Brown Bowling Through India

1. Auflage 2009
ISBN: 978-0-473-30108-8
Verlag: Justin Brown Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 256 Seiten

Five New Zealanders take on India at their own game

Autoren/Hrsg.

Brown, Justin

Leseproben

FIVE IN A BILLION

Most men, when away from chores and loved ones, choose to fish or golf. A jaunt that typically culminates in late night drinking sessions and regret, the only proof they were away at all, a hangover the size of Texas and a similarly hefty credit card bill.

While these trips are a great way to clear the cobwebs, sometimes what a bloke really needs is a shock to the system. A comfort zone upheaval. A new battery instead of a recharge. A change instead of a holiday.

Such a plan was currently being discussed by the Black Craps, a team of backyard cricketers, as they munched on stale buns and told lies on a flight from Auckland to Singapore, and ultimately Kolkata. Actually, that’s not entirely true: three of the Black Craps - those who could only afford economy - were consuming the buns. The other two, already having created a rift in the team, opted for Business Class, quaffing champagne and perving at air hosties. Even so, you’d think the trio in Economy would be quietly respectful of their wealthier, better dressed, ‘served before cattle-class’ counterparts. That would have been the right thing to do. That would have been dignified, regal, and admirable. Sadly, however, that wasn’t the case at all.

We were blokes. And we were jealous.

We took the piss out of them for the whole trip.

Speaking of the trip, this was the goal: to play backyard cricket with Indians in their own backyard. Every effort would be made to play by their rules, unless we happened to be losing. In our gear bag were five white knitted vests, twenty Auckland Aces cricket caps (for gifts) and an official score book. We carried no bats or balls, trusting a cricket crazy nation like India to supply us with the most rudimentary equipment (mostly to accommodate our skill level.) And this was the team:

JUSTIN BROWN - ECONOMY

The other Black Craps will be upset I’m first on the list, but I’m the writer and there’s little they can do about it. Much to my team’s disgust, I was carrying an injury into the series. Three weeks before departure, I dropped a laptop on my bare left foot at 4.45am. It fell from waist height directly onto my big toe nail, acting a little like a blunt guillotine. Choice words were chosen.

I’m also a breakfast radio host, but don’t hold that against me. And I’ve written a few books. More interestingly, for this trip in any case, I’m a retired opening batsman for the Horowhenua 3rd XI and an intercontinental sleepwalker.

JOHN BOUGEN – BUSINESS CLASS

Businessman, farmer, photographer and author of, among other books, Absolutely Outrageous Adventure, Made in Morocco, Tea in the Medina, and My Dream. He’s also a world-record holder, having travelled to the most countries in the least amount of time – 191 nations in 167 days.

John sat in Business Class, but in all fairness, he deserved to: he’s made his money and enjoys the finer things in life. He once said, ‘When you get on a plane, never turn right.’ It was John who I stupidly mentioned this idea over drinks one winter’s evening. One thing about John: he never turns down a challenge – or a good time, which is probably why he’s spent the past few years working on a farm in the South Island’s high country.

BRENDON O'HAGAN - ECONOMY

Brendon is the poor bugger who took 14,000 photos while the rest of us smacked sixes over cow pats and almost got arrested in Mumbai. He has been a professional photographer (not bail bondsman) for fifteen years, although this was to be the first time away from his young family. This became quite obvious as he crammed in as many movies as possible on the first leg of the flight.

Brendon has taken photos of some of the world’s leading sportsmen, although this didn’t impress the Black Craps one iota. As long as we could scrounge a free photo album off him at the conclusion of the trip, he could stay.

Note: Brendon may have a good eye, but he doesn’t exactly have a cast iron stomach: he had the shits before reaching Singapore.

REECE IRVING - ECONOMY

The saying ‘Take half the clothes and twice the money’ was written for Reece (except for the money part; he took none.) I have never known anyone to pack so little, yet change three times daily (in clothes we had never seen!).

The first time Brendon and I met Reece was at passport control in Auckland. We sniggered at his hobo-looking blanket, firmly strapped to his one and only (carry on, at that) bag. But he was more experienced than us; later, we would be the ones freezing our nads off in Tenzing Norgay’s home town.

Reece is an ex-tour guide for the Trans-Siberian Railway, having completed it a mere 26 times. (‘I get bored easily, that’s why I stopped.’) He also speaks perfect Hindi, as a result of living in Varanasi when he was twenty. (He once drank his own urine for six months as part of a yoga course, too, but more on that later.)

Early resentment was also directed at Reece (especially from Brendon and me), for, although he was sitting in Economy - like us - his whole trip was being paid for by John because, said John, ‘He’s my cousin’s cousin and he speaks Hindi.’

Likely story.

STEW GUNN – BUSINESS CLASS

The other bludger. A farmer from New Zealand’s South Island, Stew was a last minute ‘ring-in’ for author/philanthropist/farmer Chrissie Fernyhough, who was trampled by a heifer six weeks before departure. Chrissie ended up with a badly broken leg, and Stew ended up with a trip to India.

Alas, this wasn’t to be the only free lunch Stew would score, as we were soon to discover. Here was a man who had no problem not paying. In fact, he had it down to a fine art.

‘When I asked John whether he wanted a contribution towards the trip,’ he beamed, sinking another double G and T, ‘he said, “No, but if I ever see you not fucking smiling, you’re going home!’'

Stew is also John Wright’s cousin, which would ultimately come in very handy, given the ex-Indian coach is treated like the proverbial holy cow all over India.

So, John and Stew sat up the front while Reece, Brendon and I got to know each other down the back of the bus. I was glad Brendon was sitting next to Reece, as he was fresh from pulling an all-nighter, having just finished his last exam of the year.

‘I barely had time for bacon and eggs and a shower before the taxi arrived at 6am,’ Reece said, knocking back a pint of water.

‘So you won’t join me for a Bloody Mary then?’ I asked.

Reece shook his head. Brendon didn’t stir. He wasn’t listening. He had already watched Transformers and was onto The Bourne Identity.

‘Since you spent so much time in India, could you enlighten me about about Bollywood movies,’ I said, flicking through the in-flight TV guide. With only eighty one movies to choose from, I was desperate to make the right decision, my only other option being to start Shantaram, a 900-page epic about an escaped-convict-turned-Mumbai-slum-doctor.

‘Here’s how your typical Bollywood movie goes,’ Reece said. ‘Good guy/bad guy, both after the same woman. Bad guy gets the girl first. Good guy rescues woman. Seven songs, there’s always seven songs. Then there’s the wet sari scene, then the ‘dancing around the tree’ scene. No kissing, there’s never any kissing, and it always ends with a wedding.’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘Think I’ll read my book.’

SINGAPORE

Boring. Clean. No cricket. Reece snored.

KOLKATA

When we arrived, fresh from the pristine streets of Singapore, there was a distinct chill in the night air. Nobody told us India would be cold. Reece, whom we had ridiculed in the Auckland summer, smugly wrapped his Northern Himalayan blanket around his shoulders and smiled.

‘Blanket Boy,’ we all muttered.

‘Warm Blanket Boy,’ he replied.

On the ride from the airport to the hotel we were wide-eyed and weary. We stared, we shook our heads, we jabbered away like toddlers the night before Christmas. Locals honked and honked as if repetition earned rupees. Indeed, just as using a horn at home signified something drastically wrong, using no horn at all in Kolkata appeared to have the same effect.

At the first set of traffic lights we had our first beggar, a teary eyed woman putting her hand to her mouth. A baby, not looking entirely unhappy, glared at the strange vehicle with its equally strange white folk.

‘Last time I was here,’ said Reece, looking longingly at the cluttered, chaos-filled streets. ‘the beggars were on strike.’

‘What?’ we all asked, trying our best not to reach for our pockets, knowing that giving money only lines the pockets of pimps.

‘True,’ he laughed. ‘The beggars said they wouldn’t beg unless they got one rupee per beg. Obviously nobody told them if you’re a beggar and you go on strike, you’re not going to make a lot of...