Zimbabweans return to Beitbridge after Christmas shopping in South African border town Musina © AFP

Reports during last year’s Christmas holidays revealed 19,000 people and 1000 trucks and buses were travelling across the Beitbridge border every day. It isn’t that busy at other times of year but the South Africa–Zimbabwe route is still one of the most-travelled and least-desirable roads to journey on, and after experiencing it for myself, I know why.

I opted to go by bus, instead of air, because the bus ticket to Bulawayo from Johannesburg is more than 10 times cheaper than a return flight, even though Bulawayo is closer to South Africa than Harare. For just R370 (US$52) one-way, a seat on a fairly luxurious and well reputed bus, the Greyhound, can be bought. The chairs are roomy, the air-conditioning works, they play a range of cheesy, z-grade comedies featuring the likes of Eddie Murphy and they stop several times along the way, sometimes for too long.

During the day, the bus winds through the Northern Provinces of South Africa, the part of the country that reminds city-dwellers like me how beautiful the land really is. Johannesburg, like any other world city, is not the real Africa, but the farmlands, baobab trees and vast horizon of that road is. The only sign of human inhabitation is in Polokwane, formerly known as Pietersburg. The quaint town is home to the Peter Mokaba Stadium, which hosted four football World Cup matches in 2010 and can be seen from the road.

Three hours from there, through the northern-most town of Musina is Beitbridge, where the stories are colourful and the atmosphere cold. South African immigration officials at this point are obviously overworked and badly harangued but do their best to process people as quickly as possible. The first place we had to go was a tent, but one of the administrators split the line in half and sent the rest of us to a small, brown brick building so the queue would move faster.

The scene makes quite a photograph and I had taken many. I took shots of the lines of people, the small building, the exasperated man on the other side of the counter, and I would have been able to publish some had my phone not been nicked from my bag seconds after I put it there. When I reached in again to take another picture, it was gone. As we got back on the bus, the driver warned us that people targeted travellers on that side of the border, the South African side, and that we should make sure we were extra vigilant. As a South African, I already knew that. Still, the information came too late.

For a few brief minutes we wandered through no-man’s land, between posts and then disembarked again, on the Zimbabwean side. The difference was immense. The road leading up to the South African border was wide, the one going into Zimbabwe far narrower. The South African building, albeit cramped, was well taken care of, the Zimbabwean one far less maintained and far more chaotic. There were also many more people because the wait on the other side is far longer.

Immigration is a complicated process of filling in forms but customs in the real tangled knot. Because there are no scanners, every bag must be opened and searched. In 90 minutes everyone on my bus had been looked at but, as we went through, the people on the bus in front of us, which looked rickety, were still standing waiting to be searched.

“We call those buses chicken buses,” a woman told me. “They are very cheap and very, very dangerous. The officials think the people on there are carrying things they shouldn’t be carrying into Zimbabwe, so the search takes longer, there is a lot of risk of things being stolen and they take a very long time to get into Bulawayo.”

We had crossed into Zimbabwe at 18:30 and were due to arrive in Bulawayo at 20:15. The driver informed us that it would be another four-and-half hours until we got to Bulawayo. He was not lying. After 270 minutes of dodging potholes and landing in too many, of stopping to let off people along the way, refuelling, dropping off parcels and other unscheduled interruptions Bulawayo was finally in sight.

I have not been here before, but the hospitality I was greeted with was all too familiar. The guesthouse taxi driver had waited at the stop for over two hours for the bus to arrive, he took a detour to the only open restaurant in town (ironically, an outlet of the South African chicken franchise Nandos) and when I reached the gorgeous colonial home where I will be spending the next few days, the owner welcomed me warmly. I doubt many of my fellow travellers on the bus would have been received in this way, which made me feel a little guilty having experienced their journey with them.

Graeme Swann belts out a tune with Dr Comfort and the Lurid Revelations © Sam Bowles/portaitcollective.com

It was around eight in the evening. It had been an overcast day and the sky was dark grey. Trent Bridge was vacant and silent on Wednesday. Suddenly the Long Room at the Pavilion end erupted with loud, blaring music – drums, bass guitar and a group of three men dishing out Snow Patrol’s “You're all I have”.

It was a bizarre scene: a rock band comprising grown-up men, rehearsing in the inner sanctum of one of most cherished Test cricket venues. But then when you have a name like Graeme Swann associated with the band, you've got to expect something outside the box. In fact, the name of the band Swann is part of and used to play frequently with before he earned an ECB contract three years ago is called ‘Dr. Comfort and the Lurid Revelations’.

Andy Afford, former left-arm spinner at Nottinghamshire and a stalwart with 468 first-class wickets, was the man responsible for such a “playful” name. “I don’t think you can be men of our age and have a serious name so it had to be a bit funny,” Afford says. Dr Alex Comfort was a sex therapist in the 1970s and went on to write a book about his conversations with his clients. One day Afford was passing a book shop and read Comfort’s name and immediately decided to put a band together. “The good thing about the name is on all the posters where other bands are playing too, they put our name first because we have the longest,” Afford says.

There are two cricketers in the band: Swann and Afford. Along with Eddie Burke, who is a cricket development officer at Notthinghamshire, the trio are the lead vocalists. Another cricketing connection is Jim Hemmings, the younger son of former England off spinner Eddie Hemmings, who plays on the guitar. Then there is Jay Davis Blue on the bass guitar and Max Wallington on drums.

Jay Blue is a psychologist and would not like his real name to be known; Hemmings sells sinks and baths; Wallington, who also teams up in another band - the ‘Screaming Willies’ - is a welder with his body covered in tattoos.

Swann doesn't get many opportunities to rehearse with the band anymore as he is busy playing for England. But when Swann joined the band, he was playing for Nottinghamshire and was yet to return to play for England. He wrote a diary for Afford, who edits All Out cricket magazine. At the point Afford decided to go play in a band, Swann got picked up to play for England. They still managed to record about 12 or so songs.

The first gig the band played was at the Southbank bar by the river Trent, adjacent to Trent Bridge cricket round. It was well received. The band covers rock classics and also plays some contemporary rock. “With Graeme it is more popular ones, bit more bar,” Afford says. Primal Scream, Oasis, The Calling’s Town Called Malice, and Sweet Home Alabama are some of the covers the band plays usually.

“He is a really confident man and sells his stuff incredibly well,” Afford says of Swann. A standout Swann habit is “he swears a lot. That is how he punctuates what he says really.”

“I'm a charlatan,” Swann described himself to ESPNcricinfo when asked if he would be a rockstar.

Does Swann dominate or control the rest of the members? Afford leaves it to the rest of the band to answer that. “Jim, does Swanny dominate?,” he asks Hemmings, who ponders for a moment before knocking the ball back into Afford's court.

“He has got an opinion, whether it is going to be good or bad doesn’t matter. Doesn’t he,” Afford starts. “He generally thinks everything is going to be brilliant all the time. Even when we are massively under-rehearsed Graeme thinks we are going to be brilliant based on no real reason and generally he is not far off” Afford says. Hemmings agrees.

But the band members do have a complaint. “I don’t think he ever lifts anything,” Hemmings says raising his head, as he works to get the mic stand in place. “I have not seen him lift the black box (speakers),” Afford says. Quickly, possibly to escape being exposed by Swann on Twitter, Afford adds: “Even Eddie never lifts them. We all want to play and if we want to play then we need to lift stuff until we play the IPL.”

Performing in the lucrative IPL is the band’s dream. But why? “That’s his (Swann's) dream as well. Forget winning the Ashes or whatever, he wants to play the IPL,” Afford says, looking me in the eye. “Noooo,” Afford says, a few seconds later, with a hearty laugh, suggesting he was only joking.

“It is our hobby,” Afford says. “We are good fun. People come out. Aren’t we a good laugh?” Afford says, looking around for a vote. Watching Dr Comfort and the Lurid Revelations in the Long Room are five men standing around a village green, hands on hips, staring incredulously down from an oil painting hanging over the door.

There are fans ... everywhere the Indian cricket team goes © Getty Images

There are fans and there are fans. Everywhere the Indian cricket team goes, they are followed by the full range of fans – from Heckler to Hero-Worshipper.

It takes a cricketer of great equanimity to understand this and at the other end, a fan of a patience, greater than the contemporary attention-span, to stay loyal to the team in what must be India’s worst performance in a decade.

Cricket in England is watched with often a respectful silence that helps umpires hear snicks and cricketers hear jokes cracked at their expense. Just after losing the second Test, particularly, one 'fan' in Northampton took it upon himself to pursue Praveen Kumar around the field and call names. Stewards moved the man away from the stand where Praveen was fielding and he strolled around the largely open ground and found his way back to wherever the fielder was to be seen on the boundary line. The man then returned after the game, as the players were leaving the ground and getting into the team bus. He leapt up to hammer on Praveen's window and continued shouting abuse at the cricketer. At one stage Praveen decided to confront the man, and had just got off the bus before he was hauled back inside by the team's security guard and Suresh Raina. According to one member of the touring party Praveen, “did not get to within 15 feet of the guy.” There were other versions of this story whirring around the internet, yet no photograph of the incident could be found.

What has remained consistent throughout England is that fans have turned up every where the Indians have; tickets have been sold out for all the first four days of the three Tests as well most of India's two-day game, fans travelling from outside the county and some from outside the United Kingdom itself. Some sections of the crowd may hurl abuse particularly when strengthened by alcohol, others silently fret over the cost of their now not-so-happy holidays while the rest continue to dream of the turnaround. “What is the matter with them?” they will ask each other. “Why aren't they fighting?” Long after the Indians had left Edgbaston, a group of more-than-tipsy Indians remained in the ground, tunelessly singing schmaltzy film songs (“Yeh dosti” from the Bollywood film Sholay) and drowning their sorrows. It is a painful double life: Indians living in England don't want their bosses mocking them about the cricket: “Don't they know how we feel?”

The morning after the Test ended quicker than Lord's and Trent Bridge (is that a portent for The Oval?), a young man waited outside the team hotel. He was seen standing outside the Marriott when the players left and when they returned, he was still there - just a short distance away from main porch of the hotel for three straight days, doing nothing, just standing around the stone steps. He waited for players to step out of the hotel. Whenever they did, they were greeted with respect, words of commiseration and a handshake and then asked to sign an autograph book or a photograph. Every exchange would not have lasted longer than a few minutes and still the young man, a student of international business management, he said, waited for the next one. It is an inexplicable allure, detached from the humdrum reality of the fan's own life or the Indian cricket team's fish bowl. Yet it is very much a part of it.

Brendan Taylor's girlfriend, Kelly Reading, and Craig Ervine hit the dance floor © ESPNcricinfo Ltd

The local word for party is dhindhindi. Funny word, you might think, but it actually has a very good reason for becoming part of Zimbabwean vocabulary. If you actually say it out loud, it has a similar sound to music, in particular, the opening beats to Ice, ice, baby. Get it?

No? Well, neither did I until the dhindhindi that was held last night to celebrate the team’s victory over Bangladesh. A function room in the Rainbow Towers’ hotel (previously the Sheraton) was booked for the bash and I expected a somewhat snooty affair, with martini glasses clinking and finger food.

The food was certainly meant to be eaten with fingers, but it was not the same as the kind you will get in the Sandton Towers. There was no delicate salmon or parma ham, the type of that is found at parties hosted by many cricket boards, particularly the ones I am most often at, in South Africa.

Instead, a selection of fried snacks - samosas, springrolls, spicy chicken and crumbed chicken - were laid out on the main table. To the right of it was a stand where roast beef with mustard was being carved. Just in front of that, a dessert platter including mini-cakes and a fruit salad. Kepler Wessels, who is known for his dedication to fitness and healthy living, was seen tucking into some of the trifle. All told, it was nothing too fancy, but simplicity has been Zimbabwe’s defining trait all through this trip.

The players milled about, chatting about this and that. Ray Price told us about his third child, Daniel, who was born a little over two-months ago. He explained that the left-foot, right-foot jig he and Chris Mpofu pull out whenever a wicket is taken was conceptualised during the World Cup when they opened the bowling together and “became really good friends”. Grant Flower showed us his bent fingers, one of which has been broken 14 times from being hit with a cricket ball, and allowed us to compare our straight fingers to his. Hamilton Masakadza reminisced about the Free State, where he studied his marketing degree, and said he would never have been able to live in Johannesburg or Cape Town for that long because “I’d get lost in such a big place”.

Until then, there had been no dhindhindi.

Then, the stadium announcer arrived at the podium and gave a small speech about Heroes’ Day, which Zimbabwe celebrated yesterday in commemoration of those who fought the liberation war. He said the national cricket team made the country very proud with their heroic performance and saluted their efforts. Then, the lights dimmed, the music started and it was time to dhindhindi.

Brendan Taylor’s girlfriend, Kelly Reading, who is the queen bee of the Zimbabwean WAGS, got the party started when she led national coach Alan Butcher onto the dance floor. Butcher’s moves were not too shabby, although he battled to keep up with Kelly, who seems to have had some practice doing this before. Brendan is not a big dancer, and hung around on the periphery of the floor, blushing every time one of his team-mates did something comical.

And there was plenty to blush about. Keegan Meth, nicknamed Crystal, for his eccentric behaviour was the highlight on the floor, breaking down moves that could qualify him for role as acrobat in a circus. Together with Mpofu they dominated the dancing, but there were a few unlikely characters with them. Heath Streak was in full swing, Craig Ervine joined in and Elton Chigumbura got down as well. It was the heartiest party I had ever attended, with everyone indulging in nothing but wholesome fun.

The drinks flowed, with countless offers from the waitress of “one more, for the road”. Evidently, she thought it was a long one. Somewhere in between the fourth and tenth last round, Stuart Law entered the room, politely asking if it was okay to join in. He had also, clearly, never experienced a dhindhindi before. But, like most of the people who were there, he would have woken up with a sore head as a result of it this morning.

The Red Lion bar has evolved with the times © ESPNcricinfo Ltd

For most travellers, Zimbabwe has the same fascination as a car crash – it looks interesting from afar but there’s enough about it that says, “Don’t get too close.” Tales of power cuts, food shortages, communication problems, and the more serious violations of human rights and restrictions on personal freedom, make the warm sunshine and wide open spaces seem avoidable rather than appealing.

A few years ago this was certainly the case. Locals recount tales of getting used to drinking black coffee or tea, not because they liked it, but because there simply wasn’t any milk. Or being unable to drive anywhere at night, because without any streetlights and potholes lying like landmines in the dark, it was just too dangerous to do so.

Thankfully, Zimbabwe is not such a treacherous place anymore. Last night, the only thing not available in one of the local restaurants was oysters. “But we have the fresh Scottish salmon, which was flown in today,” the manager informed us. Can’t complain about that.

The improved Zimbabwe, although not perfect, is quickly becoming a wonderful midpoint between old world Colonial charm and new-age African development. In between the gables are the thatched roofs, alongside the enormous properties with front gardens the size of a cricket field, soapstone carvings can be bought and next to the traditional pub grub is the sadza (stiff maize meal porridge). Of course, it would be naïve of me to suggest that racial integration has come full circle here, but compared to South Africa, it is certainly more obvious.

One of the places it’s become noticeable is the Red Lion bar, an institution in the main clubhouse of the Harare Sports Club. I was told that this bar would give me a glimpse of Rhodesia, with ruddy faced men of an older generation recounting what life in this country used to be like, in the days of Ian Smith. Happily, the old hangout has evolved and as my companion said, “The only black people inside are not just standing behind the bar.”

We met a man who says he is a solider (he looked the part but did not say where he had been deployed) and helpfully pointed out a framed cheque which Cecil John Rhodes had made out to the Salisbury Cricket Club, which was what this venue was originally known as. There were also some sketchings of the ground, photographs and a few magazine tributes. Noteworthy articles they are all are, but the really striking things are taking place all around them.

The grand hotels that are found in the city centre and the suburb of Avenues – a tree-lined area with wide streets and medium sized apartment blocks – have a regal and colonial nature about them. Dark wood bars, imposing columns and majestic staircases. But in the rest of the town, where the regular people go to enjoy themselves are neighbourly eateries next to average night spots which stand out on quiet streets. It’s Africa in a way that I have not experienced before, where the old order and the new can stand next to each other. Much to the surprise of some, it’s a mixture of people who can be found inside these places, a sign that Zimbabwe is moving on, in the best way it knows how.

Local hoardings on the Northants' old press box, called the "signal box" because of its resemblance to those on the railway lines © ESPNcricinfo Ltd

When the Indians walk into the centre of the County Ground in Northampton, they won't be surprised to see themselves surrounded by advertising hoardings. They are India, the rock-stars of cricket, the centre of the sport's economy. Except that here, the brand names around them are not multi-national giants falling into the their favourite big-event sponsor slots – mobile phone, fizzy drink, apparel, electronic giants. The hoardings are an expression of cricket's micro-economy, the engine which drives the grassroots county game in England, where local loyalties are deep-rooted, investments and sponsorships are hard-earned and therefore must be carefully spent.

Along with the ECB's major national sponsors and a large regional steel merchant, the County Ground is ringed by the names of a local glazier, jeweller, video production company, coach hire service and a brewery that manufacturers a famous ale called the Old Speckled Hen.

In an economy trying to stay buoyant, CEO Mark Tagg says, the first hits to the bottomline come from hospitality cuts, so there is some fierce paddling across all smaller counties to stay afloat.

The County Ground began as a multi-sport venue, with a Victorian patron Alfred Cockerill sowing the seeds in the ground himself, to grow the grass over the 12 acres that would eventually become the turf for football, cricket, lawn bowls and tennis. The tennis and the bowls have now disappeared and Northampton Town football club moved away in 1994.

The County Ground must still be multi-venue and the cricket club hosts conferences, events, parties and weddings, like those held at the Indoor School where the Indians turned up for their indoors nets on Friday. Domestic cricket is tough business and it must keep innovating. “Fundamentally, we try to break even every year and put whatever we earn from various sources, into the cricket,” Tagg said.

In April this year, Northants became the first county to acquire an “endless pool” for its Sports Science and Sports Medicine department, that can be by used athletes of all kinds, for training, conditioning, injury management and rehabilitation. “I want us to be the best non-Test venue in England, with the best coaches, the best pitches, the best sport science and medicine centre,” Tagg says.

Northamptonshire is one of the “youngest” of English counties, making its Championship debut in relative yesterday of 1905. It was also the year when Las Vegas was established as a town. There is an amusing synchronicity in all this: proudly emblazoned over the home and away dressing rooms at the County Ground is the logo and branding of Aspers, of one of Northampton's four casinos.

The financial problems that have plagued Zimbabwe haven't affected the hospitality industry so much © ESPNcricinfo Ltd.

One of the ways Zimbabwe can continue rebuilding its economy is by starting colleges for people interested in the service industry. Zimbabwean waiters, bartenders, receptionists and hotel desk staff are friendly, approachable and helpful, without being over-eager, aggressive or desperate to sell.

Take the group that works at the Portuguese establishment Coimbra, who received a group of hungry cricket journalists last night, interested in something more meaty than just a good story. They happily let us in, with no reservation, even though the two rooms were full and when we complained that the table we had was too close to the door, they moved us further inside. They served peri-peri chicken and ice-cream long after everyone else had left and never gave that uneasy feeling that sometimes floats around a room when the restaurateurs want the patrons to leave.

Or the man working at the Bronte Hotel and has been doing so for almost a decade, and has now been promoted to a manager of the breakfast area. He remembered a guest he had served years ago, asked how he was, and personally offered to ensure his hot meal was adequately prepared, because the buffet food may have been too cold. The steaming scrambled eggs arrived a little later, to be enjoyed while taking in the view of the hotel’s stunning garden.

It is a large outside area, which has managed to keep its colours in spite of winter. Whatever financial problems have plagued Zimbabwe, this hotel has kept its grandeur, its homeliness and its pride. Its gables announce its authority and the warmth inside confirms it.

One of the drawbacks is the steady decline of hot water through a shower. It starts off as a full shower head and within minutes is down to a limp trickle, leaving no choice but to open the cold tap, hold one’s breath and dive in, knowing that if it’s done quickly enough, the subsequent walk to the cricket ground should be enough to warm up again.

Once inside the ground, the friendliness is back. The day before it once again becomes a Test venue, Harare Sports Club was hosting an IT conference. One of the organisers proudly reported that they had managed to connect 150 computers to the internet at once and they will now look at putting a booster into the press box so that the journalists (of which there are far fewer than 150) can remain connected throughout the match.

While the conference continued inside, the Zimbabwe and Bangladesh national teams trained outside. They went almost unnoticed, so much so, that at one point, two people pushing a shopping cart ambled across the field, split their practice in half and didn’t pause until they reached the other side. While the net bowlers were trying to concentrate on not getting the balls hit back at their heads, the sound check took place and even when it was established that the speakers worked just fine, the music continued. It was a party, no-one was going to stop it.

The outfield in Harare is pristine green and it is made of kikuyu grass, resilient enough for the Bangladesh team to play football on © ESPNcricinfo Ltd.

My trip to Zimbabwe started ominously. Air Zimbabwe was grounded the day before my scheduled flight because of a pilots’ strike. They promised to “try” to put passengers on another flight but South African Airways only had seven seats available on their Harare-bound plane. I had no choice but to buy one, with blind faith that Air Zimbabwe would refund me.

Harare is a desirable destination this week, the cab driver, Bernard, informed me. “Lots of people have come for the cricket. We hope we win.” Fair enough. He drove though the city centre. Much like inner Johannesburg, it was a ghost town at night. He pointed out a few general shops. “You can get everything in there,” he said. “Before, there was nothing, not even bread. If any shop had bread, people would queue for a long time and by the time you get to the front, the price has gone up.”

That was an old joke, I’d heard it, but I could tell by the seriousness of his voice that he was not trying to be funny. “Our money [Zimbabwe dollars] was so worthless, if someone had a wheelbarrow filled with money, a thief would steal it, throw all the money out and keep the wheelbarrow.” Surely that one was a joke. He waited for me to laugh, then he joined in.

So things had improved, according to Bernard. There was enough fuel, power-cuts were less frequent and although it was still expensive to get an internet connection (US$35 for 350MB), they are readily available while mobile phones services are cheap. I have yet to see if they are effective because when I tried to make my first call, to Zimbabwe Cricket’s media manager, the hotel operator called me back after 10 minutes saying he was trying to get through. He still is.

The morning’s light had really kissed the sky when we were out for a morning run. The quietest route is past the hotel, right onto the morning road and left into a long street that goes past Harare Sports Club on one side and president Robert Mugabe’s house on the other. On the corner was a camo-clad army guard, an automatic rifle in his hand. I was told not to look at him and to make sure to run on the other side of the road. Glances at Mugabe’s house are also not a good idea, although there is little to see besides a 200-metre long brick wall and an identical guard on the other corner.

The road is a typical country pass, which winds past the Royal Harare Golf Course, from where an antelope observed me and the Botanical Gardens. A few school children were the only other people on the road. It was bliss, a flat running route, golden sunshine gently warming the wintry air. On the way back, I noticed a yellow sign outside the Sports Club, advertising Thursday’s match. “Return to Test cricket,” it said, with ticket prices ranging from US$3 - 5.

“We expect a good crowd on the weekends,” said a waitress at the Maiden pub, situated right behind the bowler’s arm. The pub overlooks the field, which is pristine green despite the season. It is made of kikuyu grass, resilient enough for the Bangladesh team to play football on. What a beautiful place to play cricket. Come Thursday, it should also be a beautiful place to watch it.