Legend has it, as legends go in this windswept part of the world, that in approximately 1498 Christopher Columbus landed on Trinidad, on his third attempt, the first two attempts having been subverted while dodging inaccurate but numerous arrows from the mighty Caribs and native Arawak tribes.

Columbus, Catholicism's commercial captain, was so swept by a wave of relief after his safe landing at Port of Spain that wild eyed and exhausted, he looked at the three hills ringing the town, muttered the Holy Trinity of 'Ghost, father....etc', thus branding another unspoilt part of the world with a Western label (Trinidad), leading it into a permanent state of economic imbalance and energy exploitation that continues to this day. There are many islands in the Caribbean, from the diminutive 5-square-miled Saba to the 19,000 square miles of the Dominican Republic, stretching over a part of the Atlantic Ocean; most are independent nations, most blighted by tourism and some boosted by oil. Between the 16th and early 19th century, waves of Dutch, Danes, Swedes, English, French, Irish and Spanish fought for this tropical retreat, wiping out the locals and fusing a hot peri-peri of cultures. Needless to say, after Napoleon's defeat, the English had the islands ceded to them under the Treaty of Paris, ending 300 years of Spanish rule. Post treaty, the new masters annihilated the Caribs (thought to be originally from Brazil and Venezuela) and the Arawaks, who today exist only as official archaeological remains and one tiny, remote community. Asians were imported as slaves, but with the official abolition of slavery in mid-19th century, Indians were brought as 'indentured labour' the English had got around their laws through change of sourcing and terminology.

It is just past morning and the steel refurbished stadium is sleeping, the world turns, and as the tide rolls in, downtown Port of Spain, foster home to the Tigers of Bangladesh for the past eleven days, begins to shake to an early calypso beat. 'Island time' moves on its own pace, and means 'I'll go when the spirit moves me', chased only by the trade winds that fuelled the early European schooners arriving in this Bay.

I stand alone, Shiraz in hand, gazing across the layers of aquamarine, feeling well-defined grains of sand beneath the toes, the sun beating down and imagine the thirty varieties of shark that swim ahead and beneath of me in the sea and remember that Hemingway called them 'moving apetites' in the penultimate passages of his The Old Man and the Sea. Are we going to be fighting a different kettle of fish today, as the tigers take on the sharks in blue? Isn't the tiger, the strongest cat, with piercing night sight, a strong swimmer, powerful climber, isn't it the striped leader of Bengal's forest? But how will it fare against the epitome of evolution's peak - the shark, restless assassin of the deep, capable of smelling human blood from 10 miles in salty waters. It would take a strong nerve to bet for the Tigers....but we do, which is why we are here.

It is toss time on the pitch and our motley crew is assembled in the Posse Terrin stands. Old friends, living in England and USA, making a pilgrimage that almost never happened--but then the rented villa came through, the tickets were courtesy of a friend of a friend, the office leave and flights fell into place and after 14 hours we landed at Port of Spain. On board it is amusing to note that the West Indian islands are separated by more than the waves they have less loyalty to the national team then to their own island's representatives. A Trinidadian (Trinni for short) would mutter about Chanderpaul's lack of form, while in Barbados they speak about Brian Lara's lack of captaincy, words that would have the Trinni put hemlock in your rum-and-Coke if you were foolish enough to say them at Port of Spain. A beautiful hill overlooks Savannah Park; on the cusp is Lara's mansion, gift of a grateful government to him for crossing the highest one day score single-handedly. I take the obligatory photographs outside it.

The best dish in Trinidad is the 'roti' - not the Indian version of 'roti', nor our 'rooti', but naan packed with chicken and rice curry, an East Indian legacy that spread northwards through the island and stopped at its shore, a delightful blend of Indian and Bangladeshi cuisine. It drips green here, layered upon itself, a sweaty humid green--noxious and numbing it drags us to back to the game. The ex-colonies live, the old colonies die in this game of leather and willow in front of 20,000 spectators.

The Oval is hallowed ground, and we meet strong Indian contingents on the way, posing for photographs with scantily clad samba dancers--'what rhythm mon'. We also find fellow Bangladeshi expatriates, ("New York?" "no, Canada," "Yes, we are from London" and so on), quick photographs, laughter and confidence boosting boasts. I mention our flag has not arrived and the Bangla legion lends us a spare one, here's the weapon, use it...Inside it is search and seek for the stands. Each ticket has ten free drinks from whiskey to Carib and lunch thrown in. We Bangladeshis have less bodies and less beauty compared to the Bollywood brigade, but surprise, we have the full support of the Trinni contingent! Again the islands' ethnic faultlines surface: there's 45% Indians and 45% Trinnies over here, and though nobody acknowledges divisions, the political voting is along ethnic lines with the Trinni party currently in power, and they fully support us for standing up to the Indian onslaught. They also like the cheek of the Tigers "younger brothers, mon". They dance and laugh with us, the rum flows a lot, the runs flow a little. Every boundary and change of overs gets the music going, and every Bangladeshi effort is praised. The wise and sagacious share very accurate opinions, "Look at your passion, you will win' "The little guy, what's his name ...Khan?" - you say, "No Tamim" "Aaah great class, he will go far..." Wrinkled eyes, looking far beyond the game, speak of the 60's, the 70's, of dark warriors who played a more difficult game for much less.

Tigers are in control, this is the overwhelming impression through out the day, the sharks take a bite or two, but they are more endangered then threatening. There is never a ball dropped, or a return awry from the tigers and except for one overthrow, the last-wicket stand in blue that takes 31 runs more to split, we are through.

The lights glint on the hills surrounding the port, we feed on Carib fish and visit the local bar, where the deafening music is within easy reach of Negro (yes, that's what he says his name is) our instant friend who says, "you win, we love you, but if you lose you walk alone".

Tonight we walk with many.

S.I. Ahmed is a Bangladeshi living in London.