Smirks the airport officer: Next time, come here for a holiday

And sides are important, because cricket in Barbados, or Little England as it’s still referred to, is a serious pursuit. The immigration official, trying to make sense of a visa that makes breaking the Enigma code effortless, clucks sympathetically when I say it is cricket that brings me to these idyllic parts. ‘‘In future go about your visa this way, it’ll be easier,’’ he advises. You mean on May 27 when I return for the ODI, I ask. ‘‘No, madam, when you come back after that for a happier holiday!’’

‘‘Ho, ho, ho!’’ roars the porter in a most menacing rendition of Santa’s favourite greeting, grabbing the Bajan baton, as I respond to his query about the purpose of my visit. ‘‘Oh, you checking up on the boys? You lose so badly, girl!’’ Yes, but there are two more Tests, and they are bound to be settled decisively by Gangs and co. He launches into his Santa act, only to remember his good manners — and cheer. ‘‘Maybe we split.’’ Maybe.

The lines are drawn once again at the Accra Beach Hotel, as younger members of the Indian contingent banish fatigue and rev up for another day. They spell out for me the basics: learn from defeat, but don’t let it cloud the present and darken the future. Antigua will be a spanking new story.

Till then, it’s white sand, the ocean blue, frothy waves whose hypnotic hold only Monet could have captured, and a clear spotless sky. S.S. Das rushes into the water, surfboard in hand, only to bob gently instead of mastering the waves.

It is easy to applaud George Washington’s good sense that the only visit he ever undertook outside the United States was to Barbados, when at the tender age of 19 he tagged along with his sick brother.

Local guides will inevitably emphasise that young George must have been suitably impressed by what he saw because the Barbados of those days ‘‘was more advanced than America’’. And look at the reward he got for his excursion. He contracted small pox here, giving him lifetime immunity so he could soldier on during the American war of independence while his footsoldiers succumbed during a severe outbreak.

But it’s time to discuss the tour. A young man saunters past, packed meal in hand, and greets an even younger turbaned man OUR side of the boundary wall. ‘‘Hey man, you never thought you’d lose in 3.1 days, huh?’’ A friendly shrug from the India spinner.

Enough invitation for this knowledgeable cricket fan to begin a critical comparison of Lara and Tendulkar, to share what ‘‘everybody saying’’ about some boys not applying themselves enough (‘‘but don’t quote me,’’ he immediately clarifies), to impress upon us the importance of batting first at Antigua, for the wicket will turn by day three.

And to throw in a couple of questions. ‘‘You took two wickets in this Test, didn’t you?’’ he asks the Indian. Uh-huh. ‘‘And who was that guy who made 40 something in Guyana? He was good.’’ Sarandeep, supplies the Indian. ‘Oh, bye then. I come and watch the matches in Trinidad. Bye, Harbhajan.’’ We wave, and I look once again at my neighbour. The Turbanator decided to swap faces with his colleague from Amritsar? Sarandeep laughs: ‘‘He always does that. He calls me Harbhajan, and I call him Sarandeep.’’ Mistaken identity? No, just some local humour.

It’s way past dinner time, and Bridgetown is just coming to life. Tracking the party spot for the night, it seems, is a favourite pastime for locals and tourists alike.

Cabbies are best informed, and they say the action’s at the Boatyard, where a Bob Marley lookalike hops around on stage, and members of the Indian and Windies teams materialise. The day’s rivalry is over, and a new camaraderie unfolds on this gentle, balmy night. Till St John’s.