, a man in a dark suit emerged from the verdant green. He didn’t glitter, he absorbed all the light. A long shadow in the sun. He was the grim reaper, telling me my time was up. I was forced to return to the world of emails, briefs and Blackberrys. The crows were startled and took flight. Time had flown, out of my grasp. It obviously wasn’t my time. Yet.

Saturday, 24th April, 2010

Religion, like the circle of life and the Ganges itself, floods the very being of the Old City of Varanasi. Without it, it’d just be a dirty, decaying muddle of buildings. Religion and the practice of meditation brings a sense of calm to the hullabaloo of India, and makes it bearable to live with regular power cuts, few public services and a sewerage system that’s so bad, people are reduced to defecating on the streets and ghats. Another reason Indians stand it of course, is that most of them don’t know any other way of life. Yet nevertheless, being in the intense hustle and bustle of the Old City gives you an insight into how meditation has survived through the centuries. It could almost be seen as the opiate of the people, the only means by which the average Indian can escape.

So in Varanasi, if people aren’t praying, they’re meditating. And they believe in its benefits so much, that they want to share them with you. Introducing The Guru TM. He appeared out of the mass of people at the morning puja, dressed in a simple dhoti, smiling at me through his small round glasses. A cross between Gandhi and Bill Gates, as instead of holding his hands in prayer or a blessing, he was rubbing them together with rupees in his eyes, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. He offered me a lesson in meditation at his house, exclaiming how perfect a time it was to do it. Although weary from my travels, I took him up on his offer, as I always had enough energy for the search for the authentic Indian experience.

The Guru lived just 5 minutes from the ghat where the main puja is performed. It was easy to find because the turning off the main street was signposted by a large Coca-Cola placard. Above his door was a little scarlet statue of Ganesh, the god of transitions, who keeps out the unworthy. Or, perhaps in this case, the ‘un-wealthy’. We bowed in front of Ganesh on entry, mainly because the doorway was low. When I got inside I was surprised to see that his house was a tip. I only hoped that it didn’t reflect the state of his mind. There was a young guy already there, sat down within the muddle of objects and I realised that this wasn’t going to be a private lesson.

I once read that in Indian culture, a person without a guru or a teacher was considered an orphan or an unfortunate one. These days in the culture of travelling, a western person without a guru is an unfortunate tourist, missing out on one of the ‘unmissable’ Indian experiences. Therefore, I politely sat on the floor and waited patiently for The Guru’s life-altering words. He rooted through a cluttered drawer for something and then pulled out a little black book. He beamed at me though those round, simple Gandhian spectacles, making up for the dim light in the room. “Have a look, have a look,” he goaded me, slightly impatiently. 

Intrigued with what I’d find inside this precious tome, I carefully opened the well-worn cover, and found hundreds of yellowing pages, heavy with the ink of many pens. Every kind of handwriting you could imagine was in there, covering all the space available. I squinted to try and read the words in the half-light, my mind alight with fanciful thoughts of the ancient wisdom they might impart. I focused on the fancy writing, full of serifs and swirls, and managed to read: ‘He is a great teacher. His lessons have been invaluable, thoroughly enriching my stay here. I only wish I could take him home with me. Catherine Prentice, Sevenoaks, Kent, England.’ If feelings made a noise, you would’ve been able to hear the sound of a whoopee cushion being emptied. “Most of my students have written something in there”, said The Guru gleefully, his head a huge, great helium filled balloon with a grinning SpongeBob SquarePants printed on it, bobbing up and down beside my deflated whoopee cushion self.

Middle-class tourists from Germany, France, the USA and even Wales had taken lessons from The Guru, and the whole experience started to appear like an attraction at Disney World. A plastic, melted down version of the real thing, with a hollow centre. But what did we really expect? Varanasi was in the Lonely Planet’s top 10 places to go in India, not a little village in the middle of nowhere. I felt a little dirty when The Guru abruptly charged myself and the other disciple (who was interestingly an Israeli) the 200 rupee per hour fee for the session. Now The Guru was going to have to pull something really special out of his beard to win-over this cynical westerner.

And sceptical I was. But you had to give The Guru credit, he had done his research. His product was honed within an inch of Hinduism and Buddhism, so it appealed to the typical western traveller who’d visit Varanasi. That is, either a hippy student or someone who didn’t follow one single religion, but was interested in all of them in their personal quest for alternative ways of living. He had tapped into the middle-class, western market where the search for the meaning of life was now a hobby, and who answered the question, ‘Do you believe in God?’ with the glib, ‘Well I believe in spirituality, but not in any religion or one god.’ The Guru got straight down to business as soon as we were all cross-legged on the floor sat around the imaginary meeting table in his paperless and furniture-less office with that very question. ‘Do you believe in God?’ After we answered it predictably as above, he explained that none of that mattered anyway, as what he taught had nothing to do with religion. It didn’t even have anything to do with spirituality. Because his product came with a different teaching method to the traditional Hindu, Buddhist, Sikh or Jain ones. After all, why make your product too exclusive? Always aim to appeal to as many tourists as possible.

So it had nothing to do with religion, or spirituality. It was a philosophy. Philosophy. One word that western people understood. It had the gravitas of a systematic approach and reasoned argument behind it. More about science than faith. Already it was turning into less of an authentic Indian experience than a visit to Delhi’s McDonald’s. From the 1960s onwards, it has become popular for westerners to seek those big ‘meaning of life’ questions from Indian gurus, rather than from western philosophy, as they’re after a more direct experience that’s free from intellectualism. The advertising for our Guru’s ‘new’ and ‘improved’ product would proudly boast about its RM ingredients – religiously modified.

The Israeli guy told me that this wasn’t his first time with The Guru. He then explained that he was a bit of a hippy kid, and had decided to see The Guru as he was looking outside his religion for the answers to his many questions. Due to all the troubles in Israel, he’d become disillusioned with Judaism and the other Abrahamic religions, and thought there must be another way. I then realised that The Guru had cleverly employed another tried and tested marketing technique, that of the testimonial. Like with his little black book of recommendations, the Israeli’s enthusiasm and belief in The Guru rubbed off quickly on me, like the red chalk of a Brahmin’s blessing. And the fact that he was an Israeli made it all the more impressive. A clever twist on the marketing strategy. You could just see the line on The Guru’s business card. ‘My teaching methods work for every tourist, no matter what your beliefs or religion. Atheist, agnostic or Jew.’

The Guru spoke about ‘the creator’, not putting any particular name to it, and told us that the creator was inside us. We are all the same, and everything we need is inside, not outside. We don’t need drugs or drink to transcend and become enlightened. It reminded me of that scene in the British film Human Traffic, where after a drug-fuelled clubbing night, two friends high on cannabis believe they’ve found the answer to the universe’s mysteries when they realise that in Star Wars, the main difference between Darth Vader and Yoda, or evil and good, is that Darth Vader wants to conquer outer space, whereas Yoda teaches how to have power over your inner space. And the more I looked at The Guru, the more I had flashbacks of the pointy-eared, grammatically creative, 1970s alien glove puppet, with someone’s hand up its backside. I wondered if ‘the creator’ had its hand up The Guru, up all of us.

A guru is a teacher, or Spiritual Master, and as an adjective, it means ‘weighty’ or ‘heavy’ with knowledge and wisdom. Yet our guru was more concerned with light entertainment. For one, he took great pleasure in laughing at people, especially when they slipped up. Like when I mistook a bull for a buffalo. It’s an easy mistake to make as they do look pretty similar, yet hearing The Guru’s incredulous laughter, you would have thought I’d called it a tiger instead. ‘A buffalo? A buffalo!! She thinks it’s a buffalo!’ he boomed loudly to everyone in the street before almost crying with laughter. I don’t remember Yoda laughing at Luke Skywalker.

Later, I learnt that to gain authority and to attract and maintain followers, gurus usually present themselves as purer than and superior to ordinary people and other gurus. So that partly explained his condescending manner. And if it was necessary for me to achieve enlightenment, then I guess I could forgive it. Yet he appeared to enjoy his superiority a little too much and as he asked us a series of deceptively difficult questions, he would wait for our useless replies grinning and foaming at the mouth like a bull on heat. ‘What is yoga?’ he asked first, letting the question hang in the air, like a noose ready and waiting. I swallowed hard, my throat feeling tight all of a sudden. Yet bravely, or perhaps foolhardily, I stepped up to the gallows. ‘It’s a relaxation technique and also good exercise for flexibility.’ It had been the answer he’d been waiting for and with a mischievous glint in his eye, he launched into his old speech through yellowing teeth about yoga being a philosophy, not just a form of exercise.

He continued with his artful probing, ‘What is meditation?’ ‘What is war really about?’ and it was like each time he was putting his sandal-clad foot out, waiting for us to trip over it before roaring with laughter. You see, with all our answers we were letting our illusions and preconceptions get in the way, therefore we weren’t speaking the truth. And so everything we thought, according to The Guru, was wrong. Now appearing as an incarnation of the Cheshire Cat, he continued to amuse, vex and baffle us until we wondered if we actually knew anything at all. Then at the precise moment he asked, ‘Who are you?’ I really didn’t have a clue. In 20 short minutes I’d been cleansed of my illusions and preconceptions, which meant I now knew nothing. I suddenly felt hopelessly lost and was tripping up over every question, like a silly blonde, middle-class Alice who’d followed a guru and had fallen down his dark, dank warren by mistake. And now she didn’t know where she was.

But it was ok, as The Guru was there to find us again. And we weren’t too far away, because apparently we’re inside ourselves, and all we have to do is reach in and there we are. ‘Do you understand?’ he asked, his eyes staring into me, searching for my answer, giving me the feeling that he’d find it even if I resisted. All gurus ask for unquestioning obedience, and I realised that ridiculing us and holding our answers in contempt was The Guru’s way of getting through to cynical westerners. After all the interrogating questions and derided answers, you were lost, worn out and ready to listen. So when we got onto the meditation and yoga, he had our complete attention. In that way, at least, he was a good teacher. It was as if instead of ‘Eat Me’ or ‘Drink Me’ he had ‘Listen To Me’ engraved on his forehead. Right in front of his Chakra.

I had chanted ‘Aum’ many a time at the end of a Yoga session back in London, but had never known what it meant, and had always felt a little stupid doing it. The Guru would have choked on all 7 Chakras if he’d have known. Because Aum is actually pretty important. Something to be revered, not sniggered at in the back row of a community centre in Brixton. Aum is the 3 letters that the universe is made from, The Guru continued with wide eyes, his arms making a big circular motion to indicate ‘everything’. When his arms moved, a trail of light and glittering dust followed, as if he was making Aum appear visually right before our eyes. But I could have been seeing things in my state of delirium, brought about thanks to my rude awakening at 4 am by the chanting Hare Krishnas next door to my guesthouse.

The universe (Brahman) can be divided into these 3 letters, or sounds, and they form the basis of all languages. The Guru explained that Sanskrit, Hebrew and English alphabets all begin with the letter A, the sound of nature. Apparently you can hear it in a waterfall. I was thinking this over when suddenly a cow next door gave a loud ‘mooooo’, which now when I really listened actually sounded more like an ‘Aaaaaauuuuuummm’. But then again, it was a holy cow, so it was obviously more enlightened than most. And that turned out to be our cue to chant ‘Aum’ ourselves. Perhaps the cow was the MD of the guru’s entrepreneurial enterprise, concerned about the finances, prompting The Guru to move on with his lesson so it didn’t run over the allocated time. Well time costs money, even for The Guru. In my mind’s eye I could see the cow raising its eyebrows in exasperation.

The Guru then told us to follow him before closing his eyes and launching straight into an Aum.

Aaaaaaaaauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm….

Now as I wasn’t sure of ‘Aum politics’, the Brahmin version of ‘spliff politics’ (which is explained very clearly by Mr Nice in the film Human Traffic), I stopped my aum here. I could have gone for longer, I had enough breath left in me, yet then it’d look like I was trying to outdo the guru, and I didn’t fancy the consequences of that little charade. We all appeared to have the same idea, as the Israeli stopped just after, while The Guru carried on.

…mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...

Then the cow mooed again and The Guru’s voice immediately faded out until it became part of the humming of the distant noises. A smirk of superiority danced across The Guru’s lips before he launched into another Aum. Now being a westerner, competitiveness has been bred into me, and so The Guru’s smirk had an effect on me. It riled me, and so this time, in spite of myself, I decided to give The Guru a run for his money. Through the wall I could sense the cow’s nervousness.

….mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm………..

I was still with him here. Just me and The Guru, neck and neck. Breath against breath.

…mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…

I could feel my voice begin to weaken, and my lungs seriously wanted me to take another breath, but I carried on, willing The Guru to stop before me. Then something made me break out of this competitive trance, and I opened my eyes and saw The Guru eyeballing me, his face holding an expression that said, “I’ll go on forever you know. Easily for the whole lesson if that’s what you want.” The intensity I’d created in the room suddenly seeped into me, and I felt the awkwardness of the waiting Israeli. I quickly saw the error of my ways and stopped abruptly, leaving The Guru to finish last. In meditation and yoga the ‘winner’, or Zen Master, is always the last to finish.

He then moved on to the Sanskrit prayers. With his eyes gently closed, his whole being was absorbed in the incantation. His voice quivered up and down, as though he was channelling the vibrations of Brahman through his throat. The sounds and alien language seemed to just come to him, flow. As instinctive as breathing.

The cow then signalled that it was time for the meditation. The Guru explained that the reason for meditation was to reach enlightenment. The physical exercise, the yoga that followed, was used to gain an awareness of nature. So the practice of both was about the body and mind working as one. To him it didn’t make sense to have one without the other. Like curry without the spices.

So gaining enlightenment meant switching off everything we’d learnt to switch on. And meditation was the only way to get there, as it stopped you thinking and let you hear yourself for a change. The Guru could sense that we were a little apprehensive about the not-thinking thing, but he told us not to worry. We were in his company, and had his energy and powers around us, so we’d actually find it much easier than usual. And, of course, we had his copyrighted technique to help us.* He gave us two chakra options of where to focus our minds. The spot in the centre of the forehead, above the eyebrows, or the bellybutton. So if one wasn’t working, we could move to the other, and then back again. Jump between the two, until we were settled.

We were sat on the hard floor facing The Guru with our eyes closed. For the first few minutes it seemed easy, just peacefully sitting there, focusing on the chakra in the centre of my forehead. It was a relief to be left alone and escape from the intensity of the conversation. All the tension was lifted from my neck and shoulders in what I imagined to be huge helium balloons adorned with SpongeBob SquarePant’s inanely grinning face. The image instantly calmed me more as I pictured them floating above us, beckoning us to join them up there. In fact, I was so relaxed that it felt like a good time to snatch a quick nap. Or at least to be brain dead for a while, and have a break from all the observing the general traveller will make every second of the day in a country like India. It was a first hand experience of how Indians manage to escape from the overcrowding, the defecation on the street and general suppression of the hardness of everyday existence, in order to still survive like human beings.

Yet then, after I got accustomed to the relief, I started thinking. Not deep thoughts, just things like, how long is this going to go on for? How long has it been already? As soon as I thought this, the room started to seem really close and it felt like the walls were bending inwards towards us. Like tripping with your eyes closed. The air became thick, as if suddenly because I knew about it, the energy from the chakras was so tangible to me, I could now feel it. I found it harder to breathe, which made the atmosphere intimidating, along with the overwhelming sensation that someone was watching over us. Not just watching, but observing.

I discovered that when your eyes are closed, your ears take over, and everything sounds ten times louder then it normally does. So the next thing to take over my thoughts were images my mind painted to the sounds I was hearing. The tinny sound of a bucket being put on the floor. Flip flops scraping the dirty ground. Women chatting, cows mooing. As I focused on these, I began to relax again and let them wash over me. This was at last, possibly the right state to begin meditation, one that The Guru’s had probably been in all the time. And that’s when The Guru asked us to open our eyes. It had taken me 10 minutes to get there. I felt like I hadn’t even tried to meditate, but I suppose that was the first step towards it at least. It proved just how hard it is for a westerner to not look at, say or think anything for even only 10 minutes.

Aaaaaauuuuuuummmm. It was time for the yoga. I have been used to slow movements in yoga, but the Guru’s product incorporated energetic ones. It was more of a high-energy workout. Running on the spot, raising your hands above your head, waggling your arms by your side, star jumps and general moves to loosen up the body. After the calm of the meditation, it felt good to be energised. I realised how well the two went together. The Guru set a frantic pace, and challenged us to keep up with him, reminding us of how much older he was. He was only in his late fifties though. It’s not like he was 86. Or 900, like Yoda. This provoking spurred us on, and I star-jumped until I was so exhausted that I was about to give up when I was encouraged to keep going by the beads of perspiration that I saw forming all around The Guru’s fading hairline. Like glistening sequins on the headdress of a white sari. I realised that we weren’t going to have to keep it up for much longer. We didn’t even have to wait for the holy cow MD to moo before we got on to the stretching.

And it was while we were stretching that I discovered that there is actually a similarity between The Guru’s yoga product and the more basic versions you find across the UK in community centres and gyms. Farting. In most of the yoga sessions I’ve been to, at least one person has ‘let one off’ during the more rigorous stretching moves. Yet it was a surprise that in this one it was to be The Guru himself. Although he didn’t bat an eyelid as the air was released from his backside, producing the satisfying noise of a whoopee cushion that’s just been sat on hard by an inanely grinning SpongeBob SquarePants. It was hardly the much talked about ‘body and mind working together’ technique. But instead of going as red as a talik mark, the superior Guru simply ignored his body protesting about too much dhal for breakfast, and boldly carried on with more stretching, boasting about how much more flexible his body was then ours.

At the end of The Guru’s ride, I did feel energised and generally more positive, so when he asked, ‘Do you feel good?’ as he grinned from ear to ear, I honestly answered yes. It might not have been the authentic Indian experience I’d been looking for but I had been given more of an insight into the Indian’s mindset. For a change, I wasn’t just a tourist observing, I was participating, and that’s how you can start to understand a culture.

And I had to admire The Guru. He’s an entrepreneur, adapting to the change that’s happening in India as it embraces capitalism. Although unlike Bangalore, Varanasi hasn’t reincarnated. It’s crumbling, dying a slow death like Calcutta, being kept alive by travellers and tourists’ cash. So India (and Varanasi especially), is full of con artists trying to get as much of this money as possible. But even though he kept grinning from ear to ear like the tricky Cheshire Cat, I don’t believe The Guru was one of these tricksters. He was simply trying to earn a living with the knowledge and the skills he had. It’s not like he had a huge Rolex dangling from his wrist and his home was very humble.

Gurus are self-realised masters, and my one had taken this further and had become a ‘self-made man’, breaking out of Indian poverty, a rags to rich-ish story. He’s honed his ‘product’, has a ‘unique selling point’ and has turned himself into an accessible and marketable character to westerners. Part vexing Cheshire Cat, loony SpongeBob SquarePants and Alan Sugar perhaps, but also Yoda. And in a world that’s so mixed up that no one knows where to turn anymore, he provides the Dummy’s Guide to Enlightenment, the first step towards reaching the way out of all the madness and hullabaloo of modern society.

*Proven to be successful for over 30 years.

From The Recesses Of The Mind This Month

Friday, May 22nd, 2009

They come dressed in their casual finery. Dresses and neatly stitched cardigans for the ladies. Striped shirts, panama hats and jumpers draped over shoulders for the gents. A Sea of Sartorial Politeness. Everyone waits patiently to be shown to their seats, and those already in their places delicately eat exotic nuts and sophisticated sandwiches from silver foil.

The etiquette here is one of respect for your neighbour. Make sure they have enough elbowroom, no big fat heads are blocking the view, and that generally all the spectators are comfortable and happy. The gentleman next to me lit up a cigarette before quickly turning to me and asking if I minded him smoking. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been among such a civilised audience.

And then the bull came charging into the arena. All the courteous chitchat that had been gracing the bullring’s refined architecture, stopped. In its place were the more primitive, ‘Oooohs and Aaaahhhs!’ I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. A nauseous excitement made my stomach lurch. Suddenly I realised that those sophisticated snacks were going to look a lot less refined the second time round.

Meanwhile, the bull was being taunted by the shocking-pink capes of the matador’s little helpers (or banderilleros), which curiously left most of the audience looking a little bored, as if it was the bit in the film where you usually nip to the loo. But there’s no way of escaping to the toilet during a bullfight, because you’re hemmed in on all sides by the Sea of Sartorial Politeness. To flee would require at least 46 ‘perdons’, and it wouldn’t exactly be in keeping with the required manners of the bullfight audience, one of which is to make sure your neighbours have a good view at all times. I suddenly realised that this courtesy, worn on the sleeve of the spectators, had lulled me into a false sense of security. I was going to be forced to stay until the death.

I hoped it would come quickly, as the bull was speared and stabbed repeatedly, first by a man in the advantageous position of being atop a horse heavily padded for protection, and then by the matador’s little helpers. Dasher, Dancer and Prancer skipped up to the bull before deftly planting brightly coloured barbed sticks into its back, which looked like Christmas candy canes. Sickly sweet. They darted off when the bull had time to react, aiming its horns in their direction. Ripples of enjoyment spread through the Sea of Sartorial Politeness, as the bull’s diverging Stream of Brave Blood began bleeding. The lady next to me in the red cardigan with the gold buttons and frill trim jumped up quickly to clap violently.

Now, finally, it was time for the one-on-one. Man adorned with elegant embroidery, beast with the crude cowardice of the candy canes. The matador used the red cape to control the unsuspecting bull gracefully and masterfully, making it look as easy as fooling a kitten. He boldly moved closer and closer to the raging horns. But he’s done this hundreds of times. The same routine, the similar strategy, the inevitable end. It’s an established ritual. Yet the bull gets to do it just the once, so it can only go by its natural instincts. This practised mastery is what the aficionados call ‘art’. Hemingway romantically described it as a ‘wonderful nightmare’.

The Sea of Sartorial Politeness became wild as it gazed at this art. A storm of screams and yobbish yells turned the arena’s architecture ugly. Pulsing veins popped up on necks and temples. I half expected the stripy shirts to rip open causing gold buttons to fly off all around the arena. Beast against beast. But decorum held firm and buttons were kept in place. The matador had the sword in his hand, poised for what is called the ‘moment of truth’, when he plunges the sword into the bull’s neck and cuts the aorta. It does take courage to do, because it’s when he’s head on to the bull, and the bull is at its most wary. But he’s been highly trained, like a slaughterer who knows exactly where to put his knife.

This time though, the matador’s aim is off. It’s not the promised quick, clean kill. So it’s more a ‘moment of half-truths’. A River of Brave Blood gushed from the bull’s head and a wave of delightedness passed over the Sea of Sartorial Politeness. The bull turned away from the matador, its head bowed, and walked into the wall that surrounds the ring. It stayed in the quiet corner for a few minutes, its back to the waiting matador. Apparently its last wish was to die in peace. It then collapsed hard onto the River of Brave Blood’s sandy bed. The audience erupted into aggressive applause, giving the matador a standing ovation. The gentleman next to me turned quickly and asked if I’d enjoyed it. His eyes were consumed by the thrill, mesmerised, as if he was in a trance. He didn’t even wait for my answer, and just assumed that I was as enthralled as him. I realised then that while the bulls are bred to fight, the spectators are bred to cheer the kill. Neither bull nor man can help themselves. Generations of careful breeding has made sure of that.

The same time as the matador had his ‘moment of truth’, I had mine. The reason I was there in the first place was because I wanted to see for myself what some call a ‘barbaric sport’ and others call ‘art’. The fact that a civilised country like Spain still condones bullfighting intrigued me. And you can’t just dismiss hundreds of years of a country’s cultural institution without trying to understand it first. A ritual that’s captivated many writers and artists over the years, from Hemingway to Picasso and more recently the director Almodovar. So in the end, did I understand it, did I connect with it, was I part of this barbaric civility?

Absolutamente no. I just wanted to be sick. My moment of truth was realising that I’ve been bred to abhor killing. Although I did put my feet on the seats in front of me. And I didn’t give a damn if my head was blocking anyone’s view. But I’m proud of that. And I’m proud of my shabby t-shirt and jeans.

Saturday, January 23rd, 2010

London has been taken over by vampires. Trendy clubs and bars are full of the flawless faces, perfect white teeth and super smooth skin of these creatures who're perpetually 17 years old. It’s like being in a Rihanna cum Pixie Lott cum The Saturdays music video. You see, thanks to this latest onslaught of films and TV shows about vampires, people don’t care anymore that these monsters can actually kill them. Because they’re just so damn sexy. Nobody even cares that they look too underage to drink. So they’re all safe to come out of hiding and mix with us, while humans over 25 get plastic surgery and teeth whitening, as they’re worried about looking too old in comparison. Now whenever I go out, everyone looks scarily like a 17 year-old. I just can’t tell anyone apart anymore.

I didn’t want to be sucked in by all this vampiric lust, so I headed for one of the few remaining old man’s pubs in London. They’re the only places you can be sure that no vampire would want to be seen alive in, since they smell of old people, pork scratchings and piss. It was refreshing to see so many old faces and none of the expressionless and characterless ones that I’d become so used to. The old bloke opposite started talking to me about getting away from it all. That’s what old people do; they talk to strangers. I wasn’t used to it and was surprised and uncomfortable at first, but then found him strangely alluring as he told me tales of a place where you can find sun, sea and seniors all year round. He had a glint in his eye and a faraway look as he spoke of this magic rock in the ocean and when I asked its name, he whispered it softly through his Guinness-soaked whiskers. Madeira.

As soon as I could be, I was away from the land of youth, plastic beauty and vampires, and arrived on the magic rock under the warm smile of the winter sun. And oh, what a sight for sore eyes! It was teaming with hundreds and hundreds of OAPs. The locals’ skin has been stained brown by the sun and their faces given character and warmth by deeper wrinkles than Gordon Ramsey’s grandad’s. Then there were all those toothless grins, or just one front tooth that danced to the rhythm of Madeirense. Or even the silver, eroding teeth with as many smooth undulating curves and monochrome tones as the cliff face in the bay at Camara dos Lobos.

On a visit to that little fishing village, I stopped off at one of the fisherman’s bars on the right hand side of the bay. One old sea dog there emptied pint glass after pint glass while filling my head with fantastical stories about the island. According to him, there are very short, ancient-looking creatures living here that are not actually human. They’re nicknamed os pequeninos (the little ones) by the Madeirans, and were native to the island when Zarco colonized it in 1425. This is contrary to what the guide and history books say, which is that there was no indigenous population when Zarco discovered Madeira.

He described them to me, pointing out their short height (about 4 ft 9 on average) and leather skin that has been dyed a deep, attractive tan colour and upon which a fancy swirling pattern of wrinkles has been gently carved. Far softer, he said, then the famous Madeiran leather, with an exquisite natural patina, grown more beautiful with age and the habits their character has etched onto it. He told me how their skin subtly changes colour throughout the day, as the sun’s light shines strongly and slowly fades. I guessed this tough old fisherman had once been in love with one of these os pequeninos. Then he explained the most interesting thing. Os pequeninos are perpetually 71, and have inspired the human locals to celebrate and embrace their age and maturity.

I wanted to find out more about these magical beings, so the old fisherman pointed me in the direction of Santana in northern Central Madeira. The town’s brightly coloured, tiny triangular houses with thatched roofs (palheiros), which you see all over postcards and fridge magnets of the municipality, were apparently the homes of os pequeninos, or so the old sea dog said. Although the guide books talk about them being the traditional homes of the humble farmers in the area, which have now either been knocked down, preserved for tourism or just used as storage places by today’s farmers.

I headed to Santana along, around, up and down the steep, windy roads that seemed only big enough for small people, I noted. When I arrived, I was disappointed by the lack of these palheiros. There were only a few left and the ones you can see on all the postcards were in a sort of small-scale Disneyland that cost 10 euros to get into. Although it’s still worth taking the trip to Santana, as the journey there and back from Funchal is so picturesque, especially looking down the cliff onto the seaside town of Ponta Delgada.

I bought a postcard from one of the palheiros that’d been turned into a gift shop and stopped off at a local café for something to drink. An albino dog eyed me curiously as I thought about where I could find these os pequeninos. He seemed to respond to my thoughts with the prick of an ear or the raise of an eyebrow and I began to think he could read my mind. That’s when he put his head on his paws and closed his eyes.

The owner of the café came out to give me my coffee. She caught sight of my postcard of the palheiros and enthusiastically began to tell me in pretty good English, the story about how one day, they were all abandoned at once. Os pequeninos suddenly uprooted and moved on out of Santana to go and live in other parts of the island. No one knows why, but they left all their little houses to the farmers. If you look carefully, she went on, you can find them in little communities around Madeira. I asked her if she knew of any particular places they might be, and she mentioned the look-out point at Balcoes by the Ribeira Frio.

The best way to get to this look-out point is to walk along by the levada. These levadas criss-cross Madeira, creating an irrigation system of concrete mini-canals cut into the rock that distribute water from the wet regions in the north to the drier ones in the south. Now though, they’re used just as much by tourists for hiking trails as they are by farmers. The levada walk to Balcoes, inaccessible to cars, is a relatively short and tame one, as it only takes an hour or so. And you have a beautiful view to keep you company of green, verdant mountains that turn to blue in the distance, framed by the branches of trees that form a canopy above the levada. Slow and still up above, with the river rushing wildly below.

Eventually, I came across a little café overlooking the valley. Inside, a woman was cooking sardines. I held up my postcard of the palheiros, as she didn’t speak much English. She smiled her one-toothed grin and inexplicably pointed at the sardines and then down into the valley where there was a cluster of houses. I made my way down into it, not really knowing where I was going and became aware of an eerie wailing sound. It scared me at first, but as the sun continued as brightly and warmly as ever, the sound seemed to turn into more of a soothing singing voice.

I passed a few houses with their doors shut, and then spotted a woman sitting in front of hers. She was knitting, even though the sun was shining in December and she was small and stout, yet had hands like shovels. They looked like they could dig deep down into the earth. But as she knitted, they moved nimbly and delicately. And she had the oldest but most beautiful skin I’d ever seen. But what struck me more were her warm, sparkling eyes set into her wrinkly leather skin like black diamonds. I thought she must be one of the os pequeninos. Her eyes greeted me as I approached, with a calmness that made me confident enough to say hello. She spoke back to me in perfect English, like the young Madeirans who learn it at school from an early age.

I asked her what she was knitting; it looked like a tiny colourful hat. She told me it was a tiny hat. Who was it for? I asked, interested, and she replied that it was for the Freira. On seeing my expression, she threw her head back and laughed before pointing at the birds circling above. I looked at them and realised that the strange wailing sound was coming from them. It gets cold in the mountains, she added, by way of explanation. And they’re also in return for the sardines, she continued, acknowledging my puzzled face. Apparently the Freira catch sardines and bring them to her. She then sells them to people in the village. She also sells them to the people who make Madeiran wine, as they place them on top of the bottles and then sell them onto tourists. She didn’t exactly know why. People do strange things, was all she said about that.

I asked her how she got the Freiras to catch her sardines. She simply replied that she asked them to. So os pequeninos could talk to animals? Not all, she said, only a few, and she listed which ones. The Madeiran Wall lizard, Madeira Pipistrelle, which is a bat, a scabbard fish (so os pequeninos never eat the tasty ubiquitous Madeiran fish), albino dogs (this made me wonder about the small café owner in Santana), goats and chickens, which they also share their houses with, so the chickens share their eggs. She went on to tell me about the island’s famous singing goat owned by one of the os pequeninos, the only animal she’s ever known that has been able to talk in a human’s language. It travels around and through the mountains of Curral des Freiras on its owner’s truck, its singing voice amplified through a massive loudspeaker strapped to the front. She told me to go up and see the view, and I’d probably be able to spot the truck winding its way around the mountain.

Later, I found out that Freiras are in fact, very rare birds, and you don’t often get to see them at all, let alone near Balcoes. They’re mostly seen in Pico do Ariero, a nearby mountain range. I also discovered that the reason these birds are called Freira (nun, in English) is because they emit calls that sound like ghostly wails, and for many years these sounds were interpreted by the inhabitants of Curral das Freiras (Nun's Valley) as being the calls of the suffering souls of the nuns who’d fled there to escape the spate of pirate attacks on Funchal in 1566.

There was another amazing view at Curral des Freiras, with luscious green mountains all around, stretching themselves out to sleep for as far as the eye could see, surrounding you in a stillness and quietness that you just wanted to breathe in so it’d become part of you. And then I heard it. A deep, low voice that rumbled up from the base of the valley, echoing off the sides of the mountains, as if they were throwing it back into the air. Then I saw the truck as it wound up the steep road. A small white one, with a large loudspeaker on the front above the windscreen. The voice was melancholy yet soothing. You couldn’t hear any words exactly, but you could tell there were some. It was so slow and deep, it sounded like a record being played at the wrong speed. It brought on a soft sadness at the same time as a bracing exhilaration.

In the evening on my last night, I decided to go for a drink in Funchal. I headed for Rua da Praia near the Old Town, the street the old fisherman had recommended, where all the bars were full of locals and, sometimes, os pequeninos. Places that felt comfortable with a slow pace of life and old age. I sat at a table outside with my pint of lager and free peanuts, and thought about Madeira’s history and its ability to adapt to survive. How its biggest export used to be sugar, but when the Caribbean started exporting it more cheaply, it had to change and became a successful wine producer instead. And then when the vineyards perished due to disease, it had to be resourceful again. This time it played on its climate of warm sunshine all year round and low humidity to sell itself as a recuperative destination for rich people getting over diseases like TB. Yet medicines have improved along with transport, and farther away places are now easier to reach for a bit of winter sun, and they're also cheaper as they don’t have the euro.

I wandered on to have something to eat at Jaquet down Rua de Santa Maria in Funchal’s Old Town. The old fisherman had told me it served the best scabbard fish in the area. After the jolly owner had taken my order, I began to think about how Madeira should sell itself now in order to survive. And to me, it’s simple. What sets it apart, is that it’s a place where you can escape the culture of youth. It's mostly older tourists who go there, and the island appears to have an aging population. I watched the crowd in the restaurant, a mixture of middle-aged, old and very old, chattering and joking with each other across the tables. The sizzling atmosphere wasn’t just from the fish frying in the pans. I felt like I was in a local’s home at Christmas, with their grans and grandads. Everyone here really does embrace their age and aren’t ashamed of it at all. Visit Madeira and for a week or two at least, you can have a holiday from feeling bad about growing old. And these days, that means anyone over 30. So even though you might not actually see any os pequeninos, you certainly won’t find any of those plastic vampires here.