Oye Jukka,Don’t Be a Plankton

I love my football,don’t get me wrong. But the World Cup babalas — the term for a terrible hangover in Afrikaans — is everywhere. The fact that cricket doesn’t matter to these Orlando Pirates or Kaiser Chiefs fans accentuates my anger,but I had to admit,few in Jo’burg cared about the highly anticipated series.

After all this football overdose,running into S Sreesanth at the state-of-the-art Sandton mall feels especially good. As a 40-foot bronze Nelson Mandela stares down at us,Sreesanth flares his nostrils at my colleague’s New Zealand cricket jersey. “I will give you a Sreesanth one. Wear that when we win,” he tells my hardcore NZ fan of a friend. But that will have to wait. The action begins,Tendulkar gets a standing ovation for his 50th ton,and India implode.

While all roads lead to the swanky Sandton in Jo’burg,the lonely Route N1 leads to Centurion,the venue for the first Test. Despite the thunderstorms and India suffering a heavy defeat,Centurion feels like heaven,as it is the closest to the elusive small-town-in-South Africa experience. There are no lions or Table Mountains,nor is it the rural South Africa of the movies,but at least we aren’t in Johannesburg — a glorified

version of Gurgaon.

In Centurion we can walk on the streets,a far cry from the caged life of Jo’burg. “After mugging you,they will slit your throat,” you are told about Jo-burg. Jo’burg has the personality of a shopping mall; Centurion,that of Fanie de Villiers living in a castle.

Having grown up watching De Villiers’s legendary armpit-rub method to shine a cricket ball,we watch in awe as the former SA quick turns back the clock with a demonstration at Tour de Fanie — his private nets. Later,in between mouthfuls of dry rice and drier chunks of chicken,De Villiers simultaneously rattles out 25 reasons why India will not recover from the harrowing loss in Centurion,and why “Paapi” is the best street-food for the Afrikaaners.

“Paapi” is exactly the kind of food that makes Indian journalists run to the closest Indian restaurant to gratify their taste buds with spices. I’m not one of them. It’s sinful to love “Paapi” (couldn’t help the pun) as much as I do,and I gobble it with a vengeance in Centurion,for next up on the schedule is an early return to India — sorry,Durban.

If you’ve strolled on Marine Drive in Mumbai,then you’ve experienced the fabled North Beach. If you’ve celebrated Eid or Diwali,then you’ve experienced Christmas in Durban. If you enjoy Amitabh Bachchan and Shah Rukh Khan films,then you will get along gloriously with Durbanites. And if you’ve visited a cricket stadium in India,then it’s as good as watching a match at Kingsmead.

As the Indian Ocean splashes against its shores and ports,Durban mixes its Indian connection with a local one. All traffic signals are called “robots” because they have replaced the hand movements of a traffic cop. It takes about 10 days for a group of Indian journalists to get their heads around that. This is an exact reproduction of what one Indian-origin South African in Durban was telling another: “Oye jukka,there’s a place to graze behind the first robot. Let’s not be planktons and tune siff tickeys with these cozies,” they say in an accent like Apu’s,the Indian in The Simpsons. Here is what the extract means in English: “Listen lazy guy,there’s a good food joint near the traffic signal outside. Let’s not be idiots and spend outrageous money with these bikini-clad women for lunch.”

Durban celebrates the 150th anniversary of Indian arrival – the largest outside the subcontinent – and VVS Laxman amplifies the magic with a win on “home soil”. I eat “Bunny Chow” (bread and curry) with Ahmed Amla — brother of Durban’s most famous son Hashim — and ask him the dreaded question. “When will I see the real South Africa?” “There are too many Indians here for you to feel the African vibe. Wait till you go to the Western Cape,the South Africa you expect will unleash itself,” Amla promises with a smile. And it does.

After languishing in Jo’burg and swimming in Durban’s Indian Ocean for the first 19 days,I finally step foot in the South Africa that I’ve heard,watched and read about. It’s called Cape Town. At the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront,Houts Bay and Camps Bay,I take in the greenness of the Atlantic Ocean,bringing in the New Year. The lion parks are a drive away,Robben Island stares at you from a distance,while the Table Mountain is the mighty backdrop of the venue for the third Test.

And suddenly,it all falls into place. On the day of the match,the gatekeeper of the breathtaking Newlands stadium tells me exactly what my ears have been craving. “We’re waiting for you maan. We’re gonna crush you and you’re gonna cry. Too bad that Lax-Man gave you hope. In Cape Town,you’re gonna be dead.” The words sing to my soul,as I breathe the delicious mix of mountain and sea air. The match is delicately poised and my colleague prepares to swap his Kiwi jersey for a Sreesanth one. As for me,I’m finally in the real South Africa — the wait is over.
The magazine went to print before the end of the Cape Town Test. The diarists cover the first two Tests and the first three days of the last Test.