Candid Caribbean

You here for the cricket? The question never varies, and it is put to me with clockwork regularity. In airports, hotel elevators, cabs, souv...

You here for the cricket? The question never varies, and it is put to me with clockwork regularity. In airports, hotel elevators, cabs, souvenir shacks, everywhere. In Barbados, Antigua, Jamaica. Cricket it is, and in a curious way talk of the game 8212; the game itself 8212; keeps me tethered to Caribbean diversity. Cricket it is that binds these emerald isles 8212; this unique entity still called the British West Indies 8212; but cricket it is too that separates them.

In Barbados 8212; its moniker 8216;Bimshire8217; emphasising its enduring Englishness, its reputation for producing more worldclass cricketers per capita intact 8212; they are keen competitors, but so achingly polite about it. It helps that they are already celebrating victory in Bridgetown when I arrive. But they are itching for more, they will settle for nothing less than a series win.

I recognise the drill right away. Don8217;t mind, miss, we don8217;t mean this personally. But a victory is very important for West Indies cricket. Our children are getting lazy, they cannot stand in the sun for hours on end, a string of defeats is pushing them to contact sports like football and basketball.

Never ever get fooled by that Bajan politeness. Engage Barbadians a little more, spell out the need for an Indian victory, and you8217;ll have them guffawing. They will have you cringing in seconds, they will go breathless as they laugh over the dismissals at Kensington Oval. Party with them in this most beguiling, most friendly of cities, spend countless hours watching the waves roll in and rush back on its white beaches, discuss Caribbean literature in its well-stocked bookshops, but maintain contrite silence when dwell upon the funny old game.

Alain de Botton, on a self-appointed mission to improve our lives by sifting through the writings of Proust, the experiences of Socrates, has now decided to teach us how to travel. In his book, The Art of Travel, he rues a wasted vacation in Barbados. Recalling a familiar rant against globalisation, a common lament that everywhere looks so much like everywhere else these days, he claims we have forgotten how to journey, how to really connect with the places we visit. Oh dear, he could have just asked, he could have been guided to cricket.

In Antigua and Barbuda, clement islands still recovering from the devastation of Hurricane Luis that destroyed three-quarters of all homes in 1995, they bear a grudge. And a member of the Indian cricket bandwagon is instantly adopted as accomplice.

I hope, I pray India win, avers the cab driver as we negotiate the long, undulating drive from St John8217;s airport to Jolly Beach and its still, jade blue beachfront. I take it as a considerate welcome, a balm for injured pride after the Barbados drubbing. But no, in this city where local hero Viv Richards makes it a point to make visitors feel comfortable, where Curtly Ambrose, the gentlest of giants, puts his arms around a homesick Indian lensman wandering around a city square and keeps company for the next three hours, they are united in prayers for a West Indian defeat.

West Indies cricket has not been good to the small islands, says another St John8217;s resident. It is a sentiment echoed again and again over the next nine days. It is a complaint that slips down the pecking order. Antiguans cry that their potential stars have had to settle in distant lands to be able to continue their cricket, but others agonise that Adam Sanford could only get into the national side by moving from Dominica to Antigua.

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No matter. It8217;s an Indian victory they crave, it8217;s only news that Sachin Tendulkar has announced temporary residency at the crease that will get them into the Antigua Recreation Ground. As it happens, the Little Master ducks once again, but they still dance the aisles, these carefree men and women. On to Kingston, then, and a culture shock. No, not culture shock, but preconceived notions.

There are no facts about Jamaica, it is said, but stats are reeled off with hair-raising accuracy. The brawls in western Kingston in 2001, the country8217;s supposed claim to the second highest murder rate in the world. Cricket nostalgia columns, one supposes, cannot help but carry on in the same vein. A member of that brutalised Indian squad of 1976 is credited with labelling the Jamaican spectators in Sabina Park as a mob of blood-thirsty barbarians.

I don8217;t quite know much about the art of travel, but this is certainly one of the joys of travel. Kingston turns out to be a treasure trove. This is a rich and rebellious city that gave the world Bob Marley 8212; that to date proclaims its inscrutable mix of entertainment and revolution through toasting a local tradition, still enjoyable at the cricket ground and at the most rocking nightclub, Asylum, where the DJ sings off-the-cuff lyrics over popular songs in Jamaican patois, difficult to decipher for the newcomer but bewitching in its cadence.

To cricket they bring the same passion, the same aggression. You have to take first strike to stay in the game here. We8217;re gonna hammer you, you tell them. Same to you, they grin. What happened to that Bedi, by the way, they8217;ll inevitably carry on. Before jumping out of their seats to hurl a few thoughts 8212; at Carl Hooper for not enforcing a follow-on at Sabina Park, at Harbhajan Singh for appealing endlessly to the DJ8217;s quip, stop crying!, and if there8217;s nothing else immediately worrying, at Saurav Ganguly for, well, anything.

Yup, I8217;m here for the cricket.