Pam, Steven and me

There couldn't have been a more boring bunch of people to have set out for the city of diamonds, Kimberley, than the ones in the bus I was in last evening. Cecil Rhodes would have spat at the lot of us. Dull and weary, we sat quiet, eyes glazed as the old bus hobbled along - which didn't help our mood.

Barren patches of land with long dry grass on either side of the road and a couple of seemingly dead towns where we stopped for breaks formed the landscape. One of them was like a place from the old west. The local bar had a wooden "closed" sign tilted across the shut glass door. I half-expected an old sheriff to come out with a cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth, drawling, "We want no trouble here, son, keep walking."

And boy, the bus. It was a small city express, with not much space. A woman who looked like Pam Grier, the blaxploitation queen who later starred in Quentin Tarantino's Jackie Brown, squeezed herself in next to me. As often happens at such times, I became mute. Damn it. Then I ended up making an inappropriate witticism. Pam threw a dirty glance at me, which I'm quite used to from women, and saying "Why don't you be comfortable here," got up and left for a seat behind me. Bravo! Well done, me.

The positive side was, I got more space to squeeze my fat frame into. But more trouble awaited me. It was Steven Seagal night on the video in the bus. Gawd. The man drove big trucks, drove fighter jets, and drove me crazy. The climax was particularly charming. While all around him machine guns were spitting fire and grenades were blowing up everything in sight, our legend was killing people with a tiny knife.

Anyway, that's my boring story. What do cricketers do in the evenings, on the other hand? How do they cope with a frenetic schedule where they fly in and out of cities daily?

Some go the beach early in the evening. Some prefer to sit in the bar, some venture out to local restaurants, and a few like to catch up on movies in their rooms.

The bar is much frequented. Durban had a traditional one with wood panelling, where the likes of Glenn McGrath and Daniel Vettori played cards for hours together one evening. An IPL game on the telly, beer on the side (in case you're interested, it was 12 rand a beer at the Durban hotel, 22 at the big, snazzy Jo'burg one) and a card game. People came, had drinks, left, but McGrath and Co continued to play on.

I even did an interview with AB de Villiers in the bar. It wasn't ideal, asking about his routine before he faces the ball, with inebriated pretty women swaying past us. AB showed immense composure and maturity to focus on his answers.

I bet he wouldn't tell sick jokes to the Pam Griers of the world. He is AB; he doesn't have to. The women must be throwing themselves at him. They throw up on me. Same difference.