SEE RED IN THE RED SEA

Egypt is more known for the Nile and its pyramids than it is for its diving and recreational sports. But such thoughts would lead you to overlook the potential of the Red Sea, which offers diving sites that can compete with the best diving sites in the world and are better than most. It was wintertime when we visited Dahab, one of the Red Sea's leading tourist towns, so it wasn't not really perfect beach weather. It’s lucky that still plenty to do in Dahab when you’re not on the beach. 

Leave your camel at home, son.

The quiet streets make for pleasant strolling and there’s plenty of shopping at the market and shops. There’s a pleasant walk around the promenade, dotted with beach umbrellas and signs limiting the riding of camels and horses in the town (although goats are not an uncommon sight). You can enjoy drinks at one of the myriad of restaurants, most of which come with a view of the Red Sea, a view that stretched all the way to Saudi Arabia, that formed a mountainous silhouette on the horizon. At night, there's beers to enjoy (not always an easy thing to find in other parts of Egypt) as well as conversations around a sheesha pipe until the early morning.

The beach promenade at Dahab.

Despite being a place of beauty, Dahab has been scarred by recent events. The whole Sinai peninsula was occupied by Israel from 1967 until 1982. After its return to Egypt, large-scale development has taken place, often at the expense of the local Bedouin people, who have been marginalized by people arriving from other parts of the country. In 2006, a series of bombs exploded around Dahab, that killed at least 23 people, mainly foreigners, who clustered around the picturesque centre of town, enjoying the pubs and restaurants. These bombings followed on from others in the Sinai peninsula in 2004 and 2005 and have been attributed to either a group dedicated to improving the lot of the local Bedouin people or to an Islamic terrorist group known as Jama'at al-Tawhīd wal-Jihad. The series of bombings placed stress on the tourist industry in the peninsula, something that it is still recovering from. Slowly but surely though, Dahab is a place that more and more tourists are returning to.

Our hotel-Saudi Arabia in the background.

The biggest drawcard to Dahab (apart from the atmosphere) is the diving and snorkeling on offer. We kept ourselves busy in Dahab with an overnight trip to climb Mount Sinai so we only managed to go snorkeling once. It was, however without doubt, the best snorkeling experience of my life and easily the most accessible. We hired gear from our hotel, walked about 15 minutes down the beach, which is a nice sandy beach as opposed to the more gravelly beach that you find in the centre of the town, to the dive spot (a place called the Islands, named after the two large coral islands that are dominant features here) that our hotel had recommended. 

View of the islands diving site.

We put on our flippers, waded awkwardly out about 50 metres in knee-high water until we hit the edge of a sudden drop-off that signals the start of the reef. Once you drop down into the abyss, you are instantly taken by the clarity of the water (there is great visibility here) and by the abundance of fish you can see. The dense reef  has canyons and hills, valleys and peaks that carry a wide and diverse array of species that can be enjoyed even by snorkelers; venomous lionfish, colourful parrotfish, pufferfish, wrasse, trevally, odd looking butterfly fish, all living among the dense coral (over 130 different types) that sustains life here.

Chill under an umbrella

For divers, there is the Blue Hole, known as the world’s most dangerous diving spot, infamous for the number of divers who die here each year, leading to its nickname of “Divers cemetery”. Most incidents are associated with divers who attempt to find their way through the reef via a tunnel. The entrance to the tunnel is 52 metres down, below the distance of what even advanced recreational divers dive to. Divers often suffer the effect of the bends, exacerbated by divers who miss the tunnel and continue to descend, hoping to find the entrance of the tunnel. Other divers get disorientated in the tunnel itself. For the less ambitious diver or snorkeler though, Dahab offers a range of safe diving and snorkeling opportunities that are rewarding in the diversity of fish you can see and plenty of places to recount your day's adventure with friends.

New Zealand's rose tinted glasses

Richard Boock, a columnist in the New Zealand Herald, commented on how Saudi Arabia should be banned from the Olympics as it is the leader in gender apartheid (no Saudi women will be at the London games or have attended any previous games). In the article, Boock argued that New Zealand should be a major player in the push for Saudi Arabia to be banned, in part because of our history of severing sporting ties, in particular rugby ties, with the apartheid regime in South Africa. While I fully agree with his hope that Saudi Arabia should be held accountable for its treatment of women (and not just in sports), his article did highlight that New Zealanders tend to think that they played a crucial part in ending the apartheid regime. After all, in 1981, New Zealand found itself effectively split in two during the tour of the South African rugby side between those who backed the tour and those who wanted the tour to be cancelled, many of whom took to the streets in protest, leading to violent clashes with police. I would argue that the assumption of the significance of New Zealand’s role in ending apartheid has been overplayed and over-represented. In fact, the opposite could be argued that New Zealand supported the apartheid regime by continuing rugby ties with South Africa well after other countries and codes had stopped all contact.

Protestors and police clash during the 1981 Springbok tour to New Zealand.

1963 saw the start of the sports boycott on South Africa when they were suspended by FIFA and then subsequently banned by the I.O.C from competing at the 1964 Olympics. The IAAF (in charge of track and field) followed suit and suspended South Africa in 1970, the same year cricket also cut official ties with South Africa. Rugby though, and not just in New Zealand, was much slower in enforcing a total boycott on South Africa (although Australia’s last rugby test against the Australians was in 1971). This is particularly surprisingly in that rugby was the most popular sport among the white community in South Africa and the loss of international rugby, of all sports, would have had the greatest impact on the regime. The Springboks were traditionally one of the top two teams in the world (beside New Zealand's All Blacks) and were the only team to hold an edge in face to face encounters with New Zealand. The Boks were the pride of white South Africa, a potent symbol of the apartheid regime. Due to this, coloured and black communities would support the All Blacks when they were playing South Africa, including Nelson Mandela, who cheered on the All Blacks when he was serving his jail time imposed by the South African government.

Nelson Mandela supported rivals of the Springboks while in prison, before embracing the team when he saw the power that the team had to help reunify the country.

This is a tradition that continues even to this day with many non-white South Africans supporting the All Blacks over the Springboks, much to the chagrin of other South African supporters. Throughout the apartheid regime, South Africa remained as a member of the IRB (International Rugby Board) but was banned from competing in the 1987 and 1991 World Cups. However, as well as the Springboks touring New Zealand in that divisive 1981 tour, there were tours of South Africa by the British Lions and France in 1980, by Ireland in 1981 and by England in 1984. New Zealand was even going to tour South Africa in 1985 until the New Zealand High Court stopped the tour (however, in 1986, the New Zealand Cavaliers, which included 28 out of the 30 originally selected All Blacks, toured South Africa).

The NZ Cavaliers toured South Africa in 1986 as a rebel team after the New Zealand High Court stopped the All Blacks from touring the Republic in 1985.

These tours in the 1980s came after the Gleneagles agreement in 1977 where the countries of the Commonwealth had agreed that “the urgent duty of each of their Governments vigorously to combat the evil of apartheid by withholding any form of support for, and by taking every practical step to discourage contact or competition by their nationals with sporting organisations, teams or sportsmen from South Africa or from any other country where sports are organised on the basis of race, colour or ethnic origin.” The Gleneagles agreement came from the actions of the All Blacks who toured South Africa in 1976, an action that led directly to 25 African countries boycotting the 1976 Montreal Olympics.

New Zealand Prime Minister Robert Muldoon (centre) attended the Gleneagles conference but then disregarded the agreement in 1981.

Clearly, New Zealand valued its rugby relationship with apartheid South Africa so much that it would allow this slur on New Zealand’s name, enough that for several tours of South Africa (in 1928, 1949 and 1960), the New Zealand Rugby Union (NZRU) followed their South African counterparts lead and refused to allow Maori or other non-white players tour South Africa, enough to endanger the health of members of police, security, tour supporters and protestors alike during the 1981 tour. Given New Zealand's rugby history of not wanting to cut contact with South Africa, either by touring that country or by allowing the Springboks to tour here, it would be hard to argue that the NZRU actively sought an end of the apartheid regime  (a Springbok tour was stopped by the New Zealand government in 1973). At best, they can be portrayed as neutral political observers, at worst uncaring of people oppressed by apartheid. The New Zealand players who toured with the Cavaliers tried to justify it by either saying that sport and politics don’t mix, that they were doing good by touring a white-dominant country with a multi-racial team ignoring the fact that most of them had gone to claim the large player payments on offer (rugby at this time was officially an amateur sport). So I’m not sure if New Zealand has a positive legacy on opposing sporting contacts with oppressive regimes. This isn’t to say that New Zealand can’t be a world leader, just like in their no-nuclear stance. It’s just pointing out that New Zealand didn’t do as much as it could to bring apartheid to an end.

FISHING IN AN ICE-BOX

The bus on the way to the festival betrayed the usual mix of foreigners: most of us were English teachers with a splattering of US military personal, some international students and two Korean couples who decided to mix it up with us weiguks (weiguk means foreigner in Korean). This was one of the type of tours where you have to introduce yourself and where you are from to the rest of the bus and we were a surprisingly diverse bunch-a few, like myself from New Zealand, others from Kazakhstan, Germany, England, Canada, America, Korea, South Africa and one token Australian. Most of the Americans introduced themselves as being from a city rather than a country, as in "Hi, I'm Chad and I'm from Boulder", a common cause of discontent with my co-workers and a future source of agitation (that night we had a heated discussion about whether Americans should introduce themselves by city, state or country).

Ice fishing for dummies

We were going to the Hwacheon Mountain Trout festival held in the province of Gangwon-do, about two hours east from Seoul. The highlight of the festival was the chance to go ice-fishing. This was ice fishing for dummies, made so easy that anybody stood a fair chance of dragging up a trout. Every day of the festival, 32 tons of trout are released into the river. Hopeful anglers can stand safely on 16 inches of ice gathered around one of the nine thousand holes had been drilled into the ice, waiting for a bite from one of these unlucky fish.

Lure and fish: looking down the fishing hole.

The ice may be 16 inches thick but that didn't stop it from groaning as our group stood posing for the first of many obligatory photos (tours in Korea always seem to have a high proportion of group photos). A fair few members of our group felt for their safety but after some re-assuring words and after the photo opportunity had finished, we got down to business. Our fishing equipment consisted of a simple line with a colourful lure that we would dangle down the hole, hoping that a trout would be foolish enough to attach itself to it. As foreigners, we were afforded semi-VIP status and as such, we had a hole each that we could use to fish in in our section (our Korean neighbours in the next section weren't afforded such status and four or more people might be clustered around a hole).Some people in our group struck on their first cast, others like myself, preserved for three hours without luck. I would like to think of myself as a fair angler but maybe my dangling of the lure was faulty in some obscure way. The process was hypnotic, the only technique needed a systematic jerk of the line every five seconds or so. If you positioned yourself right, you could see your lure and also the trout that were circling (but in my case, not biting) below. We ended up with an oversupply of fish though. Befitting our semi-VIP status, festival organisers actually gave us trout that we could put on the end of our lines to pose with so that photojournalists could take our pictures.

Posers

After we bored of ice-fishing, the next activity was hand fishing.This took place in a small pond, filled with numbingly cold water fringed by ice and sand-bags. To enter the pool, you had to wear shorts and a festival t-shirt, which was a garish, festive orange. As the MC got the crowd whipped up with cries of "weiguk", we proceeded to walk quickly to the pool, cheered on by the large crowd that had gathered to watch us. The MC gave us generic English names as we walked by as way of introduction and then we stood, freezing on the side of the pool waiting for our invitation to enter it. 

Gathered around the ice-pool

After what seemed an eternity, the MC gave us the green light and we all jumped in. We had observed the technique and methods that the group before us had employed but catching fish with hands that felt and acted like concrete blocks was easier said than done. Thankfully, the fish also seemed numbed by the coldness and were lethargic, at least lethargic enough to give us a chance at catching one. Given my lack of success at ice-fishing earlier in the day, I was one of the last out of the pool determined that I would catch at least one fish that day, determined to not let my manhood take a non-fatal but debilitating blow .  My perseverance paid off and I had caught a trout that I managed to corner by the stairs that led down into the pool. My sense of accomplishment soon faded in the freezing conditions. I staggered unceremoniously to the sauna that had been thoughtfully provided close to the pool. After 10 minutes of shaking uncontrollably, I managed to get the feelings back into my extremities, but not after experiencing that excruciating pain that I had last experienced as a child, frozen hands forced back to a normal temperature under hot water.

Cool celebration

The catching of fish is obviously only a precursor to the eating of fish. Stalls and small cooking centres around the festival prepared your spoils for you, either by slicing it up for sushi or by grilling it over charcoal barbeques, with a little chili sauce if you wanted it. The flesh was delicious and tender, even for a piscinephobe such as myself. 

Trouty delights

It tasted even better with a cold beer and a swirl of mogkali, an unfiltered rice wine popular in Korea. That night, we feasted at our motel on samgyapsal (basically barbecued bacon), beer and fish. We reminisced after dinner about our day ice-fishing, huddled around a bonfire (this really was a day for extreme changes in body temperature). We slept Korean-style on the floor of our motel room, happy in the knowledge that we had done something that none of us had done before. But with a million plus visitors to the festival a year, we wouldn’t have been the only ones to cross a few items off of a bucket list that day.

GOING, GOING, GOA

Old colonial houses and churches liberally dot the country-side and towns of Goa, remnants and reminders of the 450 odd years that Portugal ruled over this piece of prime Indian real estate. In contrast to the huge empires carved out in Asia by the French and the British, Portugal established small areas of rules, creating cities or small states that served to facilitate trade with one another and of course, with the motherland. The Portuguese established colonies in China (Macau), Malaysia (Malacca), Sri Lanka and what is now Indonesia (Flores and the Moluccas) as well in the present day state of East Timor, focussing on the successful and lucrative trade of spices and other raw consumables. For many of the major (and minor) European colonial powers, India was a place of interest and Portugal was no different, establishing various colonies over the sub-continent. Many of these colonies were short-lived and soon fell back into Indian or into British hands. Some, like Mumbai, were gifted to Britain as part of a royal dowry. Goa, though, remained in Portuguese hands and was the last of Portugal’s Indian colonies to be relinquished, when it was finally “recovered” by India in a largely bloodless invasion in 1961, 14 years after the rest of British India had achieved independence.  Maybe this accounts for the different vibe that Goa has in comparison to other parts of India that we have visited and it wasn’t just the beach resort vibe that was different. Here, a thriving Christian population co-exists with the Hindi community, long-term foreign residents party with travellers who might be there for only a few nights. Partying co-exists with sightseeing, with Goa’s long colonial history leaving plenty of sights of interest to visit and explore.

The Basilica of Bom Jesus in Old Goa, where the relics of St Francis lie.

The first capital of Portuguese Goa (and of all of Portugal’s eastern colonies) is now a small town called Old Goa but at its peak, old Goa was known as the Rome of the East, a city said to rival Lisbon in its magnificence. After its founding in 1470 until the late 16^th Century, old Goa was a city of over 250,000 people. In the late 17^th Century, a succession of cholera epidemics led to plans to abandon the city that eventually brought about the end to Old Goa, which lay abandoned bar a few buildings that were rebranded and used as military barracks. Interest in its history led to the revival of Old Goa in the 20^th Century but the scars of neglect can be seen still, with some spectacular churches now lying in ruins while others bear marks of plunder caused by material being looted for other building projects.  However, enough of the splendid religious buildings remain to showcase how magnificent the city would have been in its prime. In one of the mega churches lies the body of St Francis, of Jesuit fame, making it perhaps the most revered church in East Asia. Another ranked as the largest church in Asia when it was built (it may still be the largest church in Asia, although some contemporary churches I have visited in Korea have been of a massive size and are probably bigger). Photo-shy nuns dressed in grey bustle around the streets, hustling between the convents and churches, while groups of Indians posed for photos, often wishing to involve us in their photographic escapades (one of the things that takes some time to appreciate when you are in India is that Indians really like to take their photo with random foreigners). People here seemed used to seeing curious foreigners on the prowl; we received few of the trademark stares from Indian men like those that we had experienced in Mumbai.

The Church of our Lady of Immaculate Conception, Panaji.

After the fall of Old Goa, the capital of the colony became Panaji and just as with Old Goa, the legacy of the Portuguese is apparent. The churches are still apparent, like the whitewashed Church of our Lady of the Immaculate Conception that stands on a hill, overlooking the city centre. But here, it’s not so much the churches but the old colonial houses that line the winding small roads and alleyways of the city that are the true guardians of the Portuguese tradition. 

Old colonial streets

The colourful exteriors of these houses, with their cheerfully decorated window shutters and balconies, reminded me of Malacca, another former Portuguese colony that I had visited in Malaysia. As if mirroring the colourful houses, extravagantly coloured birds like kingfishers and parakeets flitted through the gardens, as if in competition with the artificial hues of the houses. From the vantage of a temple pavilion, I enjoyed the antics of fishing eagles, as they soared and caught thermals that let them glide with a minimum of effort. 

One of the fishing eagles that I admired.

On other days, we visited some of the forts that were established on headlands along the coast-line of Goa. From our hotel (a good guesthouse called Bean Me Up attached to a great vegetarian restaurant of the same name), we walked to one fort called Chapora Fort. From here, there were great views to be had looking out into the Arabian Sea and down onto Vagator Beach but the fort itself was run down, consisting of no more than a gate and an outer wall made of volcanic-looking rocks. 

Fort Aguada, by the sea.

We visited another more substantial one another day. Fort Aguada, unlike Fort Chapora, had never been overrun, which highlights the fact that location isn’t just important in real estate. Fort Aguada sits on a hill that overlooks the Arabian Sea and the mouth of the Mandovi River, where you can catch brightly-coloured boats that will take you on dolphin-spotting trips. The fort was once completely cut off from the mainland by a moat formed by the river, but had a regular and constant supply of fresh water, a must if you wish to survive long sieges. A lighthouse was built in the 19^th Century to protect ships that were coming close to shore, another indication of the prime perch the fort enjoys.

The lighthouse at Fort Aguada.

Of course, most people don’t go to Goa to look at architecture or to be tested on history. The beaches here are the drawcard and while the days of the hippie trail have cooled a bit, there’s still plenty of life in this beast. Describing beaches is a difficult thing because not much really happens on tourist beaches that can’t be described by clichés-golden sands, palm trees, Europeans in speedos and ill-fitted bikinis. But these clichés really sum up the beach scene in Goa, at least on Vagator. The problem and maybe the beauty with beaches is that you could be anywhere-it’s just the vendors and what they are selling that changes. On Vagator Beach, (the one that sat below Chapora Fort), vendors tried selling sunglasses and sarongs to pasty looking Europeans who tried to fight then off, while groups of young men played games of cricket, soccer and volleyball on the beach. At the point between Vagator and Little Vagator, a small fleet of wooden outriggers sat idle, nets ready for their next fishing adventure. Cows walked along the beach, looking out of place as the surf rushed up their legs.

Fishing boats at the ready

The beach adjacent to Vagator is Anjuna Beach and every Wednesday it hosts the Anjuna flea market, Goa’s most famous. The market at Anjuna has been described as an anthropologist’s dream and while I wouldn’t necessary go that far (things have retreated back a bit since the heady days of the 1970s), the market is still a good place to lose yourself for an afternoon. Here, people from all over India ply their trade-refugees from Tibet, brightly attired women with elaborate jewellery and facial piercings, men selling drums and elegantly carved stone elephants and Kashmiri carpet sellers mix with guests ranging from bewildered looking foreigners on their first overseas trip to the seasoned Goa heads who once came here for a week in the 1970s and then never left, their children weaned on Goan trance. 

Vendor at a Goan market

Whatever you want to find here, you probably could, (I wish I had tried asking for an elephant foetus or something equally ridiculous, just to see if the vendors would promise me that they could procure it).

Beach scene-somewhat typical of Anjuna.

While Goa has its own special charm that makes it unlike the other parts of India we have visited, it’s still clearly part of India. People still have that peculiar head-nodding whose meaning evades the casual traveller to India. Churches may be a distinctive part of Goa but Hindus are still in the majority and temples can be seen built beside churches. Like elsewhere in India, cows still have free rein to stroll wherever they want, to nuzzle at rubbish heaps and hold up traffic. 

Cow holds up play

A multitude of dogs room the streets, lingering on the side of the road or if they are brave enough, catching forty winks on the street itself, placing more trust in Indian drivers than I would have felt was warranted. You still stumble upon kids playing cricket, in a park, on the beach or on the street., just as you would in other parts of India. But there remains something intangible that makes Goa indescribably different from other parts of India, something in the air (and I’m not talking about the hashish) that gives Goa a unique feel, a good place to spend a few days to relax and recharge your batteries, especially if you have spent a few weeks travelling around the Indian hinterland. To paraphrase the signs you see in Goa, Goa is like a fridge, everybody chills there.

MY COUNTRY FOR A LEG-SPINNER

Mark Richardson, the former NZ opener, had a Christmas wish-list. It consisted of three things; for New Zealand to have a fit Jesse Ryder, a genuinely quick bowler and a leg spinner. Of the three, Ryder being fit is most probable; a genuinely fast bowler is possible but the leg spinner, that seems unlikely. A high-quality leg-spinner is an asset for any team, with their ability to find turn and bounce on pitches that finger spinners struggle on, spinning the ball away from a right-handed batsmen, with the option of using a well-disguised wrong-un (finger-spinners, at least until the invention of the doosra, didn’t have this option). Unfortunately, New Zealand is not exactly overflowing with leg spinning talent or tradition. Tarun Nethula made his debut recently against Zimbabwe and showed some promise, especially in the second game. Before him, the last specialist leg spinner to play for New Zealand was Brooke Walker, who took five expensive wickets in 5 tests. Before Walker, there was Greg Loveridge who played one test in 1996. He broke his hand batting before he got a chance to bowl, although his first class average of over 50 doesn’t suggest the NZ selectors had stumbled upon a test bowling sensation. In fact, New Zealand’s most successful leg spinner was Jack Alabaster who snared 49 wickets from the 21 tests he played in the 1950s, 1960s and early 1970s (21 tests over 17 years suggests that he may not have got a decent run in the side). But that’s not to say that this situation of not having a leg spin legacy is uniquely New Zealand’s. England, like New Zealand, is a team reputed to struggle against leg spin. A contributing reason for this may be that no English leg spinner has taken more than Tich Freeman’s 66 (notwithstanding the central role that an English leg spinner played in keeping Bradman’s average below 100). South Africa’s attack in their first forays in test cricket often included 3 leg spinners but their most successful was Aubrey Faulkner, a talented all-rounder whose career was interrupted by the First World War, who averaged 40 with the bat and took 82 wickets at 26 with his bowling, The West Indies leading leg spinner was David Holford who took 53 wickets in tests (not a surprise given the recent pace-dominated history of West Indian cricket). Zimbabwe’s best leg spinner was Paul Strang who took 70 while Sri Lanka’s best is Ajantha Mendis, the “mystery” spinner whose test career has seemed to have stalled at 62 victims. No Bangladeshi leg spinner has taken more test wickets than Mohammed Ashraful’s 24.

 Leg spin has played a large role in Australia, where wrist-spin bowlers can thrive on bouncy pitches, getting drift, turn and bounce away from right handed batsmen when finger spinners can’t and on the spin-friendly sub-continental pitches of India and Pakistan. This is probably why these are the only countries to have leg spinners who have taken more than 100 test wickets.  When people talk about a revival of leg spin after Warne, it’s more that he inspired a generation of cricket-watchers rather than led to a succession of world-class leg spinners. His success led to imitators being sought, most of whom failed to live up to expectation, like Loveridge or Ian Salisbury, the English leg spinner who averaged over 100 after 10 matches (with the ball not the bat, unfortunately).  Few of these Warne clones succeeded. Ironically, one of the next best leg-spinners during the Warne era was Australia’s Stuart MacGill, who had the misfortune of being born in Australia around the same time as Warne. It’s also anglo-phillic to say that Warne was the man who saved leg spin. After all, Abdul Qadir was living up to all sorts of Oriental stereotypes as he bemused a variety of batsmen during the 1970s and 1980s. Mushtaq Ahmed was Qadir’s successor and a contemporary of Warne’s and had the earlier impact with a starring role in Pakistan’s World Cup triumph and Anil Kumble was snaring Englishmen by the bucket-full in 1993. But cricket watchers in England, Australia and New Zealand in particular of my generation tend to think of leg spin as having a pre-Warne era and then a post- Warne era. The reality is that most countries had no great tradition of leg spin bowlers to fall back on. Warne may have revived interest in leg spin but that had more to do with his genius than for a longing to rediscover some long-lost art form. Simply, the art-form had never existed beyond the fringe in most cricket-playing countries. Warne was a genuine superstar, the sort of bowler who made kids change from trying to bowl as fast as possible to attempting to bowl a well-disguised flipper. 

Abdul Qadir carried the leg-spinners tradition in the 1980s.

 My cricketing heroes before Warne were all quick bowlers; Danny Morrison, Curtly Ambrose, Wasim and Waqar. Then Warne happened. I first saw Warne bowl against the West Indies in the summer of 92/93. In my mind, listening to it on radio, it exists as one of the great series. There was Lara's double at Sydney, the nail-biter at Adelaide, Ambrose's rampage at Perth (and before that, the wristband incident with Dean Jones during the World Series). Warne played a largely peripheral role in the series but had a match-winning spell at Melbourne, 7-52, his first 5 wicket haul, the first time his name really came to my attention. Soon after, he came to New Zealand, where he impressed with his control and variation, snaring 17 wickets in the 3 test series, but remained largely unheralded still. Then came the Ashes series, the ball of the Century and his name was made. My favourite Warne is the Warne of 93/94, when he took 36 wickets in 6 tests, 18 against New Zealand and them another 18 against South Africa, famously capturing Darryl Cullinan as his bunny as well as adding 22 in the World Series tournament. 

Warne of that vintage had it all, his big turning leg spinner and his flipper his key weapons alongside his attitude, swag, as we would say in modern-day parlance. If Murali was all energy, Warne was the schemer, the bowler who could out-think a batsman. Just witness his recent prediction of McCullum’s demise when he was bowling to him during the Big Bash to get what I mean. If Warne has a lasting impact, it may have been reflected in the quote about the Velvet Underground, the seminal American rock band “no-one brought their records but every-one that did started a band.” Conversely, Warne was widely admired but few have managed to emulate him, in no small way because of the inherent difficulties in bowling leg-spin. I hope that Mark Richardson’s wish could come true as apart from watching a genuinely quick bowler in the midst of a match-winning spell, there is no greater thrill in cricket than watching a leg-spinner at the top of his game, outwitting and out-thinking a batsman. It’s just unlikely that New Zealand will be the country where the next great leg-spinner will be found.

SLUMMIN IT

Mumbai exists in the minds of many as a collection of clichés: men playing cricket under an array of colonial Victorian-era buildings, extravagant Bollywood films and Slumdog Millionaire, a film that feeds directly into another of the more powerful and enduring images of Mumbai, the people who live in the city’s slums. Dharavi is the slum featured in Slumdog Millionaire and is one of India's largest slums, a 0.7 square mile city within a city that over a million people call home. The child actors in Slumdog Millionaire were cast from here and may well still live here.

A million people live in an area the size of a small farm (175 hectares)

Tourists can visit Dharavi as part of a guided tour to see how the other side of India live. We went with a tour group called Reality Tourism, who gives most of its earnings back to the communities that it visits. The tours are led by a local guide, who is sensitive to the needs of the local community. They also have a strict no-photo policy that showed me that this was a company concerned with the emotions of the people whose lives we were imposing ourselves on. My concern before agreeing to go on a slum tour was finding the right tour, hoping to avoid the wrong sort that would be exploitative and tacky, trading off the misery of others and leading to flawed judgements being cast by tourists. Images can easily be used to distort the realities of life in the slum, which misses the point of this tour, which is to showcase the innovation and enterprise inherent in the slum. No cameras means that small groups of people can travel relatively inconspicuously and without imposing too much of the lives of the slum dwellers. Only one person, a young Australian, out of our group of eight decided to take photos. She was unrepentant even when she was caught by our guide, shocked that she should have her rule-breaking pointed out publicly. She seemed to be the type of tourist who would fail to see the value of the work done here, instead focussing on the squalor and poverty of people’s existence here. 

Small-time industries like this are common in Dharavi

Visiting Dharavi was an eye-opener. A slum it maybe but it is different than what I expected- families had small established houses to live in, we only saw one rat and there is a staggering amount of industry (it has been called the heart of Mumbai’s small-scale industries), that caters to many industries from the more traditional pottery, leatherwork and textiles to the recycling that processes recyclable waste from Mumbai and other parts of India. Small-scale activities like this are believed to bring in about 665 million dollars a year. Women made poppadoms and laid them out to dry on cane umbrellas. There were schools and kindergartens, mainly funded by NGOs (the tour group we went with funds a kindergarten and a community centre) and temples, mosques and churches existed almost side by side. There was little sign of the sectarian violence of 20 years ago that led to violent clashes between Muslim and Hindu and the setting up of separate Muslim and Hindu quarters.

Working conditions are tough

Dharavi may have been one of the more humbling places I have been but that didn't mean that the people were humbled by their living conditions. Instead, these people seemed proud of Dharavi. Not once were we asked for money (rupees, chocolate, pen is a familiar mantra known by many travellers to India) by children as you would be on a regular basis when visiting sights. We walked down small alley-ways, catching glimpses of day to day life inside the small rooms that families call home, all the time being careful to avoid the low hanging roofs, open drains and potentially live wires that haphazardly exited out from the houses. Shyer kids peered out of the doorways while the braver ones were seemingly content to wave and say goodbye to the foreigners who intruded in their living quarters. One boy was especially proud of his pet dog, walking it on a shiny, new red leash, others played cricket in confined spaces. The residents of Dharavi are making the most of a pretty limited way of life.

The narrow alleys of the slum

That’s not to gloss over what Dharavi is. It is made up of a collection of people, from all over India, who work long hours for 120 rupees a day, about the price of a big bottle of beer, eking out an existence in conditions that most Westerners would find abhorrent. The men who work in the cottage factories work in conditions that are unpleasant and with materials that are probably toxic. Sanitation and hygiene is a major problem. There is only one toilet for every 1400 people, so many people resort to using creeks that run through the slum as a toilet, with an obvious consequence being the spread of disease as well as contaminating a potential water source in an area that is already suffering from problems with inadequate drinking water supply. Children play on rubbish heaps that double as toilets, taking advantage of one of the relatively few open spaces in the slum.

Where the laundry goes

But this is a tour that didn’t showcase poverty but made a story out of the success of the slum, if that’s not too much of an oxymoron. People in Dharavi are just like the rest of us, just less well-paid, working each day to make enough money to eat and pay the rent (the rent for an average house in Dharavi is said to be about $4 or 200 rupees). Slums are still part of the Mumbai cliché just like Victoria Terminus, the most imposing of the collection of colonial buildings or the men played cricket in whites dirtied from diving around on hard, dusty and uneven playing surfaces. But dig a little deeper and the cliché of slum squalor starts to slip away, replaced by a positiveness and self-belief that seems to drive much of Indian society today.

http://realitytoursandtravel.com/default.html

(All photos are sourced from the Reality tours website)

ANIMAL SPOTTING IN SOUTH AFRICA

We saw a rhino within five minutes of entering the reserve. We didn’t even have to search for it. The rhino came lumbering across the tar-sealed road as we rounded a tight corner, small calf close by its side. It walked slowly across the road, obviously familiar with the excited murmurings of park visitors and the whirring of cameras, before heading off into the scrubby brush on the other side of the road. The three safari novices in the car, Mary, Melanie and myself, thought that this animal spotting caper would be a walk (or drive) in a park. However, the quest to see the rest of the so-called big Five (lion, elephant, leopard and buffalo, so named because they are the game animals that are most dangerous to hunt on foot) would prove to be much more time consuming. It would also show that there are a lot of lion and leopard shaped rocks in the park.

First rhino (and calf) that we saw in the game reserve.

Hluhluwe Umfolzi is Kwazulu Natal’s biggest game reserve and the first park of its type in Africa. It is now most famous for its large number of rhinos, in particular white rhinos, like the ones that we had seen soon after entering the park. 1600 of them call Hluhluwe Umfolzi home. We saw rhinos (always white rhinos) on several other occasions until we almost became apathetic with a(nother) rhino sighting.

Giraffes under the shade

Going animal spotting was a different experience than I thought it would be. For one thing, this wasn’t a case of bouncing around the back of an old jeep, holding on for grim life as your driver pursued game whilst dodging anthills and potholes. Instead, you could slowly cruise along tar-sealed roads in a small car, watching intently out the window for wildlife. Nor was this a case of massive herds of gnu and zebra, like you would see migrating across the Masai Mara. But that’s not to say that the park was devoid of life. Birds like rollers and raptors were a common sight. Animals were seen but were often alone or in small groups, grazing by the roadside or in many cases, walking on the road itself, utilising it as just another trail, seemingly unafraid of passing cars. It was hard to know if they were habituated by the constant stream of traffic or if their behaviour had changed because of it.

Warthogs at the front gate

By the time we had seen our first rhino, we had already seen a group of warthogs at the front gate and before that some giraffes and zebras on the hill that sat opposite the park-gates. On our drive from the gate to our accommodation, we saw a variety of antelope (impala, nyala and kudu), a lone baboon and groups of giraffes grazing quietly by the road-side, managing to somehow look graceful and ungainly at the same time. By the time, we reached our accommodation at Hilltop Camp, it was almost dark and as the gates close at night, we had to hurry to ensure that we weren’t locked out for the night, an uncomfortable and potential dangerous experience best avoided. At Hilltop, we slept in round Zulu style huts with thatched roofs. The camps are fenced off but it’s still possible for animals to get in; we saw bushbucks and monkeys in the grounds so I guess it could be possible for larger predators to get in and roam about. It was a thought I tried to not think about too much when I went walking to the toilet at night.

A curious and photogenic male nyala

The next morning at breakfast, we heard stories of a young male lion up a tree not far from camp. We quickly drove to the spot but the guides there said it had left 5 minutes earlier, the first of many near-misses involving felines. That morning, we had our first sighting of buffalo, the second of our big five. A large herd came down a hill following a well-worn track, looking all the world like a herd of admittedly aggressive looking cows on their way to the milking shed. Some of the bulls sported impressive horns and some of their flanks were scarred, most likely from battling with each other. They passed slowly across the road, past our car (which probably weighed the same as one of them) before heading down to the stream on the opposite side of the road. 

Cantankerous bovine

We continued driving, sometimes alone, sometimes following a truck from one of the park’s lodges. We saw cute vervet monkeys playing and watched nature unfold as a Hamerkop caught a fish and then lost it after being bullied out of its catch by a larger black stork. We saw gnu and zebra and had our first elephant sighing as a pachyderm crossed over in front of us and then decided to meander along the road, bringing traffic to a complete halt for a dozen minutes or so.

The Hamerkop, right before losing its fish to a bigger black stork.

We still had no sightings of a cat (lion, leopard or cheetah) and about this time, the concerted effort dubbed Hunt for Big Pussy was initiated. Kerry randomly met friends who had been in the park for only a day. In that time, they had seen the Big Five, hippos, cheetahs and even wild dogs. Such reports gave us hope, made us optimistic that by persevering we could hope to see all of the animals that we wanted to. For a change of pace, we went to check out several of the hides erected around watering holes that may or may not prove tempting to animals. At one, we were able to watch a herd of impala for a long time, at another, some birds with beautiful long tails. But still no cats.

One of the hides, no cats but we watched a group of impala from here.

That night, we took our first guided trip. We sat on the back of a jeep with a family from England (the father talked incessantly on his cell-phone to an employee in England, much to the annoyance of everyone else on the tour). We enjoyed a beer at one hill-stop top, enjoying the last glimpses of light before we got back onto the truck, ready to begin spot-lighting. Night viewing is not as good for photography but can be a good time to spot animals, in particular the nocturnal predators. Leopards are commonly caught up in trees by the spotlight but not that night.  The highlight of our trip was a sighting of a rapidly disappearing hyena escaping from the spotlight and a civet that darted across the road in front of us. Not to be discouraged, we signed up for a dawn ride for the next morning as well, chancing on some elephants and a group of rowdy bull buffalo wallowing in mud. We also saw our first leopard, not a cat but a leopard turtle, one of the so-called little Big 5 (the others being the Elephant shrew, the rhino beetle, the Buffalo weaver bird and the ant-lion). Frustratingly, this would be the closest we would get to a leopard sighting during our time in Hluhluwe Umfolzi.

Our guide with a leopard turtle, one of the little big 5

Kerry was probably getting sick of the three of us wanting to drive and search for animals every waking minute but us non-South Africans were still keen to try and glimpse a big cat, eye RSI and scanning the horizon head-aches notwithstanding. We were rewarded for our persistence with a glimpse of a male lion, sitting majestically and aloof on a rocky outcrop, a good 100 metres from the road but easily seen through binoculars. In contrast to our excitement in seeing him, he seemed nonchalant, dismissive of our existence. The cliché misnomer “King of the jungle” never seemed more apt as he sat overseeing his domain, with us being just another of his insignificant subjects. This, after all, is his habitat, his environment and we were encroaching on his life-style.

The conclusion of Hunt for Big Pussy 

The greatest sight we saw was one of the last things we saw on our third night in the park. We stopped for a big solitary bull elephant that was acting aggressively (in the end, he actually charged at one car). The reason for his angst may have been that he wasn’t alone; instead, he was at the head of a thunder of about 50 elephants, including several juveniles. The elephants, ignorant of time, made their way slowly across the road as cars backed up on either side, waiting for the great beasts to cross. It was a majestic sight and easily the sight of our time in Hluhluwe Umfolzi. As we drove off marvelling at the size of the group we had just witnessed, we came across another one, this one maybe even larger in number than the previous one, foraging in a field not 500 metres from where we had waited for the other beasts to pass. Again, we took time to watch them interact with one another, being careful to keep a safe distance (unlike the car-load of Asian tourists we saw the next day who got out of their car to take pictures of an elephant less than 25 metres).

The second thunder of elephants we saw.

Hluhluwe Umfolzi may not be South Africa’s premier safari destination (that honour would fall to Kruger whose big cat sightings are legendary) but it makes for one hell of an alternative. Kerry’s father was probably right when he said that you needed to walk in the African bush to really savour and experience it fully, to get to know its sounds and smells (some of that smell in my case would have been fear). But that being so, I don’t feel cheapened by my experience. Those three days, as an avid animal follower, were a dream come true and something that I definitely want to repeat at other parks in Africa.