Alright, the next entry comes a bit from a gendered perspective. I would like to preface it by saying that my portrayal of the male representatives of society are only one perspective and only from one point in time. It does not reflect my overall viewpoint of men, of men in Sri Lanka, or of sporting men. (for they will likely be painted in the least positive light in the coming series of stories)
But it does reflect an interesting series of days I had last week that seem reflective of the time and place and my mindset at the time.
Well here we go.
As you may recall, last week I mentioned that I had made acquaintance with some members of the West Indies cricket team, and by acquaintance I mean, dancing ridiculously to Michael Jackson, and swapping stupid looking dance moves in a circle in a dive bar. I also made friends with some ‘county-cricketers’ based in England. I believe these folks are professional, but as I understand it, fall more in line with AAA baseball professional, rather than Major League Baseball. Maybe the reason they are not playing for their respective countries is due to their evening antics of getting completely obliteratingly drunk, falling asleep sometime after dawn, emerging from the confines of their gated community for 2 hours of training in the afternoon and starting the process all over again?! I mean how do you get better at cricket living like that?
I’m clearly no expert…
So, I find myself in a very hip club, ‘The Museum’, around 2:30 a.m. Saturday night/Sunday morning. My friends and I have already been out for several hours and as none of us is taller than 5’3” or heavier than 54 kilos we can’t really drink much more. Which makes our enthusiasm for Museum a bit low. The place is bumping in one of those “I take myself way too seriously for how small a city this actually is” kind of way. The chic of the city are dancing to some mildly acceptable beats in an overly lit club scene. Mostly people are in their 20s, and they have clearly spent a lot of money on their attire, though for some that doesn’t mean they got a lot of value for their money (read: not much cloth)
We meet up with our English/South African ‘cricketer-friends’ who’ve been drinking all day and night. They are three of the 10 white people in the room, which according to them is a statistic they assess in every Sri Lankan situation. Our old friend Mr. Chris Gayle shortly joins us. He is decked out in his usual bedazzled t-shirt and thick gold chain, Hennessey and Ginger beer on ice, and his ever-present Iphone. He leans against the bar, near where we are standing.
It doesn’t take long for my social-scientist brain to kick into gear. As I stand there, mildly chatting with an acquaintance, the women flock to our circle, like moths to a flame.
First they approach C. Gayle and express their admiration. Apparently the word gets out that the English/S.African crew is also a cricketer-professional lot and the moths flutter about them as well. Three English ‘Gap-yeah’ girls find us and the cricketers are on them like flies on….meat. They rotate one to the other and then back again.
C. Gayle has more important things to do than weed through the throngs of potential….um…conquests? would that be the right word?
So his not unattractive teammates are sent to do his bidding.
I kid you not, I watched this series of events transpire: C.Gayle leans against bar. Scans club. Assesses the pickins’, ‘Man-whispers’ to teammate, teammate disappears, but is seen from across the room flirty flirtin’ with some zebra-print-napkin-size-dress-gyratin’ girl, teammate draws said girl over to bar, lets her dance all up on him. She eventually brings her friend (apparently the original object of C. Gayle’s desire), nonchalant whispers are exchanged the group round.
I blink.
They are making for the exit and there is no turning back. Shit, the glass of Hennessey is still half full!
Damn. Quick moves, C. Gayle. Very quick… will he be back for the Hennessey?!
I turn to observe the ‘AAA’ team. They’re game isn’t as fine-tuned as ‘Major-leaguers’, but they didn’t make it to county league training and training alone. They've clearly put some 'practice' in the art/sport of womanizing too. Instead of playing a zone-offence approach (the way the West Indies boys did), they’re man on (wo)man, but they go about it through rotations. (note my switch to basketball metaphors) One might offer a girl a drink from their third bottle of Bacardi, the other talks to the friend and the third tries to seal the deal with the one for whom he’s been ‘laying the groundwork’ the past several songs.
The lines, “we have an incredible apartment with an awesome balcony, you really should come check out.” ”It’s got a rooftop patio, perfect for watching the start” “Yeah, we’re here for a fitness-training camp” “Yeah, I’m a batsman, did quite well this season.…” were all flung about.
AAA.
Not major league.
But I suspect good enough for their aims.
Mild and not-particularly academic sociological observations. And let me reaffirm, this was just a continuation of another interesting cultural phenomenon, I have been privileged to observe since my arrival in a tourist oriented, drink-infused, clubbed-out, cricket-loving place.
The music wasn’t good enough to stay for any more ‘data gathering’, so I find my way to an overpriced tuk tuk and cross my fingers I make it home safely.
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