Tour Diary

Curse this tournament for its format. It’s been loved by everyone for its brevity and sharpness, and professionally it makes sense. But it has been so hectic that only yesterday did I go to a place in South Africa that isn’t Sandton or Centurion.

The trip to the Apartheid Museum was completely unplanned, organised on the hoof early(ish) in the morning. Obviously it was worth it, because if the tale you’re documenting is itself so remarkable then it is difficult to not do a good job. Fortunately, it is much more than good. Anyway the material, the documents, artefacts, photograps and audio-visual footage is so compelling and painstakingly brought together that had you put it in a four-walled, bare, windowless cell, it still would’ve been worth visiting. But the conceptual beauty of the interior, the way the building is designed and winds round the history, is almost as breathtaking as the learning it holds inside.

The birth of the museum is interesting, because not many museums in the world, surely, can claim to be the collateral cost of a casino. The museum was built for approximately 80 million rand and opened in 2001, the costs paid for by a private consortium that had bid for a licence to build a casino. One of the stipulations laid down by the government in 1995, when granting licences, was for bidders to demonstrate how they would attract tourism to help the economy: the consortium committed to building a museum and once the bid was accepted, land adjacent to the casino was provided. Since then the museum has been run by a board of trustees, relying mostly on donations and sponsorships.

Music often tells us more about a country than we imagine. Since landing, I’ve been itching to listen to some local sounds. Shamefully, I have managed to do so only very occasionally, though at least it has been on the radio, which brings with it the joyous, unmatched prospect of happening upon something beautiful randomly.

But even these brief encounters have confirmed one thing I kind of knew as soon as I arrived: beneath everything here, there is something, an unheard beat or rhythm. It isn’t obviously detectable or even easy to describe, but as with all good music, you feel it. Some of it comes in the way people talk, the way they move their heads, the way they walk, but it comes through.

As a visitor you are blessed in foreign lands when exploring their music. There is not the trap of cross-genre snobbery that you might fall into in countries where you spend more time. In England, for example, a country with possibly the freshest, most innovative music culture, different genres become different cultures altogether, looking down at each other. Those polished glamsters of house music sneer at the skinny folks of the indie scene, who sneer righteously right back; those rougher-edged ones of jungle, or garage or hip-hop, look down on everyone else. Those into reggae, or dub, mind their own business, the herb traditionally making love not war. So it goes, and often people will not dip into other genres over an entire existence.

But when you’re a stranger somewhere, as I am here, things are different. You don’t choose the music, the music chooses you. So Selaelo Selota chose me a few days back, suddenly, in a taxi, and immediately made all the hairs on my arms stand up. I’m not going to insult locals by writing about him, knowing almost nothing about him as I do, save to say that when you apply jazz to local grooves, the results are lush. His music apparently is influenced by the singing and dancing of workers in gold mines. More will have to be learnt and heard, and long live the internet.

Of the many things I remember about the 1992 World Cup final, one is the flags that Pakistani fans waved in the MCG crowd. There was the green star and crescent obviously but almost as prominent were the big, broad red, green and white ones of the MQM, a leading, still-young political party in Pakistan, and Karachi in particular, a party supported mainly by Muhajirs: those who had moved to Pakistan on Partition.

Over the years the flag has been seen at various Pakistan games, home and abroad, and I don’t recall seeing anything like it anywhere else: nationalism in sporting contests I can understand but ethnicity? Perhaps in South America at football games, where fans are an equally interesting sociological study, but that’s only a guess.

I’ve always wanted to meet the men who waved those flags and in South Africa I may have my chance. The flags were out at yesterday’s India-Pakistan game in Centurion, though completely overshadowed by those of India and Pakistan. I went down to one of the grass banks just as Suresh Raina was pretending we were all at the IPL.

I have walked into a country-sized gym. I’ve always considered myself essentially a fit human being, even sporty. I jog, I go to the gym, I play cricket; even if the diet isn’t so well-controlled. But in Johannesburg I am a pygmy blimp of cholesterol and oil, fattened by a lifetime of sloth.

I noticed it first in the South African matches broadcast on TV, in shots of the crowd, a scarily large number of whom looked far too drunk to have ripped, lean biceps and such. Now I see it here, on streets, in stadiums, in malls. People look like they’ve walked fresh out of gyms, glowing, clean, healthy, athletic. Some days everyone looks like a professional sportsperson. It is intimidating, in the way that knowing someone will live longer and healthier than you can be. It is dispiriting also because you know it is a state achieved with great difficulty.

I ask locals about it and they laugh and assure me that there are South Africans unfit enough to think I am fit. I don’t doubt it, but maybe there aren’t as many as in other parts of the world. Some tell me I should go see other areas of Johannesburg. I presume that meant the press box at the Wanderers or Supersport Park, the only public space I have been to so far where I have seen locals without washboard stomachs.

I received at least 20 personal travel advisories before coming to Johannesburg. Don't get mugged (do I have a choice?), don't be shot (thanks for that one, I'll try my best), don't stick your hand out of a moving car (okay), don't walk around outside after sunset (vampires?), don't go to an ATM alone, don't wear a watch, leather, smart shoes, nice shirts and shoes (am I travelling to the 17th annual Hobo World Summit?).

It's quite a feat because, coming from Karachi, theoretically there aren't many places in the world where you can go to and not feel safe. It got to me initially and my first day here I spent eyeing everyone a little furtively before the guilt sank me: it's a terrible way to be in a new country, especially one where the sky can be as big and as beautiful and as pure as here.

This security thing is a strange business and I'm not sure it's something we'll ever come to terms with. I can live happily in Pakistan with the Taliban and suicide bombings and growing urban crime and yet be nervous coming into Johannesburg. It is not something that has to be understood anymore, it is something that just has to be lived with.

The Indians left in the wee hours of the morning, the New Zealanders departed this morning, and the Sri Lankans have all gone to their respective homes. The hotel lobbies are bereft of any waiting journalists and fans. Conspicuous by their absence is the Indian family of four, always dressed in Sahara India blues, and the fanboy band of five who freaked out at the sight of any big Indian cricketer.

With time on my hand, I decided to go back one final time to Maitland Place, the popular and stand-out road which hosts the three first-class clubs - the Nondescripts Cricket Club, the Colombo Cricket Club, and the Sinhalese Sports Club. Or, as they're commonly known, the triple Cs - NCC, CCC and SSC. The three are unique in that they are all in one line and can be accessed rather easily. There's CCC on the west side of the road, NCC just across it, and SSC a six-hit away.

The time has gone by fast. I had the pleasure of watching a Test at the SSC and a friendly game between Sri Lankan journalists and a television channel team. Today the ground is empty and a few groundstaff are working on the manual scoreboard. The silence is peaceful. They really should put up lights here and host one-dayers. This would be a fantastic ground to hold World Cup matches on.

I quicky dash into the NCC, where the security is far less than at the SSC. What you notice first, is the absence of advertisements. It's a throwback to what I would imagine old county grounds to be like in far corners of England. It reminds me - just a little - of Tunbridge Wells. The archaic old pavillion probably shapes a fair amount of my perception.

Rare is the occasion that an assistant coach accompanies a captain to a post-match press conference, but the occasion called for it. Paul Farbrace, who worked with Sri Lanka for two years, had just completed his last assignment.

At the presentation ceremony, Farbrace had been given a parting gift and a special mention. He received a loud cheer from spectators and players and got a firm handshake from Kumar Sangakkara and Percy Abeysekara, the die-hard Sri Lankan fan. Standing around as Sangakkara later thanked him for all his efforts, Farbrace was hugged by Tillakaratne Dilshan.

Farbrace, who assisted Trevor Bayliss, played an important role in making Sri Lanka a winning unit in world cricket, as Sangakkara reminded journalists later. “Paul has been very good with the little details, the tips he’s given the fast bowlers on improving their techniques has been important. He’s also helped batsmen score runs and there’s been a real sense of belonging with Paul. He’s been a good guy to have around and it’s sad that he’s leaving us at a critical time but we fully support him in whatever he does. We will really miss him.”

The sign, wearing the look of a hoarding that’s been through many monsoons and in need of a fresh coat of paint, still stood out: MAX Cricket Academy of Sri Lanka.

Having heard of Sri Lanka's premier grooming centre and seen it on a few between-innings television shows, I was pleased to find out it was in a corner of the R Premadasa Stadium’s compounds. The academy, which started in 2003, has been consistently producing players over the years. The idea, borrowed from the Australian model, was to have an institution which Sri Lanka Cricket (SLC) can use year round for development of talent.

Cricketers at the academy must be between 18-23 years. They are selected by the national selectors and sent here not only to hone and develop their talents, but also taught how to conduct themselves as cricketers. Aside from technical skills, the staff at the academy teaches aspiring cricketers about the benefits of nutrition, diet, etiquette and how to interact with the media. Certain batches have had the opportunity to learn computer studies. The academy also liaises with the national selectors about promising talent.

There wasn’t much of a change in mood as the Indian team went about their practice today, given the news that Gautam Gambhir was out of the series. If it had affected them in any way, they didn’t show it. MS Dhoni, at a press conference, said the team had dealt with such losses before and had always stepped up.

Gambhir’s departure has deprived India of a player able to score quickly and bat through the innings. Gambhir is also an excellent player of spin. After Sachin Tendulkar at the top, the man most capable of playing the anchor role is Rahul Dravid.

Dravid was a surprise inclusion in the one-day side, but his need was justified. India’s middle order had their share of problems against the short ball, highlighted by several teams during the ICC World Twenty20, and the selectors called on someone reliable.

A significant part of being a cricket journalist involves standing around. It can be a pleasure and a pain, depending on how you see it. Today a group of print and electronic media waited two hours for a five-minute spectacle. In the evening, 25 minutes of watching Rahul Dravid seemed too short.

Welcomed by a thunderous rainstorm, the Indian team arrived in Colombo for the Compaq Cup, which they will contest on September 11 and 12 with hopes of making the final. The players reached Sri Lanka in the afternoon and headed straight for the team hotel under strong security cover. Two hours before their arrival, the lobby at the Taj Samudra was abuzz in anticipation. It felt more like a G8 Summit. Rounds of coffee and tea were had. Jokes were cracked. Acquaintances were made and renewed.

The Indians arrived and out came the garlands. Shutters clicked. Cameras panned every inch of the players’ moves. The area between two elevators was chaotic. Hotel staff, guests and traveling fans clamoured to get a look. I was startled when a male fan came running toward his friends and actually jumped up and down showing off the pictures taken on his camera phone. The entire spectacle lasted but five minutes, and we’d been waiting for two hours; some from even before.