March 2013 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
Driven To Drink
It is a well known fact, indeed an adage that if you drink a half a bottle of Italian merlot, five small Bintangs and two, perhaps three lemoncellos on Friday night this will have a detrimental affect on your Saturday afternoon hashing abilities; especially on a hot humid day and on a run in merciless, mostly wide open padi territory. I could see the mocking, knowing looks on the faces of perfect strangers / virgins that said "Ah ha! You drank a half a bottle of Italian merlot and five small Bintangs last night. Wait! You also had perhaps three lemoncellos you cupid stunt". Yes, they even employed an incisive, appropriate and insulting Spoonerism in their imaginary scolding.
I tried valiantly but was barely able to raise a few half hearted jogs that slowed to a dawdle then a meander. I might as well have attempted the Paris to Dakar rally on a tricycle for all the speed I made. Women with tiny children, men on crutches, quadriplegics were passing me. My head was pounding like the bass guitar to music played in surf shops, and I was dying of thirst. Out of nowhere appeared an isolated, spotlessly clean, mercifully air conditioned Indomaret mini mart, a miraculous oasis (I sometimes wonder why I'm an atheist). Fortunately I had Rp 5.000 in my hash pants for some unknown but serendipitous reason and pleaded with an assistant to sell me a small Aqua, which cost… wait for it… ONE THOUSAND RUPIAH. I almost bought five of them. I love Penarungan.
Actually I do. The people in this area are ridiculously friendly. I've never been hello - mistered by so many bapaks, laki lakis, gegs, and anjings etc. nor high fived by so many anaks anywhere near as much in any other part of Bali. An Ibu struggling with a huge head load insisted on stepping off a narrow track to let us pass as she wobbled and juddered under half a ton of bamboo and 20 odd palm fronds close enough to the edge of the tempat irrigasi to go arse over tit with her burden, splashing into the fast flowing water therein below.
I fared a lot better after the aqua injection though, at least a lot better than my semi-virgin (?) Aussie pal who shows up once a year or so and asks to go to the hash. His is the triumph of optimism over experience as it never fails to end in tears somehow for him. And it inevitably did this time: As evening fell and he was still out in the padis, he thought it best to call (he had his h.p. with him for reasons beyond me ) my Minister for Home Affairs, She Who Must Be Obeyed, Her Indoors whose number he had, and asked her to call me to tell me to call him. I don't know what earthly good this would have done as he didn't have the remotest clue where he was at this point, unless he thought I had the influence to send out an aerial search team to scour the sawa with infra red detection equipment. He fortunately made it back alive with the assistance of a Balinese Harriet, well and truly after dark and was that knackered it was all he could do to sit next to the keg and get a dozen Bintangs to his lips.
Meanwhile the circle ranted on starring Labia who seemed desperate to down down any random individual, and this random individual it transpired was Cane Rat who had such a head of Bintang powered steam he couldn't bring himself to keep quiet after several punishments. Unfairly, he was far from the only one, nor was he the worst offender. Others who will remain unnamed (Bitch on Heat) babbled on the sidelines like a woman renouncing her religion at gunpoint, tsk tsk.
The reins were handed over to Col. Bloodnok who presided over a conclave of Cardinal sinners to elect a new Pope: Organ Grinder the First. Unfortunately, Pope Grinder summarily retired after inspecting an offer it was obvious he was not expected to refuse of several Harriet nuns, the second Pope to retire in less than 2 weeks for compelling reasons.
The merriment continued unabated for what seemed hours, and probably was, under the custodianship of Konkorde, J. Balls, St. Tits etc. The Rabid Mangy one was finally brought to book for his Tourette's syndrome – like behavior, but he still somehow managed to heckle himself in the process. Hare Herr Beir Meister finally announced time and we staggered off into the night giggling and hiccupping like tiddly schoolgirls. We then drove ourselves to drink even more at another location whose name will not be disclosed to protect the reputation of innocent hashers (it rhymes with "The Wicked Parrot").
Good hash, good circle, I'll give it five small Aquas out of one.
On on
Just a note here: It was entirely my fault that my previously mentioned erstwhile, unfortunate and intermittent hash buddy got lost on Saturday's run as I should have made it my business to drill him in the pronunciation of the car park location. So mia culpa and a million ma'afs to him. Virgins and semi virgins really are the responsibility of hashers who bring them, at least to this extent.
