Makhaya Ntini is is no mood to sit with his feet up when South Africa head back home © Getty Images

They departed under the cover of darkness, an embattled team that wanted nothing more than to return home. Tempers had been frayed by the “chicken” headlines in the morning newspapers, but by 11pm, when they boarded the coach to the airport, the smiles were back on most faces. Mark Boucher wasn’t one of those grinning, his face still a dark mask, and the Sri Lankan journalist who insinuated that Boucher was a bully can count himself lucky now that plenty of air miles separate him from South Africa’s stand-in captain.

On Thursday night, with the decision to leave having been taken, most of the players could be seen in the coffee shop or downstairs in the pub. Ashwell Prince was one of those around the pool table, and he and Shane Jabbar, the physio, played out a tightly contested game against yours truly and Gordon Templeton, the media manager.

It’s uncanny how those who excel at one sport that requires terrific hand-eye co-ordination are usually proficient at several others. Prince’s pool was not too different from his batting – calculated, composed and devoid of any flash. There was still time though for Makhaya Ntini to come by and deliver a mini-sledge before walking upstairs where he held court in the coffee shop with Loots Bosman and Thandi Tshabalala.

Both Tshabalala and Bosman were lucky to make this tour, with injuries keeping out stalwarts like Graeme Smith, Jacques Kallis and Justin Kemp. Given the paucity of their spin reserves, Tshabalala will surely get his chance some day soon, but for the 29-year-old Bosman, the missed opportunity here could be all the difference between a place in the 25-man World Cup squad and the relative anonymity of first-class cricket.

Ntini is very much the leader and mentor, and he sets a wonderful example in terms of his behaviour with the fans. The waiter who serves him curried oxtail for dinner is treated to a flexed-bicep pose and a massive grin, while every single autograph-hunter and photograph-seeker is obliged. According to a senior South African journalist, the sense of perspective comes from an upbringing that was harsher than most of us can imagine.

As a junior player, he was given a 10-Rand allowance to get through the day. With cab fare to and from the township costing a total of four Rand, he often preferred to go hungry during the day just so that he could have a proper dinner. “He’s the proudest man you’ll ever meet,” said the journalist, “so there was no question of asking someone for food.”

Both Bosman and Tshabalala follow Ntini around dutifully, and certainly don’t mind the reflected glory that comes their way as groups of shy young women and cricket-crazy young boys come up for a handshake and a signature or two. Tshabalala also used the time off to invest in a video-camera and could be seen prowling the lobby for footage spiced with his own comments.

As the time goes to leave, Ntini – nicknamed George – says his goodbyes to hotel staff and journalists alike, having previously entertained them by jiving his way through to the elevators. He also has time to joke about the travel plans, saying: “First, we go six hours that way [pointing east to where he imagines Hong Kong is], and then we fly many hours this way [west] before we get home.”

Asked what his plans were when he got back to East London, he said: “Straight into provincial cricket.” And what of the two matches against Zimbabwe in mid-September? Would he and the big boys contemplate putting their feet up and giving others are chance? “Are you kidding?” he says with a laugh. “We need matches, brother, we need matches.”

As sports fans, we've heard all the clichés a million times. "Winning
isn't everything, it's the only thing", "Cricket is life, the rest mere
details" and so forth. At times like this, you begin to realise just how
much garbage it is. As a South African player told me in the hotel
lobby a couple of hours after the bomb went off, "It's just a game, man.
Heck, I want to bowl to Sachin [Tendulkar], but not if I can't feel safe
about where I am."

Another senior South African player was even more candid. "If we hadn't
been playing today, we'd probably have been out shopping. And a lot of us
have been to Liberty Plaza before."

I found out about the blast on the way to the stadium. Pouring rain had
already ruled out any prospect of play starting before early evening, but
when the phone trilled, there was more than a weather forecast to worry
about. When told, my driver didn't panic. "Best not to go toward the
stadium," he said. So I asked him to turn around and head towards the Taj
Samudra instead.

It took us nearly an hour to get within range, the roads choc-a-bloc with
cars and tuk-tuks full of people presumably heading home. When he found
out that I was from India, the driver's mood deteriorated. "You Indians
helped this LTTE (Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam)," he said sourly, even as I sat mute, not wanting to be drawn into a debate on a conflict where the fault-lines run so deep.

We ended up getting nowhere near the Taj. The roadblocks had been put in
place on Galle Road more than a kilometer away from the hotel, and the
driver suggested that I go to Cinnamon, the South African team hotel,
instead. After a twisting run through narrow back streets full of puddles,
we reached another road-block. Another detour, and a further obstruction
on, he gave up. "Best you get out here and walk," he said curtly.

The walk lasted just a few paces before military personnel pounced, having
seen my fatigue-green backpack. Flashing my media pass made not the
slightest difference. Cramped into a shelter not big enough to accommodate
two, I had to fish into the bag and come up with my passport and other
proof of identity before I was allowed to go on.

By the time I trooped into the hotel, soaked to the skin, both team
managements were in discussion with the Sri Lankan cricket board over a future course
of action. The South African players milled around the lobby, talking to
journalists and waiting for word. Only Makhaya Ntini, Mr Cool at the best
and worst of times, appeared unruffled, chatting to a friend with his feet
up. Such composure, however, was beyond most, on a day when cricket came a
distant second to the harshest reality of the time we live in - terror
attacks.

Robin Jackman: Oh won't you be My Teddy Bear © Eastern Province Cricket Board

Having left behind the rainy south of India, and the flooded north, it's a relief to see the sun beating down as we land at Katunayake airport. The warmth extends as far as immigration, where the official's face lights up when I mention what I'm there for. "We're in good form, you know," he says, just in case I hadn't watched Kumar Sangakkara and Mahela Jayawardene take South Africa to the cleaners and beyond a week ago.

It starts to cloud up as we begin the drive into the city, but despite all the streamers and posters promoting the South Asian Games - they start on the 18th - it's cricket that rules this beautiful island. Even before you leave the airport premises, you can see a billboard for Sri Lanka's Board of Investment, which quotes Sanath Jayasuriya as saying: Sri Lanka - a perfect pitch where your business scores. A few kilometres down the road, Sachin Tendulkar and Brian Lara grin at you from an MRF tyres hoarding. And in case you hadn't already got sick of it back home in India, there's the Reebok ad featuring Mahendra Singh Dhoni and Yuvraj Singh, goofy grins and all.

It comes as a bit of a shock then to drive towards the Colts Ground, where India are playing a warm-up game, and see a young woman wearing boxing gloves taking pride of place on a billboard opposite one of the city's main roundabouts. The lady in question is Anusha Kodituwakku, recently crowned light-flyweight champion of Asia. Having never seen the likes of Mithali Raj or any number of talented female hockey players receive any such acclaim back home, it's a pleasant shock.

The Colts Ground itself in surrounded by old trees, and with deep verandahs to watch from, it certainly has a charming old-world feel to it. My arrival, however, seems to jinx the Indians. Tendulkar casually flicks one to midwicket, and Sehwag then delivers a near carbon-copy. An hour later, as I prepare to leave for the press conference at the Taj Samudra, Dravid and Yuvraj appear to be coasting home. But with Dravid brilliantly caught on the boundary, and Kaif not taking his chance, the crowds drifting away are enticed back by the prospect of a Dhoni lash or two. "Let's wait a few minutes more," pleads a young woman, even as her partner readies to wander off. Her entertainment lasts only nine balls, but she and many others will hope that the man with the flowing mane and fearless strokeplay sticks around a while longer when the real thing starts.

After a fabulous dinner at the Gallery Cafe, neighbour to the equally storied Cricket Club Cafe on Queen's Road, we head to the Galadari Hotel, uninvited guests at Robin Jackman's birthday party. What we don't know is that it's inside a karaoke bar. Tuneless chorus of Happy Birthday and cuts of cake later, Jackers, encouraged by the Ten Sports crew, launches into a spirited rendition of [Oh won't you be] My Teddy Bear , the song immortalised by a certain Elvis Aaron Presley. Like Mark Butcher, who could sing a ballad with the best of them, Jackers can certainly hold a note. Who said cricketers were boring, one-dimensional creatures?