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.