Eat like a West Indian

July 16
Bangalore airport. I'm halfway through WG Sebald's Austerlitz, and the eponymous protagonist, an architectural historian, is telling the unnamed narrator about a troubling bout of writer's block. A portentous note on which to embark on a month-and-a-bit-long tour full of writing.

I spend ten hours and 25 minutes on a flight to Paris, two and a half hours in the Paris airport, eight hours and 55 minutes on a flight to Saint Martin, eight hours and five minutes in the airport there, and an hour and 20 minutes on a flight to Antigua. I finish Austerlitz. Here I am, 31 hours, 15 minutes, and 243 pages since leaving Bangalore, if my math is right - and it probably isn't, for the reasons mentioned above - and it is still July 16.

Bernadette, who runs the self-serviced cottage I will be staying at, picks me up at the airport. It is a still night and the sound of cicadas fills the air as we drive out. We pass the remains of the old sugar factory, eerily atmospheric at this time of night, its crooked chimney silhouetted against a mysterious glow in the background. The source of the glow is revealed soon enough: the floodlights of the Sir Vivian Richards Stadium. The ground staff are at work deep into the night to get everything ready for the Test match that will begin in five days' time. If my math is right.

July 17
I have arrived in Antigua in time for the Seatons Glanvilles Reunion. Every four years, people from the two villages who have emigrated to other lands reassemble for a week of festivities. Tonight, just up the road from where I'm staying, is a seafood festival, and a concert headlined by David "Krokuss" Edwards, vocalist and bass player from the wildly popular - or so I'm told - soca band Burning Flames.

Everyone from Seatons and Glanvilles seems to be here, eating, drinking, having a good time. There are far more kids around the stage than at the average soca concert, I imagine with all the wisdom of a man at his first soca concert. At one point the DJ calls the kids up on stage, puts on a dance-friendly tune, and cries out instructions. "Step to the left! Slide to the right! Criss-cross!" In my head I formulate a theory for why West Indian cricketers dance well. It's the rigorous coaching they've had, right from the time they were five or six, at gatherings like this one.

July 18
I'm at the stadium for the first time, still finding my way around, when I'm stopped by a woman in the stands. "Who's that Indian player who plays with Chris Gayle? I want to meet him."

I assume she's asking about a Royal Challengers Bangalore team-mate, and I could quite conceivably have asked her if she meant Yuzvendra Chahal or Harshal Patel. Instead, I ask, "Virat Kohli?"

"Yeah, him. Tell him Tracy's looking for him. Tracy from Jamaica."

Well, Virat, I should have maybe told you two weeks ago, but I forgot. Tracy from Jamaica is looking for you.

July 19
I wake up an hour before my alarm is supposed to ring. I fire up the stove and the toaster and make myself eggs and avocado on toast and a cup of oolong. I eat slowly, sip my tea meditatively, and reflect on all the time that stretches out before me.

Then a knock at the door. Two fellow cricket journalists. "Are you ready yet?"

"What, already?"

"Yeah, it's 8.45."

"What? It's only 7.45. I haven't even showered yet."

I show them my phone. It says 7.45. They show me their phones, which say 8.45.

At some point in the middle of the night, my phone clock has decided to lose an hour. Just because it felt like doing so.

In the foyer of the Sir Vivian Richards Stadium is the man himself, resplendent in a crisp, half-sleeved yellow shirt and sunglasses. He's 64 but looks a lot younger. The opposite can be said about the statue of him just outside. It shows him celebrating a batting landmark, presumably a hundred, right hand holding his bat aloft and left hand on his heart. Richards was 38 when he last played for West Indies, so the man in the statue cannot be any older than that, but somehow he looks much, much older, like a Greek philosopher in whites, Plato with an SS Jumbo.

July 20
Test-match eve, and the scorers seem to be playing book cricket. The electronic scoreboards behind the two square boundaries show an imaginary West Indies-versus-India match in progress. West Indies are 6 for 0 in 1.4 overs, with K Brathwaite on 6 and D Smith on 0. India's opening bowlers are straight out of a fantasy of West Indies breaking the 1000 barrier: R Sharma and Y Pathan.

For the third time in three days, we have stopped for a snack at Jennifer's Delights, a concession stall at the stadium. The saltfish cake, the fried chicken, the banana pancakes are all delightful, living up to the name, and they are all prepared by the wisecracking Jennifer.

Just as we're about to head to the pre-match press conference, she calls us over. "Come back for lunch," she says. "I'm going to fix you up something special."

We duly arrive after the presser, and Jennifer gives us each a personalised styrofoam box. Mine contains fish and fungi. Not fungi as in mushrooms, but an entirely Antiguan staple made from cornmeal, and pronounce foon-jee. Drier than polenta, simply but perfectly seasoned, it tastes like a cornmeal upma.

July 21
Driving us back from the stadium after the first day's play, Bernadette takes us to the Seatons football ground, where tonight's reunion event is taking place, a football game and food festival.

When people from India think of conch, they think of the shell, and its distinctive blare, associated most often with the start of the TV show Mahabharat. We do not immediately associate the word with the shell's rightful occupant, a marine gastropod mollusc (thanks, Wikipedia) that is edible, and, I have been told, delicious.

I spot a man in a West Indies ODI jersey and ask him if I can find conch here. He points me to a stall selling conch water. It's a cliché of food-based travel shows on television to reassure viewers that the unfamiliar and slightly scary-looking morsel in front of them, whether it's crocodile meat or a pulsing snake heart, tastes "just like chicken". Conch water, it turns out, does taste a little like chicken soup, but with a gorgeously subtle oceanic undertone.

I ask the man in the West Indies jersey if he's - duh - a cricket fan. "I live for it," he tells me, and says he used to play for Antigua in the '80s - "not first-class cricket but the level just below it". His name is Adrian Adams. He used to be an opening batsman, and he now lives and works in Florida. He says he has played alongside Richie Richardson and Curtly Ambrose, and that, in his day, "if you wore a helmet, you were a punk".

July 22
Viv Richards is everywhere in Antigua. Including on the cover of the hotel-room phone book. But is he inside it? You bet he is. There are three Vivian Richardses, but only one Sir Vivian Richards, with a home on Lwr Vivian Richards Street. Andy Roberts is in the book too, as is Richie Richardson. Curtly Ambrose isn't. Curtly, as we know, "talk to no man".

July 23
On the way back from the stadium, I look up at the night sky and see stars, more stars in a patch of sky than the sum of all the stars in all the skies draped over my house in Bangalore in a year. It is spectacular and - cliché alert - humbling.

At ground level, we pass what is approximately the 9346th donkey we have spotted by the side of the road in our time in Antigua. We are told they are a relic of their time as beasts of burden from the days of the sugar factory, and from a time before farmers drove pick-up trucks. Antigua has now come up with a novel way to deal with its donkey population. The island now has two donkey sanctuaries.

July 24
In a corner of the press box pantry is a transparent juice dispenser. Every day it holds a different juice, delicious but of difficult-to-place origin. Today it's a pale orange-pink and tastes to me like peach, but with floral notes redolent of the tropics. I ask the man serving us our food, and he says it's Antiguan cherry.

India wrap up the first Test inside four days. In the press-conference room, the sponsor logos on the series backdrop tell a story of Indian dominance as well. Apart from the title sponsor, every other name is Indian - an Indian cement, an Indian weight-gain supplement, an Indian brand of incense stick.

July 25
In the land of 365 beaches, I finally step onto sand. Long Bay Beach seems blessedly full of locals having a good time, and we are the only group here that can be remotely classified as tourists. I put my glasses aside and everything is a gloriously hypnotic blur as I make my way into warm tropical waters with waves washing gently over me.

We also stop at Devil's Bridge, a natural arch formed by waves crashing into the limestone-rich rock at the north-eastern edge of Antigua. It's called what it's called, Bernadette tells us, because, back in the days before emancipation, slaves would often throw themselves off it.

July 27
I am transiting through Port-of-Spain to get to Kingston. The St Lucia Zouks are transiting through Port-of-Spain to get to Lauderhill for the US leg of the Caribbean Premier League. It is another reminder that cricketers are normal people in the West Indies. Grant Elliott hurries past the check-in counters, no minders around him, wheeling two massive bags. Jerome Taylor waits near the back of a long queue at a KFC, looking bored.

Kingston, I decide, is a lot like New Delhi. I'm staying in what seems a posh part of the city, near the Canadian embassy. There are lots of nice houses, but the streets get eerily quiet at night, like some South Delhi neighbourhoods I've known, with the occasional car speeding past and almost no one walking. I hardly see a corner shop or grocery, but there's a 24-hour hypermarket that people drive to. People seem extremely concerned about security. Signs advertising KingAlarm Systems are everywhere.

July 28
My first trip to Sabina Park turns out to be an adventure. I walk to the nearest main road and try to hail a passing taxi. Barely any taxis pass, and the few that do refuse to slow down. I ask two young men walking towards me where I can find a taxi. They tell me to walk to the bus stand, and are giving me directions when an older man on a motorcycle stops near us. He wears a plaid shirt that looks like some sort of uniform, and perched on his fuel tank is a flask. He offers to give me a lift and I clamber on. First he takes a little detour to drop off the flask and its mysterious contents. Then he drops me off at the stadium, slowing down each time we pass a young woman to catcall. I am deeply embarrassed by the man and grateful to him, all at the same time.

Sabina Park has some of Delhi's brusqueness too. Near one of its gates is a sign saying "Keep off the grass. No pissing." Another sign, on the fence surrounding the nets area, says "No weapons allowed." The pavilion of the Kingston Cricket Club, however, gives the ground some old-world charm. The bar has plaques commemorating every batsman to have scored two hundreds in the same Test match. Members can watch the cricket while they eat lunch sitting on rocking chairs. A group of us gravitate to these chairs, open up our laptops and steal an unsecured Wi-Fi connection. I order oxtail, and red beans and rice. The oxtail is beautifully cooked. The gravy has the insistent heat of Scotch bonnet peppers, but there is avocado on the side, creamy and soothing. It's a genius combination.

July 29
Before heading to the stadium, I decide to make a pit-stop at Devon House. It is, according to the official website, "the architectural dream of Jamaica's first black millionaire George Stiebel", and was "declared a national monument in 1990 by the Jamaica National Heritage Trust".

None of that interests me today. I head directly for Devon House Bakery, to pick up their famous patties - one beef, one shrimp - and then next door, to I Scream, for a scoop of soursop ice cream. It sets off a bell in my head - I last tasted this faintly citrus, faintly guava-like flavour before in a glass of juice in the Antigua press box.

July 30
After the first day's play, we hit a Trinidadian roti shop for some curry goat. On its wall is a glass display case that contains a bat signed by the West Indies team that played the 100th Test staged at Lord's, in 2000. It also contains a pair of gloves, presumably from the same match, signed by Brian Lara. The team must have been anxious to give away all of this: West Indies were famously bowled out for 54 in the second innings of that Test match, and Lara made scores of 6 and 5.

July 31
The food stalls at Sabina Park do fantastic patties, but it's a hot afternoon, and a group of us suddenly crave ice cream. We can't find any. "You'll get ice cream if a big match is on," the lady at one counter tells us.

"This isn't a big match?"

"Naah. Come back when there's a T20 on. You'll definitely get ice cream then."

August 1
A tropical wave is proceeding westwards across the Atlantic, and Jamaica is in its sights. Meteorologists believe it has a good chance of attaining the wind speeds necessary to qualify to be called a tropical storm. They already have a name for it, Earl. It is the third day of the second Test match, and it rains enough to wash out nearly half the day's play.

The rain stops around six in the evening, and the setting sun turns the sky into a breathtaking vision in gold. The taxi driver pulls down his sunshade. It is Emancipation Day and people are out and about. We pass Emancipation Park, with its statue of a nude man and woman gazing - with just as much astonishment as me, I suppose - at the burning sky. The light turns even the most unremarkable buildings into glowing pillars from another planet.

Ice-cream cravings are still upon us and we stop once again at Devon House. It is packed with what looks like a holiday crowd, but a woman tells me it's actually a far smaller crowd than normal. "The lines would stretch out till there," she says, seemingly pointing to the horizon. "It looks like the rain has kept everyone indoors."

August 2
More rain. Lots of it. The eye of Earl has missed Kingston, but its outer reaches have done enough to wipe out all but 15.5 overs of day four.

Having left the stadium early, I visit Bookophilia, which, according to the in-flight magazine I flipped through on my way to Kingston, is the best bookshop in the city. It's tiny but the selection is well curated, and you can have a cup of coffee or tea while you browse. It's James Baldwin's birth anniversary, and I buy a copy of Giovanni's Room, among other things.

August 4
A visit to Melbourne Cricket Club, which has produced Michael Holding, Courtney Walsh and Marlon Samuels among other West Indies players. Randall, who drives me there, asks me if I play cricket, and I say, yeah, a little bit, the occasional tennis-ball game with friends. He says he does the same thing too. In Jamaica, they have a name for it. It's a lovely name: "curry-goat cricket".

Randall shows me Samuels' old house, which is just beyond the club wall, and tells me his mother and her sister used to run a tyre-repair shop. Courtney Walsh lived in the neighbourhood too, he says. Then he tells me Samuels owns a videogame arcade, and I ask if he'll take me there. He does. It's shut.

August 5
Norman Manley airport, and I acquire a nifty little souvenir. A football in red, green and yellow, with "Jamaica" written on it in black letters, with a zipper running along its equator. Open the zipper, and the football expands to become a bag.

My flight is delayed by an hour, and as I wait, a family of four settles into the seats next to me. A three-year-old girl, her mother, with a baby strapped to her, and an older woman who I assume is the grandmother of the two kids. The girl spots my football bag, and we begin to play catch. She is endlessly fascinated by the ball. "Leave the gentleman alone," her grandmother tells her.

The girl sulks. "It's unfair!" she says, and I agree inwardly. I am torn between giving her the ball and listening to the voice in my head that says, "No way, it's mine!" I stare at my feet. The moment stretches out uncomfortably until the grandmother does what grandmothers do and works her magic. She turns her hand into a claw, wiggles her fingers at the girl, and says, in a falsetto, "The crab is coming!"

The child instantly forgets the football and runs circles around her grandmother, giggling.