TheSenses

Contrary to the habit of the Brits, India does not do curry. No, it doesn’t exist. Kari does though. This is a small aromatic leaf used in Tamil cookery and just one of the numerous ingredients that make up their spicey masala sauce. By extension, kari also denotes a dish of dry masala-clad vegetables. India’s rich source of spices lies on the fertile slopes of the Western Ghats. It’s a lovely area to head for, cooler than the sticky coastline thanks to its altitude and close to wildlife parks such as Periyar. Elephants roam here when not hauling logs or taking a dip in the lake. In gastro terms this is where black pepper, cardamom, cinnamon, turmeric, nutmeg, cumin, ginger and others are grown - and where empires clashed back in the 16th and 17th centuries to gain control of the lucrative trade. It didn’t take long for the Malabar Coast to become a legend. Initially used for their medicinal properties, these spices then became used as appetite stimulators and digestive aids. Chills also enter the pot - unassuming-looking little red peppers which, like spices, help the body to cope with hot external temperatures by firing it up internally. 

Mint, fig, cinnamon, preserved lemon, purple olives, toasted almonds – then moist succulent lamb that drops off the bone, slow-cooked to heaven. Each element has a clear, strong voice – and that is so typical of Moroccan cuisine. Morocco’s gastro-offerings are legion, and nearly all mix salty-sour with sweet (sometimes too much so) in a seductive, multi-layered composition. Then there are the pastries, dripping honey or syrup and filled with pistachios or almond paste. Waistlines have a hard time. Luckily there are also little salad appetisers, quite delicious, that multiplied up can make a very respectable (light) supper. Couscous of course can’t be ignored, but the Moroccans themselves generally only eat it once a week on Friday, their sabbath.

Spanish cinema today means just one director, mas o menos, and that’s Pedro Almodovar. Others of course exist but non-Spanish audiences rarely get to see them and anyway, since the 1980s, Almodovar has managed to eclipse them all. There is none better to give a sense of the dynamism, frenzy and creative élan of contemporary Spain – even with a high dose of exaggeration. Certain actors on the other hand have a much higher profile – from Penelope Cruz to Javier Bardem, Antonio Banderas and their forerunner, the late great Fernando Rey.

Hey gringo! went the classic opening line – but that’s not what Mexican cinema is about these days. Suddenly (or at least over the last decade or so) there’s a whole new generation of film-makers setting the pace with hard-hitting, intelligent films reflecting the socio-reality of Mexico. Alfonso Cuaron (Y Tu Mama Tambien), Guillermo del Toro (Cronos, Pan’s Labyrinth) and Gonzalez Inarritu (Amores Perros, 21 Grams, Babel) are the main trio of directors whose films are giving the world a whole new perspective on Mexico. Called the Buena Onda (the ‘right’ or ‘cool’ wave) in Mexico, they prove yet again the vitality of this country and its clear sense of identity, totally detached from its neighbours over the border.

Joseph Conrad, Somerset Maugham, Henri Fauconnier – these are the classics whose lyricism gave shape to the early western vision of Malaysia. Then there are more contemporary authots like Anthony Burgess, Paul Theroux and Redmond O’Hanlon who both got early inspiration from this tropical land, source of the word amok, of jungle spirits and ghosts, where dark passions simmer beneath a surface calm.

Romantic dreams of a sultry Malay archipelago were soon shattered by harsh realities and the oppressiveness of living in the jungle. That brought existential doubts heightened by living in isolated outposts, steamy love affairs with beautiful Malay women (all the writers were male of course) and stuffy colonial clubs to drown their sorrows. These are the recurring themes of pre-Independence western fiction set in Malaysia.

Valladolid, in northern Castile, is the hub of a highly productive wine region that for foreigners has always been overshadowed by neighbouring Rioja. For Spaniards, however, it’s a been an enduring love affair, as the much prized Duero wines were regularly quaffed by the Hapsburg kings back in the 16th century. Coursing through Old Castile, the Duero river combines with chalky soil and wildly fluctuating temperatures to nurture some of Spain’s stellar reservas. Rueda (white), Cigales (rosé and red), Toro (red) and the smooth yet potent Ribera (red) all originate here. One of the oldest bodega labels, Vega Sicilia, has been described by a British wine-writer as “on a Wagnerian scale of subtlety and complexity”. Beat that if you can. Altogether there are some 200 bodegas in this part of Castile and no shortage of eponymous castles, as the Duero river was once the frontline between the Christians and the Moors in the lengthy “reconquest”.

No, I haven’t been to the Festival in the Desert, not yet anyway. But I’ve travelled through Mali and loved it, from Bamako to Timbuktu. For years before that I’d been listening to Mali music which I discovered while living in Paris. There has always been a great love of African music there, from long before the phrase ‘world music’ was coined, due to the large community of Francophone Africans and exiled musicans in the 1980s. Along with Madagascar, where music just pumps through the blood, Mali is the most fertile African country for creative musicians, much thanks to their griots or caste of musicians and their ability to adapt their sounds without losing their roots.

To most people, Mexican music means mariachis. Or even, for the spectacularly ignorant, Andean Pan-pipes (this sadly came to me recently out of a highly respected London publishing-house).

Mariachis are hard to beat, their music is infectious and the full-on harmonies and volume perfectly match the high-colour and heat of long Mexican afternoons and tequila-fuelled evenings. Their homeland is Jalisco, and a Sunday afternoon in one of Guadalajara’s big family restaurants gives the best overview. Small groups of musicians (usually a couple of trumpets, a guitar and a violin or two) move from table to table to play pieces chosen and paid for by the diners, some of whom end up shedding a tear or two in sympathy with the more soulful songs. It’s heart-rending stuff.