Day 15. Chennai-Mumbai-Home.

Spent the day shopping for appeasement gifts for the family. May have failed in my quest.

Will write my reflections on the trip later; in the meantime will be looking out for KP on the plane. If he blags my free upgrade I'll be livid.

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Later thoughts:

I’m in the airport in Chennai. Due to the efficiency of the local train service, I’m here early and so have time to start collecting my thoughts about the trip.

Overly efficient local Chennai train

What have I learned about India? I’ve learned that it is growing up fast, sometimes in a good way, other times not so good. India is a country that has evolved at a slow pace for all of its existence, but now it’s having a major growth spurt. For the traveler, this is largely a good thing. I have felt completely safe (but then, I always have here); generally un-fleeced (this hasn’t always been the case); I feel almost insulted by how few times people have come up to me asking for “my good name” or to have my photo taken with them; and getting around is easier than ever.

There is a much larger Indian middle class than I’ve noticed before, who work in the many Western companies who are now outsourcing over here. These are a large group people who are being exposed to Western culture, not just on TV, but on a day-to-day basis. Women are wearing clothes now that would have been frowned upon five years ago. I even met a man today who was openly gay. This is significant change.

I got the local train to the airport today, despite a kind offer from my amazing host at my hotel (Samatha at Samayah Inn) to get her driver to take me to the airport. We compromised in the end I got a lift to the train station. I didn’t want my last trip on this adventure to be in an aircon car. I wanted to see what the outskirts of Chennai were like and I wanted one last chance to see normal Indian people up close and personal.

I went to the platform with my second class ticket and soon realised that I wasn’t going to fit into the carriage with my rucksack on my back (imagine the Victoria line on a Monday morning at 8.30, then multiply it by three). I went back up and bought a first class ticket instead, which allowed me into a carriage that I could stand comfortably in.

The train whizzed through the outskirts of town, and I was given a grim reminder of the worst side of this country. People live in such poverty here. Badly built corragated iron houses, in wasteland, next to large stagnant pools of what was once water but is now anything but…then a bit further out, you see worse. But at least those people have roofs over there heads, many millions in this country sleep on the streets every night. People so frail, often disabled beyond anything you can imagine,  and so helpless you wonder if anyone’s life could be more awful.

This, people, is what you get without a welfare state.

It shouldn’t be like this. India boasts of its wealth. Its ‘I’ve got a bigger one than you’ arms fight with Pakistan is a tragic and dangerous joke, with disastrous consequences for it’s people who live in squalor, and potentially catastrophic consequences for the World.

India is acquiring new money. It has a chance to build an infrastructure to support its wild growth. I’ve seen a little evidence of this admittedly but it’s not enough. Bangalore is building a metro for instance, but only with one line, which according to my man in the city, is going from the airport to the posh bit of town via the commercial hub, presumably via the local mayor’s house.

India’s problems are by no means unique in the world, and for a country is as ramshackle as this (and I mean that nicely), building new infrastructure isn’t easy. London hasn’t got half the issues Bangalore has and it hasn’t built a new Underground line from scratch since the 60s.

But as I saw all these new corporate call centres/offices popping up in remote parts of Chennai, I’d just wished someone had thought about how they could be part of something, as opposed to just a smart office surrounded by wasteland.

What have I learned about me?

That although parenthood is hard, and it does stop you doing a lot of the things you loved doing before, having a family is amazing. I miss them all madly.

I’m lucky too to have a wife who let me go and do this trip, and parents who are such good and doting grandparents.

Thanks and endless love to them all.

Yesterday’s cricket was amazing. I have lucked out with the two England matches. Two better games of cricket I couldn’t have wished for.

And although the rest of the tournament hasn’t lived up to England’s four games, it’s not been too bad. None of the TVs here (I’m in Mumbai airport now) are showing Canada v Kenya, maybe the game is already over. I can’t quite be bothered to check.

But apart from today, most days have had some interest. The five weeks of drudge that everyone was expecting from the group stages hasn’t quite happened. Let’s hope it can maintain this.

England transformed themselves from a team who looked like they were probably ready to fly home with me today, into a team who look like they could win the tournament in the space of a few overs. Beating that Saffer team is no mean feat. Eoin Morgan coming back into the team is no bad thing.

My beloved Windies too look a good outside bet. If only Edwards and Taylor were fit.

The Aussies, India, Sri Lanka, the Saffers and even Pakistan all have a chance too. The perfect World Cup.

In India, it’s everywhere though. You are in a cricket bubble. All the News Channels lead with cricket for most of the hour. In other news, Libya goes to war with itself and many killed and thousands left homeless in huge Mumbai slum fire.

Back home, it will be different.

At least the Beeb are showing highlights. At least England’s games have been wildly exciting so people might be talking about it a bit.

I’m going to sign off now. Thanks for reading. Thanks to all the nice people I’ve met out here. It’s been a great two weeks.

I coming home.

Day 14. Chennai. England lose again - wait - they win!!

5.25pm update.

Wow, what a win! The perfect end to my trip. 

I just did not see that coming. When the Saffers were 124 for 3, England looked so flat. Kevin Pietersen's four overthrows; Michael Yardy bowling crap; there was no life in the field at all.

Now they're in the dressing room opposite celebrating.

No-one can complain that England have been boring this tournament. I'm heading home tomorrow a happy man.

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1pm.

It had been a bit of a faff getting into the ground. Not a massive one, but still enough to ensure I’d missed the first few balls of the innings. There had been a roar, but with Indian crowds you never quite know what that means. I looked at the scoredboard. Oh dear, 3-1. England had lost a wicket already.

I looked at the action. Petersen to Pietersen.

One black South African was about to bowl to a white South African who left his homeland for England because he, the rich white man, felt that odds were stacked against him.

Petersen bowled, Pietersen edged to slip, out! England 3-2.

South Africa, with their representative team of blacks, whites and Asians, were living up to their billing as tournament favourites. They’re a seriously good team and I can’t see a weak link.

I’m feeling a little narky today. Partly because drunken South Africans rocked up drunk at my hotel last night at four in the morning and woke me, and probably the rest of Chennai, up. I couldn’t get back to sleep.

But my shackles were raised much earlier in the evening. I was chatting to a South African lad in the bar last night. He was alright, until he went into one about how the quota system had ruined South African cricket. He saw no irony at all when he complained about white players “being wronged”.

Despite the quota policy being rescinded in 2007, he argued it was still unofficially going on now.

I asked him which of Hashim Amla or JP Duminy, two of the tournament’s most dangerous players, were in the team because of their colour? He didn’t answer.

I could have asked him whether Imran Tahir, their leading wicket taker in the tournament, was in the team to keep up the quota. In fact, I might well have done.

I tried to be reasonable. I wish I’d had my computer with me, because I would have made him read this article by the excellent Telford Vice (whose name sounds like a low budget West Midlands police show.)

As for white players being wronged, the talent pool can’t have been that big if Boeta Dippenaar played 38 tests. If anything, the continued presence of mediocre players like him during the Saffer team in the 90s, (players who are now clogging up the English county game as Kolpaks), suggests that as a white man, your face was much more likely to fit than if you were a ‘man of colour’.

I take no happiness from watching England be hammered by the Saffers – as it appears we are at the moment – but when Petersen ripped the heart out of the England line-up with a spell of three for four, I hoped it made that lad last night think.

And if this team go on to win the cup, as they should, I hope the important role played by the quota system is recognised.

Michael Yardy. What’s the point?

There must be a unofficial quota system in the England team ensuring the presence of at least one man who can neither bat, bowl nor field.

Is Yardy really a better option than Adil Rashid?

Two lads in front of me are holding hands.

This is without doubt one of my favourite things about India, but admittedly one I’ve seen far less often this trip. On previous trips, I’ve even seen Policemen holding hands. It’s so sweet.

As India grows up and its customs become diluted by western influences, I hope holding hands continues.

Day 13. Chennai.

Nothing much to report today. Chennai is big and growing bigger all the time. The bus ride through the city took us through the fast growing outskirts, the city swelling in size as more and more large western companies outsource various parts of their business to India.

The tragedy is there is no infrastructure to support it. So, while you see plush new offices for Ebay and Paypal for instance, they're in the middle of nowhere, the road outside is gridlocked, the pavement outside is non existent, and there are no cafes or anything nearby. So everyone has to drive to and from work, equalling more traffic, more congestion, more pollution, more chaos. Private affluence, public squalor.

The bus dropped as off at the ground so I had a peek around. It is unrecognisable from two years ago, my last visit, and apparently unrecognisable from a few months ago when it was still a crumbling concrete bowl. Now, three quarters of it has been completely rebuilt, and it looks most impressive.

I'm still slightly suspicious about how it could have been built so quickly. As one person near me commented, I hope the fans don't jump up and down too much during the game.

Watched a little bit of England's training session too. They dropped at least half of the catches, with the main culprits being those who you would normally say had the safest hands. It doesn't bode well for a game they really need to win.

Day 12. Mahabilipuram.

Mahabilipuram never ceases to surprise and delight. I wasn’t expecting great things from this leg of the trip, but I have loved it.

This is a small town, with everything within walking distance, so that’s a plus for a start. India isn’t a great country to walk in normally, pavements can be awful or non-existent, you have to be extremely patient or very brave to get across roads so more often than not it’s easier just to jump in a rickshaw. No need here, you can get about on foot.

Mahabs beach, north

So today I went down to the other beach for a spot of lunch, then wandered up to the Mandapas. Built at the same time as the shore temple (in the seventh century), these are a collection of sandstone buildings built into and on top of a very clamber-able rocky landscape. If you’ve been to Hampi in India, it’s very similar except on a smaller scale and not full of stoned, rude Israelis.

A mandapa

Two things really stood out. Firstly it was free to get in. Now, nothing is free to get into in India. Even when I was halfway up the first big rock, I was expecting a man to appear from behind a stone to say “ticket, ticket” and remove 250 r/s from my hand. It didn’t happen.

Lighthouse

Secondly was the joy of being allowed to scramble all over the rocks and get into and on top of many of the structures. In England, they would all be fenced off, no doubt and the rocks would have been deemed unsafe for scrambling by the Health and Safety Executive.

Slap bang in the middle of this crazy, Bedrock-esque landscape is a working lighthouse, but that too is open to the public in the day. I’m awful with heights but determined to overcome my fear, so paid 40 r/s and climbed the narrow winding staircase to the top. It was horrendously high, and with only a small barrier at the top, I couldn’t take more than a minute up there. I somehow took a photo, which was difficult to do while clinging on to the wall with both hands, and got down again as quickly as I could.

Bees eye up hippies

When I got down, I noticed two of the biggest bee-nests (hives?) you could imagine, just below the ledge where I’d been clinging on earlier. Even from 50 feet blow you could see them moving. Swarms of bees not being my favourite thing either, I was especially pleased to be back at sea level.

It took me about two hours to wander around, up and down the various rocks, and in and out of the various different temples and structures. It was yet another brilliant experience on this trip.

Mr Ganguly was soon to bat

To put the cherry on the cake, I not only found a game of cricket going on, on the site, but was actively encourage to get involved too. “Saurav Ganguly,” the boys excitedly shouted, hopefully because of my left-handedness and exciting range of off-side strokes, but equally possibly because I’m a snooty fat lad, and I ripped of my shirt and waved it above my head at the end of the match.

As I was eating my lunch, I noticed a picture of the bar, titled “Beachside bar, before Tsunami”.

This coast was the part of India that was worst hit on Boxing Day 2004, and according to my guidebook, over 8000 people were killed in Tamil Nadu.

We’ve all seen the pictures in the news, and I have a million questions I want to ask the locals. But, I don’t think I will. It must have been the most horrendous experience, and I doubt there’s anyone in the town who didn’t lose a friend or a relative. The town has rebuilt itself and has clearly moved on.

Apparently, Mahabilipuram escaped the worst. The Shore Temple, which sticks out into the sea, was largely untouched, while towns just a short distance down the coast were utterly decimated.

As I wandered around, genuinely lapping up the Mahabs experience today, it was strange to think that seven years ago, this great little town was part of the worst natural disaster, hopefully, of our lifetime.

Got back to my hotel room to see the West Indies 58-1. Slow start, I thought, but at least Gayle’s still in. We’ll kick on and hopefully set Bangladesh a decent target.

I then saw that it was only the 12^th over. It must have rained in Mirpur, I thought, late start.

Then the commentator said, “ One to win”.

Eh?

For the second match in a row, the unlikely new ball pair of Kemar Roach and Sulieman Benn had skittled the opposition, and the Windies had romped to a commanding win.

There are signs the good times are coming back.

I hooked up with my friend Phil last night. He’s out here for the whole tournament, with a few of his mates. He shares a love of cricket, India, Indian trains, curry, and lower league football so it was good last night to catch up over a beer.

But the beer we ended up drinking was possibly the rankest ever. Golden Eagle (or “Golden Shower” as it became known) was actually undrinkable. Luckily, it was Skype time for me, so I made my excuses and left leaving Phil and chums with my half bottle of Shower.

I’ll find out later whether Phil managed to finish it, or whether it finished him.

Day 11. Mahaballapurum.

Didn't really sleep on the train last night. The lady who burped became the lady who farted in her sleep. The first few times, it was funny, but as someone who has never farted, I was horrified.

Chengalpattu must be the most picturesque train station in the world. It sits on the edge of a lake, and as the train pulled in, the sun was rising over the water creating the most amazing light.

Although I could have spent hours watching the sunrise, my only reason to be in Chengalpattu was to get a bus to Mahaballipuram (there are so many different spellings, I have no idea which is the right one). Being in the mood for public transport, I turned down three rickshaw drivers (300 rupees) and found myself the 108b bus.

It was a classic Indian boneshaker, rattling furiously as it careered through the Tamil Nadu countryside picking up a mixture of workers and school kids. The 29km journey cost me 9 rupees, or 12 pence.

I’ve treated myself to a reasonably nice room in Mahabs. The hotel has got a pool, there’s WIFI and my room’s got a TV.

Mahabs is a coastal town, about 40 miles south of Chennai. It’s claim to fame is that it’s the home of stone carvings, so every other shop is creaking at the seams with small Hindu stone trinkets. That’s obviously not the reason I’m here.

It’s also got a number of large stone carved monuments, including the Sea Shore Temple which I went to visit today. I’m struggling to upload any photos at the moment, but if one appears of a tall pointy temple with a neat garden, perfect blue sky and a choppy sea, that’s it.

Afterwards I took a stroll down to the beach, which was brilliant. The crashing of the sea was easily drowned out by the loud chatter of sari-wearing ladies having a gossip. Chuck in the noise of excited kids badgering their parents to let them go on one of the least safe looking merry-go-rounds I've ever seen, and the odd trader trying to sell you horse rides, it was just an amazing scene. Verkala was great, don't get me wrong, but this was India being India and I loved it.

Other than that excursion though, I've done little. I've lounged by the pool, had a shave (well, paid someone to shave me), bought a toothbrush, bought a drum from a hawker at the beach for the kids, and had a kulfi (ice cream) that's making my stomach make unusual noises. I'm now writing this watching Canada make a game of it against Pakistan. 

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There was a misprint in all of the newspapers here today that said Ireland beat England, by chasing down nearly 330? I mean, for one paper to get it wrong is bad, but for all of them...?

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I was going to go to yesterday's game on version 1.0 to version 3.7 of my oft changed itinerary, but once the England vs India match got switched to Bangalore, the thought of spending five days in a nice but ultimately dull city was too much to bare. 

But all of those previous itineraries involved me leaving the Ireland match after around 40 overs of the second innings, in order to get a late night train to Kerala. My reasoning? England would have won easily by that point. Can you imagine if I'd been at the match and missed that ending?

It's hard to see England winning the World Cup while they persist with batsmen who can't hit sixes, and Yardy, who can't take wickets. Time for a rethink for my second team.

That result has also completely changed the dynamics of the group. It was always the more competitive of the two groups, with - I thought - five teams going for four qualifying places. Now Ireland are definitely in the mix too, while England's run rate is terrible, having only scraped past Holland in the first game too.

Maybe the endless group stages may prove interesting after all.

Day 10. Varkala-Mahabilipuram

Phoned home last night and my son wouldn't talk to me. Missing Daddy has now turned into extremely cross with Daddy. Would have flown home there and then if I could. I feel sick in the pit of my stomach.

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The deep clean of the beach happened today. I got involved.

The group of volunteers, a mix of locals and tourists, set about clearing the bottles, the bags, the paan packets, the crisp packets, from around the  spring at the north end of the beach.  Before long, 30 large bags of rubbish had been collected up. At which point, we ran out of bags and the operation ground to a halt.

So, what happens next? Hopefully, the gesture of unity and community will inspire locals and tourists alike to not throw their crap over the cliff and around the beach.

Sadly, what is more likely is the bags of rubbish will end up thrown over the cliff and around the beach.

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The 16724 Anantapuri Express is anything but express but it’s proving an excellent Indian train experience. Unlike the trains to and from Jaipur, which were fairly grimy and full of crawling or scurrying creatures, this one is spotlessly clean, well lit, and vermin-free (inshallah). This is good news as I’ve got 16 hours on this badboy.

The presence of a tourist on the train is not uncommon, but clearly doesn’t happen every day and I am being well looked after by my fellow carriage folk. Everyone is desperate to offer advice on where to go and what to do in and around Chennai, which is very useful. And, as always, when I reveal my son’s name is the same as that of an Indian cricketer, the hospitality cranks up a notch.

The drawback with the 16724 is that there is no onboard catering. So far, there’s no real evidence of many traders peddling edible wares either. With a rumbling tummy (I’ve been pretty good at sticking to a two-meal-a-day policy), this could be a problem.

Hari is a well to do young lad travelling to Chennai to see his brother. There’s a nice elderly couple, the fella works for MRF, (“Former sponsors of Sachin’s bat” he tells me, proudly) and the woman is lovely but burps loudly everytime she drinks her 7-up. Opposite is a young lad who looks like Rahul Dravid. They’re all good and amusing company.

I could have done this journey by plane in about an hour, but to do that is to miss out on that real Indian travel experience. As the train snakes through parts of Kerala I haven’t seen before and the sun sets behind the mountains that poke through a forest of coconut trees, I’m pleased I stuck to my “must do an overnight train trip” pledge.

Bang on cue, snacks arrive. Idli, steamed round rice cakes served with a brutally hot chilli and coconut chutney arrive, I hand over my 15 rupees (20p) and tuck in. This is the life.

Skyped home today and caught the family at home and in a good mood. I have cheered up no end. And I’ll be home in well under a week. Can’t wait to see them all.

 

Day Nine. Varkala beach. Did not bat, did not bowl, one catch.

It was an unmistakable noise. I could make it out just about the crashing of the sea, the chatter of Eastern Europeans frying slowly in the sun, and the hum of hippies complaining about how there was litter on their paradise beach (while stubbing out their roll-ups in the sand).

<Thwack> <Excited shouts in Hindi (or Malayalam - the local dialect)>. The game of cricket I craved. I slapped some factor 10 on my back and wandered over. Traditionally, you don’t ask to join in beach cricket, you merge into it. So over the next hours or so, I positioned myself at various points between short third man and cow corner and awaited some cross-batted slogs from the locals to come flying my way. It didn’t take long. A few flew over my head and into the sea, a couple went to my left, a couple to my right, I chased a few down to long leg. Then one went up, miles up, and started coming down in my direction. Despite the waves crashing into my ankles, and two other fielders converging on me, I caught it. (I know a number of people who read this have seen me field and won’t believe I caught it, but I did).

I milked the applause and tentatively wandered towards the crease. The laws of the game clearly state that in beach cricket, he who catches it, bats next. These were certainly the laws they had been playing for the previous hour while I’d been watching…

Not to be. A chunky man with a moustache ran over from cover, picked up the bat before I could, and took guard.

I was miffed but my disappointment didn’t last long. The new bowler and the Cliff End was right-arm rapid and hurled (more of that in a minute) a series of brutish bouncers at his friend, the heavy rubber ball crunching into various parts of moustachio’s anatomy.

No other chances came my way; the offer to bowl didn’t come either (given how far the only slow bowler was hit in his few overs, this may not have been a bad thing either). So, I gave up, wandered off to get my camera, and took some snaps.

Chucking. Cricket’s biggest taboo.

Of the six or seven bowlers on the beach today, I’d say three were genuine, bonafide chuckers. Two could argue that their action was no worse than Johann Botha’s, and one had a definite kink. Leaving one really, really quick lad in the clear.

In the game I played in Jaipur on day two, the bowler was a chucker.

Most games you watch at street/beach level in India, it’s the same story.

Now this isn’t malicious, scandalous or cheating. It’s a necessity. Most games in the sub-continent are played with tennis balls or bouncy rubber balls on sand or tarmac. When I try and bowl my loopy left arm stuff out here, it either floats up in the air and gets whacked, or bounces so stupidly high the batsman can’t reach it. The batsmen probably prefer it when the bowlers chuck because the bounce is more ‘normal’; for the bowlers it actually means they have a chance of hitting the stumps.

It’s only when youngsters join cricket clubs out here that they get to bat on proper grass wickets and use real cricket balls. Cricket clubs, like most things in India, are priced at a level that tends to keep out kids who play on the street or beach. Damn, if you think Britain has class divides, you ain’t seen nothing until you see what goes on out here.

So a lot of the kids chuck. I probably would in beach cricket too if I could. But it’s the magic they chuck that got me excited. One spinner was getting so much loop and turn (the things that turn a slow bowler from batting-fodder into a demon) I couldn’t take my eyes off him. But his action would have the purists spitting.

Which leads me nicely to today’s World Cup action. Sri Lanka’s Lasith Malinga learned to play cricket on the beaches south of Colombo. He earned a living, so the tale goes, by betting Australian tourists he could bowl them out. His action is horrendous, his arm must brush the umpires ear as it comes round at a right angle to his body. (This by the way is not illegal, it’s just unusual and incredibly difficult to master). But if you think about it, if you are trying to hit stumps with a rubber ball on a bouncy beach, the lower your arm, the less bounce you get, the less like the ball is to balloon over the stumps.

Malinga took six wickets today with six searing yorkers, and the poor Kenyan team had no answer. I doubt Sachin Tendulkar would have kept out all six.

Beach cricket can and does produce freaky geniuses.

Away from the cricket, I did my first exercise in a week today, jogging the length of the beach and back. I’m now burning it off with a Tandoori Paneer and a beer.

Varkala is beautiful as long as you don’t look too closely at the edges. Like all things in India, it’s naturally beautiful. The sun shines, there’s a beautiful golden sandy beach, blue sea, a dramatic cliff, at it’s all lined by palm trees that sway in the wind.

The bars, beach huts and hotels are generally nicely presented. But, sadly, also like most things in India, behind the private affluence, there’s public squalor. The cliff is littered with rubbish. Look behind the hotels’ nice facades, and there are piles of junk everywhere.

This is what happens I guess in a country where the rich manage to dodge paying taxes while the poor don’t have wages to tax. Tory Britain beware.

A local man in the bar last night said he was organising a deep clean day, where tourists and locals would join up to clear the crap. Despite sounding a bit like a David Cameron “big society”-esque idea, I’m genuinely disappointed to not be here next weekend to help out.

It will help, definitely but until the Indian/local government sorts out infrastructure, like rubbish collection, you wonder how much real difference it will make.

Off to Tamil Nadu on a 16-hour overnight train tomorrow, and so will miss all of England’s game against Ireland. Not sure what cricket I will get to see, might have to dust down the “owzat’ again.

Day seven reflections

“Eight hours play and it’s a tie? You are kidding me!?”

I’ve been hanging out a bit with an American journalist, sent to India to see if he gets cricket. He did. He loved it. He was even hooked before yesterday’s game, now I think he will be a fan for life.

Wright works for one of the big sport magazines in the States. He has five weeks to write one article about the Cricket World Cup. I wish I had his job.

I met Wright in the hotel I was staying in, in Delhi. He’d just arrived from Dhaka where he’d watched the build up to the tournament and the opening game between Bangladesh and India. He described the excitement in the country as unlike anything he’d ever seen, even after their team had lost: not a bad statement from someone who’d done Superbowls, Ryder Cups and World Series.

Wright had clearly done his research before he came out to India. He’d never seen a game before, had no real interest in it before this assignment, but I’d tell him about, for instance, Saurav Ganguly and he’d say “oh that was the guy who took his shirt off at Lords…” For someone so new to the game, he knew plenty and was keen to learn more.

He also knew Test matches last five days and can end in a draw. He gets it.

So his statement, above, was partly tongue in cheek but also it raised a good point. How could such a magnificent game end up with both teams only getting a point? If it had rained all day, and both teams had stayed in their hotels playing darts and playing Playstation, they would both have had they same reward: a point.

A few years ago, England would have been declared winners of that match, having lost fewer wickets than India. I reckon that’s probably a good rule and I’m not sure why it got changed, especially when Duckworth Lewis (the obscure formula that decides who wins rain effected matches) takes into account how many wickets are lost.

By the way, I’m not suggesting England woz robbed, etc. Had England needed just one to win, instead of two, India would have set a different field and England may not have been able to scramble the dramatic single they did. Rules are rules and a tie was fair.

I digress. What a game. It was cricket at it’s best. I hasn’t justified me coming here (I was brought back down to earth with a bump afterwards when I called home and heard my son bawling) but having given up and put so much on my family, at least it wasn’t an awful game. It was everything cricket can be: thrilling; electric; both teams taking it in turns to lose winning positions; and it contained two brilliant innings. I’ve seen a few Tendulkar hundreds, that was the best.  Complete control, able to do exactly want he wanted to do to every ball. And when Sachin bats, India comes alive. Every single greeted as if it’s the winning goal in a Wembley final.

Then Andrew Strauss produced an even better innings. If you were making a highlights package it would have been far more difficult to put together, but if you were producing a DVD masterclass in how to keep your head when chasing a massive total, there would be no editing required. Unflappable, knowing his strengths;  It summed up this England team: not flamboyant but totally aware of how to get the most from its parts and prepared for every situation.

Then the drama: Zaheer’s inspiration; the guts and skill of the England tailenders. The silence of the crowd as England looked set to win: thee half hour of utter madness at the end; the wall of noise; and three sixes in the last two overs that made the impossible almost possible.

If every game of cricket was like that, I wouldn’t just hook America, it would signal the end of their ridiculous sports.

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Am on a beach in Kerala. No cricket to be found anywhere. Will start a game tomorrow.

Day 7. Bangalore. England 338 tie with India 338.

Wow. Unbelievable game.

Will write my thoughts tomorrow on the plane.

Day six. Bangalore. Pakistan beat Sri Lanka by 11 runs.

 Another match watched on telly, I’m afraid, but what a match and what a funny night. First of all, I hooked up with some of the Test Match Special team for dinner in a very swanky restaurant. I spent the last England tour of India with them as a cameraman, so it was nice to hook up again.

I then met up with Paul, a friend who shares the misfortune of supporting the same football team as me. I’d only met Paul a couple of times previously, (hey, that’s plenty to be Facebook friends), but had seen that he’d moved to Bangalore as part of Tescos’ latest attempt at global domination. I also noticed from his Facebook photos that he had somewhat of a partying lifestyle out here. And so it proved.

Bangalore is a funny city. It has a large, young, and definitely upwardly mobile middle-class. It also has a huge and hard drinking culture. The bars are swanky, full of extremely beautiful and glamorous people, pissing god knows how many lakh and crore of rupees up the wall on expensive drinks. Paul told me he once bought a round of five vodka and tonics and didn’t ask for locally brewed vodka. The bill came to £105. The average monthly Indian salary (skewed upwards by some incredibly rich people, earning billions) is £40.

So I met Paul and his harem of foxy friends in a bar in the centre of town. They drinks had clearly been flowing and they continued to flow at a rate. Here’s why: All bars, pubs, clubs, private drinking holes…everything has to stop serving at 11pm. There’s no lock-ins, no late licences, no clubs open to the small hours. Everything finishes at 11.30. This is a fairly recent law introduced to stop fights and crime (this from the same local government who until recently had banned dancing) – what it appeared to encourage was fast and furious drinking.

It was a fun night, and the backdrop to the evening was a fabulous game of cricket between Pakistan and Sri Lanka, that was in the balance until the penultimate ball. The restaurant and the bar both showed the game as the drama unfolded, with cheers every time Sri Lanka hit a four, and groans whenever Pakistan took a wicket. The first really exciting game of the World Cup ended with Pakistan winning by 12 runs and me being invited back for a house party.

So, six of us (plus driver) squeezed into Paul’s car and drove off to this house, stopping in a part of town where apparently alcohol could be bought. Lo and behold, we pulled over, a man ran out of the shadows, took an order, and two minutes later 12 large Kingfisher, a bottle of vodka and four tonic waters appeared in the boot of the car, in exchange for a fistful of rupees.

We drove off to the house, which was an enormous villa on the outskirts of town (I have no idea really where it was, but it seemed a long way away), with a guard on the door, and found a fairly civilised scene with pop music blaring, but all the guests eating quiche and apple pie in the kitchen, and of course drinking heavily.

The hosts, a middle-aged couple, were leading the way and were quite the social animals. The father runs some sort of company that makes some sort of electrical something, the English mother baked exceedingly good food and had the only dishwasher I’ve ever seen in India.

The guests were a collection of Bangalore’s well-to-do, who despite being in various degrees of leathered-ness, were all most welcoming to the English visitor and determined to offer future hospitality should I ever visit again. One even arranged for me to stay free in his hotel in Kerala on Monday and Tuesday. I imagine it’s going to be a lot nicer than Sri Laksmi Comforts (or Sri Lacking Comfort), my £7.50 a night cell in Bangalore.

Another guest told me he was the presenter for cricket on one of the subcontinent’s leading Sports TV channels. He told me this at around 2.15am the night before potentially the biggest game of the group stages of the World Cup. It could make interesting viewing – in every sense.

Day five – Delhi-Agra-Bangalore

Agra-do-do-do

Sometimes I think I prefer sorting out a holiday to actually going on it – and that’s not to say I haven’t really enjoyed going on this one. I love the challenge of plotting a way through a far off land, using whatever public transport is available, and always trying to squeeze in as much as possible into whatever time I have available. The internet has made everything easier, there are websites now where you can book all your Indian travel needs and check timetables etc to your hearts content. Electronic Anorakalysis.

So, given that anal streak, I was really pissed off with myself for not spotting much earlier that the Taj Mahal isn’t open to the public on Friday.

I found out late on Wednesday night that it would be closed, and spent about an hour on Thursday trying to cancel my train to Agra and then the first part of my Agra-Delhi-Bangalore flight, without any success. (My attempts at trying to spell out my booking reference caused much amusement with the cricket fans around me…”K for Kevin, P for Pietersen, X for, er, er Xavier Doherty…? Z for Zaheer, erm V for VVS Laxman?) So I’m here in Agra basically to catch a flight that goes back to Delhi then on to Bangalore.

But it’s been a good day out.

The 0615 Delhi-Bhopal Express arrived into Agra at around 9am, a bit late but generally pretty comfy. I got escorted through the station by a policeman who wielded a baton at anyone who came within three feet of me, then found myself a rickshaw man for the day. First stop Agra Fort. It’s obviously not nearly as gobsmacking as it’s better known neighbour, but its still pretty impressive, and on this sunny, but hazy day, it offered dreamy views of the Taj.

Next stop was the bank on the other side of the river from the Taj, to get a decent close up view. The light was so bright by this point, I couldn’t see the camera screen, so I have no idea whether the few pics I took came out ok or not. Point and press.

It was here that my brother played a game of cricket with a few young kids a couple of years ago. To my great disappointment, the lads weren’t still playing now because I reckon that would have been my best bet for getting a game in today.

I’m now sitting in Sheela’s Hotel garden, next door to the Taj, and I can hear the call to prayer drifting accress the wall. I’ve just demolished a delicious Aloo Gobi and one of the garliciest naans I’ve ever eaten, and not even the familiar sound of a man hocking in the distance can ruin what is a really blissful scene.

I’ve been to the Taj before, and it is everything it is cracked up to be. But today has been great seeing it from other angles, and I’m pleased I came.

I do think that if the ICC got involved in this idyll right now, they’d manage to balls it up within seconds. Firstly I’d probably be going though my 50^th security search (yesterday’s seized contraband: coins (seemingly only ones of value); suntan lotion); then they’d snatch my chai away, and demand I drink the official Pepsi-drink of the ICC world cup; they’d have banned all food sales in the garden except for Bhopal-flavoured crisps; and the moments where I pause for thought would be seen as an opportunity to blast out the latest Shakira number on the only technology that seems to work in the vicinity of the ground, the loudspeakers.

Making watching a game of cricket in India an un-enjoyable viewing experience takes some doing. The money obsessed BCCI and ICC appear to have managed it with ease. The World Cup matches were meant to be the highlight of this trip, yesterday’s was anything but.

And I’m not just saying that because the Windies got stuffed.

4pm update. Agra don’t-don’t-don’t

Day going wrong. The flight from Agra to Delhi has inevitably been delayed, meaning I will miss the connection to Bangalore. The next one after that doesn’t get in til about 2330, meaning I wont get to the hotel until 1am-ish – making this a hideously long day, and much worse it means I wont be able to Skype home for the second night in a row.

Now, bare in mind, I only came to Agra today because bloody Kingfisher refused to let me board the second flight on this journey (Delhi-Bang) unless I completed this part. So, I’ve now missed the flight from Delhi (where I started this morning), because I came to Agra to complete the first part. Confused? Try explaining it to someone for whom English is a distant second language.

I’ve also left Chinaman in my luggage, which is now I imagine sitting on the tarmac waiting for the plane that may never arrive. It is such a good book, which constantly blurs fiction with fact in a way that probably keeps the publisher’s lawyer awake at night. My favourite character is hard-drinking, womanising former 1981 Ashes-winning England all-rounder, turned commentator…Tony Botham. I cannot begin to think of anyone who that might remotely resemble.

As I write, news that the plane is imminent. Gotta go.

10.15pm update

Still nowhere near Bangalore. A day that started in Delhi at about 5am, is still in Delhi 17 hours later.

I’m adding Kingfisher to my list of airlines and hotels to boycott.

The one positive (and it’s a small positive) is that it meant I got to watch some cricket in the bar in Delhi Airport, while snacking on an excellent Masala Dosa.

The Ireland v Bangladesh match proved pretty exciting. When I started watching, Ireland were probably ahead in the game, they ended up losing by 30-odd runs. The win sparked wild celebrations in Mirpur…the ICC will not doubt add spontaneous happiness to the lengthy list of things banned from stadiums before long so they’d better enjoy it while it lasts.

My random cricket thought for the day – who would win if 11 specialist bowlers played against 11 specialist batsmen?  (OK pedants – 10 v 10 with identical-twin wicketkeepers on each team). Would the superstrong bowling attack skittle the batsmen for 150-odd, then scrape the runs against a new-ball attack featuring Bopara and Trott? Or would the endless-batting line up amass 500, which 11 bowlers never have a chance of getting? Come on ICC, get it organised.

Finally got in to the hotel at 3.30am.

Day four. Delhi. West Indies v South Africa

Pre-match thoughts.

I’m generally contrary about sporting matters. If people tell me somebody is ‘a great’, I’ll try and find something factual or otherwise that proves he or she is a flat track bully. If someone tells me it’s a golden generation, I’ll argue until I’m blue in the face that in fact they’re a bunch of overpaid, overhyped showponies whose technical deficiencies are highlighted every time they play in a major competition.

My other sporting foible, is that I religiously support the underdog. My football team is in the fourth division, after a recent spell in the conference. I support Scotland over England, the country of my birth, in all sports. And in cricket, I support the West Indies. My favourite recent cricketing memory was not England winning the Ashes in 2005 (although that was brilliant), but Jerome Taylor skittling England for 51 in Jamaica a year or two ago.

I’m not anti-this England team (although the presence of four Saffers in the top seven grates a little, and the ECB’s current pact with pay TV irks a lot). I’d like them to have a decent world cup (runners-up to the Windies in a dream scenario) because I know that a winning England team will keep a certain level of interest in the sport, too.

Wthe Windies ruled the world, I didn’t support them. I supported England. But as I got older, and their powers started to wain, I saw what the West Indies had given to cricket, and to the World. It had stuck two fingers up at the old duffers who’d run the game so badly for so long, making the game staid and snobby. It had infuriated the old the insidious old farts in the commentary box who claimed bouncers from Willis was good bowling, while bouncers from Garner were intimidatory. It had proved that scoring at two runs an over was tedious and unproductive. And what’s more, in England, it proved that cricket wasn’t just a game for white kids in white public schools.

From the age of 11, when I played my first competitive game of cricket at School, to the age of about 21, I’d say at least 20 percent of the people I played with or against were of West Indian origin. At the time, England had any number of black players. DeFreitas, Small, Slack, Lewis, Malcolm to name but a few… the county circuit was similarly well represented. And, I reckon that’s because at the time of those players growing up, the West Indies team were role models. That wonderful Windies team made a sport that is inherently uncool, cool.

Sadly, far fewer black kids play cricket now in England. I spent a season a few years ago playing seconds for a team in North London, playing against lots of (often brilliant) young Asian kids, but remember seeing only three black players. That’s represented at all levels of cricket now in England…The last black England player to play more than a solitary test…?  We’re going back a few years. So a strong West Indies team is good for the Caribbean, it’s good for English cricket, and it’s good for the sport too.

Whether or not cricket will ever recover in the region, especially after the ICC screwed up that 2007 world cup their so spectacularly (the idiocy of culling grounds like The Rec and The Bourda and replacing them with soulless out-of-town Deva Stadium-esque monstrosities – aaarggh!!!) is another question, but let’s hope. If cricket dies off in that part of the world, it would be a tragedy we’ll feel in England too.

The good news is the current West Indies team has potential. Chris Gayle is awesome (I dream of a team with him and Sehwag opening). I watched Darren Bravo on Eurosport, and the boy can seriously bat. Chanderpaul, Sarwan and Dwayne Bravo are decent cricketers. Sulieman Benn can be a handful. Kemar Roach looks a good fast bowler. I’m guessing Fidel Edwards is injured but if he comes back he will add something to the attack, as would Jerome Taylor. So there’s the core of a decent team. I’d love it if they have a decent world cup.

Which is why I’m here in Delhi on the morning of the Windies match against South Africa. I wanted this to be the first match I saw on the odyssey … I’m now faced with a crisis. I really didn’t think it would sell out, but according to the ICC’s hopeless ticket website, it has. Or it might have done, Or, no-one knows. Or, they do know but they can’t be bothered to tell anyone.

 I’m ticketless but hopeful. Can’t say anymore for fear of jinxing it. Wish me luck.

Late update: Well, I got in (tickets for sale everywhere, ground half empty, god bless the ICC’s clear ticket information).  I also managed to source another way in…that’s another story. The Windies, bless ‘em, showed what they’ve showed for the previous few years, and odd mixture of brilliance, terribleness, and fallibility. Darren Bravo played a knock that few who saw will forget in a hurry, he then got out, like he always does, in the 70s.  The loss of Dwayne through injury will be hard felt, but the worry is, this team won’t be able to bowl out anyone: their best bet is to bat second and chase.

The day’s other news is about tomorrow. I’m booked to go to Agra to see the Taj…except it’s shut on Friday. But with all my onward flight booked from there, I’ve got to go, and not see the Taj. Going to Agra and not seeing the Taj is like going to Oxford and not watching United, pointless. If you wanted a report on its locked gates, log in this time tomorrow.

Day three. Jaipur. Run out 2.

Day three. Jaipur. Run out 2.

Today I was a tourist. I got a rickshaw, and in exchange for 400 r/s, I asked Mr Vijay to take me to all the sights, (and not to bother trying to drop me off in any shops/factories/government outlets). Success.

I’d been warned about Jaipur before I arrived. My friend Phil advised me if I could get out of the station, I’d love it, but that fighting your way through the touts etc was a battle than many lost.

But there was no battle. Getting off the train last night was easy. I was approached by two people, just two, both of whom pointed me in the direction of the pre-paid rickshaw booth. Easy. More evidence that India has changed.

All around the various tourist sights, very little bother. Hawkers, gawkers and stalkers of India, what’s happened? (I actually dread to think what’s happened, this country isn’t noted for its social welfare polices).  

The Amer Fort was spectacular and made even more beautiful by the most perfect sunlight that lit up the day. I also really liked the Observatory, a collection of elaborate and oversized sundials from the 18^th century. Lots of straight lines and extravagant curves against an electric blue sky made for good photo…hopefully my camera conking out was a battery issue and not something more major.  Some of the dials told the time to within two seconds, others apparently measured stuff like how much godliness was in the air at that precise moment; these were less obviously less easy to verify the accuracy of.

What my day lacked though was cricket. I explained my predicament to Vijay, who said he’d take me to the local maidan, where there was bound to be a game going on. We arrived to find none. “I take you home,” said Vijay, thinking he’d had enough of this odd tourist who refused to go in any of his recommended stores. On the next corner, there it was, perfect. Five kids playing in a garden, using a bit of wood for a bat and a ball made of solid rubber. “Stop!!” I yelled. “There”.

Vijay pulled over. I only wanted to take a picture, but before I could get the phone out of my pocket, Vijay had snatched the bat from the kids and was marking his guard. If I can upload the video, you’ll see him in action (STOP PRESS - technology failure).

The kids wanted to bowl at the gora though, so it wasn’t long before I was batting. The wicket was a dustbowl, the spinner definitely had a dodgy action, the bat was literally a plank…those are my excuses for an innings of just two. I worked my first ball for a single through gully (no surprise to anyone who has ever seen me bat), squirted by second for a single to square leg, and was run out at the wrong end on my third, surprised to discover we were playing ‘any wicket’.

It was at this point the mother ran out of the house and shooed us away.  Either that or she was telling her kids off for ending my promising cameo in such controversial fashion.

I’m now heading back to Delhi on the Aijer-Jammu Tawi express, which so far is as punctual as the sundials. I’m starving but as yet no sign of the man taking orders for dinner.

I’m staying in a hotel tonight which has a bar attached called “Thugs”, recommended by Phil. Hopefully I’ll arrive in time for a pint  (and presumably a punch-up). Indian bars are funny old things, generally dark, smoky and seedy, frequented by an all male clientele, who drink way beyond their capacity, slouch on their tables and I’m guessing this bit, lament life at home. (“Oh, my wife, all she does is all the cooking, all the cleaning, all the childcare, all the breadwinning, and generally making good the balls-up us men make of this proud land of ours.”). I’ll be right at home.

Tomorrow, inshallah, I’ll be watching my beloved West Indies humbling the South Africans. Spare ticket, anyone?

Day two. London-Delhi-Jaipur

Dan’s International XI 60-4 (5 overs) (Gayle 34*)

lost to Gopal’s Indian All-stars 64 for 3 (4.5 overs) by 7 wickets. (Laxman 29*) Gopal’s Indian all-stars win the three match series 2-1.

An agonising defeat from the penultimate ball – I hope it doesn’t set the tone for the whole trip. The game was in the balance right up to the end and despite me getting rid of both Sachin Tendulkar and Yuvraj Singh for a duck, VVS Laxman saw Gopal’s team home with a ball to spare. Not a bad performance from my lot, who’d only just arrived in India on the overnight flight into Delhi, but ooh, the chai would have tasted that much sweeter after victory.

I’m on a train somewhere between Delhi Cantonment station and Jaipur. I love Indian trains, and this detour is as much about wanting to spend time on a train as it is about wanting to see the sights. So far the 19270 Mfp Pbr Express is making steady progress, (just half an hour late so far), and in chai terms, so am I (three at the last count). The sweet combo of cardamom, tonnes of sugar, tea and what tastes like evaporated milk is a heady mix…especially when you are sleep deprived. They should flog it in nightclubs.

Despite Gopal’s pleading, I can’t face another game of “’owzat” cricket. He’s now bothering his very serious looking Dad for a game, but with little success. The old fella, complete with extravagant comb over, is reading a hindi paper and tutting, and won’t be disturbed.

I’m in 3 a/c class, which is pretty posh really: you get room to think, room to play “’owzat” with 10-year olds, and you get rich Indian families who want to show-off their English speaking abilities to you, and furnish you with snacks. In the face off such generosity, the least I could do was lose to their son at ‘Owzat.

The problem with 3 a/c is that it’s a bit removed from the the outside world: The windows are double-glazed; curtains are usually drawn; the frighteningly powerful a\c removes both the heat and the smells of this crazy country. But, you get a comfy bed and clean sheets, and after struggling for much shut-eye on last night’s flight, I’m pleased to be where I am.

I’m not going to go on too much about Indian trains. If you want to know more, switch on to BBC4 at any time and you’ve got a good chance of seeing a documentary about them. However, they are a fabulous way to see India and even though domestic flights here are affordable and can knock days off your travel time, this is the only way to travel.

I’ve never been to Jaipur before, and I’ve allowed myself just over 19 hours there for this visit. Of those, at least eight (I hope) will be spent sleeping, and another hour will spent fighting off rickshaw-wullahs and touts as I try to leave the station. This leaves me not a lot of time to look around one of India’s most beautiful cities before I hop back on the train to Delhi tomorrow afternoon. The more I think about it, this detour was insane.

I curious to see Delhi again. I’ve been a couple of times before, but never for long, but my first impressions from this morning were that it’s changed dramatically. Admittedly, going from the airport to Cantonment station is probably the equivalent of going from Gatwick to Croydon and saying you’ve seen London. But, it seemed - and I hesitate to say this - but more organized, finished…My cousin was here recently and said she couldn’t believe what had happened to the city.

I’ve booked a hotel right on the edge of Old Delhi. My previous visit to Old Delhi was one of the most eye-opening, jaw dropping but memorable experiences of my life…I cannot imagine that it’s changed too much. The streets were like I imagine London before the great fire would have been, so dark, so narrow, yet so alive and so friendly. But that’s for tomorrow.

Saying goodbye to the family last night was horrible. Luckily the kids were fairly oblivious to the emotional outpouring that was going on around them (one is too young to notice, the other was too engrossed in Batman to wonder why daddy had a rucksack on and was blubbing), so didn’t get involved.

I got a seat on the Piccadilly line and tucked into my book for the trip, Chinaman. A fictional story about a drunken journalist’s quest to trace a mystery Sri Lankan spinner. I loved it. I’d ploughed through 68 pages by the time the train rumbled into terminal four…I need to ration myself because it’s my only reading matter for the trip and I want it to last.

The other significant incident:  I managed to blag an upgrade on my flight for the first time in my life, after a good 15 years of trying. My wife cringes with embarrassment as I go though whichever elaborate routine I decide to try (injury, friend of the pilot, daddy owns the airline…), the one time she’s not with me, it works. I hope this stands me in good stead for the coming weeks, I’m starting to fear that if I’m going to get to see any world cup action, I’ll need to do some serious blagging first.

Enough blogging about blagging…I missing some beautiful countryside. Jaipur, here I come. 

____________________________________

Just arrived at the hotel, turned on the TV to see England chasing 294 to beat the Netherlands. 294? They must have been seeing it like an Edam.