Model Town cricket, and North West Frontier hospitality

Conrad Hilton, of the Hilton chain of hotels, when asked about three most important things you need to succeed in the hospitality industry, said "Location, location and location." In that sense, The Decent Inn guesthouse, is nigh-on perfect.

Located in Model Town (why does there seem to be a model town in every city in Asia?), it overlooks a modest cricket ground. Across the cricket ground is the residence of the late Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, one of the most popular Pakistani singers of recent times. Four blocks away is the residence of Mian Nawaz Sharif, the former prime minister.

Like many small grounds you would see in England, this one is functional yet unspectacular, picturesque yet not grand. It calls itself the Model Town Cricket Ground, and has a small scoreboard that has clearly seen better days. Thanks to the one-dayer, there isn't a serious game on, but that does not stop five people from starting an informal tape-ball match.

The sight of an Indian watching is too much for the locals, and I'm quickly waved over. Who can say no to playing on the ground where Wasim Akram played his early cricket? Figures of 1-0-1-1 are flattering, at least until everyone registers similar numbers in a frenzy of batwaving. The second-ball duck does nothing for the ego, and it's time to beat a retreat.

The Decent Inn guesthouse itself has a sporting pedigree. It's owned by Naimullah Shahani, the minister for sport and culture. He is busy with the match at the moment, but happily so. Only recently he was kidnapped by extremists and held in Waziristan for 23 days. He belongs to the Pakistan Muslim League (Quaid-e-Azam), and the irony is not lost on us.

Just two days ago we were the guest of a member of the opposition, Khwaja Mohammad Khan Hoti, the leader of the Pakistan People's Party for the North West Frontier Province. Khan Sahib, as he was referred to by one and all, was a generous, if compelling, host. When four of us journalists went over to his palatial mansion for dinner, we were stunned by the opulence of it all.

At least five vehicles were parked out front, one of which was a Land Rover big enough to play table tennis in, complete with every luxury, including a television screen. Naturally, we were forced to watch the Hindi film songs of Shah Rukh Khan as we rode in.

The house, said Khan Sahib, was only a modest effort, as his ancestral property was in the Mardan district up in the mountains. Modest turned out to be 20,000 square feet, and still expanding. The family emblem, two birds entwined, was plastered proudly on the façade. While we wondered what the Mardan residence might be like, he told us of the original house of his forefathers - No. 1 Man Singh Road in New Delhi. That address is now the opulent Taj Man Singh hotel.

The Khan Sahib is not in power at the moment, as he let his son contest the recent elections in his place. Umar, only 26, is every bit the politician himself. Typical of Pakistan's elite class, he spent several years in England completing his education. "We speak the same language, we have the same customs, we're sitting across the table here having a good time, what's the problem between India and Pakistan?" he thunders, as though talking to his constituents.

"Since we were little children it has been drummed into our heads that India is the enemy. This must change." He talks of the massive benefits to both countries if the hostilities cease. He rails against the old fogeys in power, calling for radical changes in thinking.

What about Kashmir, we ask tentatively. Rahim Dad Khan of Hathian, one of the founder members of the PPP and another senior tribal chieftain from the Chitral district, put forward his proposals. The Khan Sahib looked unconvinced, Umar worked his way through various theories, we chipped in, and we're soon back to where we started. Then again, a few journalists and out-of-power politicians are hardly going to whip out a magic solution to a problem that has stymied two nations for the best part of half a century.

The sign of good food, they say, is that there's little conversation at the table, and the spread before us certainly does the job. We get some idea of how chieftains dined - when you need half a kilo of meat, shoot five deer. The quality is certainly fit for kings, and the quantity enough to feed a small army.

Bellies full, we adjourn to the lawns where we're offered Cohibas, the cigarillos Fidel Castro smokes. For humble cricket journalists, it was all a bit much. Not wanting to offend our gracious host, we puffed away, but almost choked when we heard gunshots in the neighbourhood. "Nothing to worry about," laughed the Khan Sahib. "It happens at most of our weddings. Someone has a little too much whisky and fires celebratory shots into the air."

At Hindu weddings in India, we shower newlyweds with coloured rice in celebration of wedlock. Small wonder that India is known for producing delicate batsmen and crafty spinners, while Pakistan dishes out brutish fast bowlers.