July 2013 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
Zank 'eaven for Leetle Maps
Wizout zem what would leetle signs do? In this case, fuck all. For the Bastille Day run there was no HHH sign to tell hashers coming from Kuta, Sanur and points south using the Sunrise Road where to turn left. A very unhelpful idea on the map advised us to go via the Bali Safari Park Road which of course does not have even the suggestion of a connecting road, or any road at all leading any where but the Safari Park; and we did not want to disturb the zebras. The next turn left (on the Lebih Beach road) took us to a tee junction with again no HHH sign and a very unpromising back road to nowhere after the suggested right turn on the map.
Hares, we know that you know where the run is, and Hashers with 10 – 20 years experience going intermittently to Bangli would similarly find it no problem. For those of us who wouldn't go to Bangli in the normal course of events from one decade to another, please consider the possibility that without signage and a clear map, this may have its challenges. Few road signs, no street names or numbers don't help either. Neither do Bangli locals who wouldn't know where the town football field was if they were being borne on the shoulders of the local team having just kicked an equalizing goal to hysterically cheering crowds of supporters, thus saving the day for Bangli.
Tiring of our lack of success being advised by various bystanders waving lackadaisical hands in vaguely forward directions, I drove directly into a Stasiun Polisi and woke up a couple of polisi tidur (the real things, not concrete bumps on an asphalt road). An alert constable with regulation Eric Estrada moustache and sunglasses consulted others of Bangli's finest, the janitor, etc. and came to the conclusion after much deliberation that the tempat in question was just around the corner. He mounted his sepeda motor and bade us follow. I turned in the station car park, drove out the entrance and he was gone, to Lombok for all I knew. Finally we tracked him down after the next turn left from the station. The field was indeed close and we are in his eternal debt for a police escort. I trust he had a restful afternoon after our rude intrusion on his slumbers. Finally, there was a HHH sign outside the football grounds, excellent. If getting there is half the fun, we had a ball.
This was not the only time we had "intercourse" with law enforcement that day. Earlier on the Sanur Bypass I was pulled over by that same admirable body of persons for the 8th time in a month. A solemn faced officer signaled me to roll down the window and demanded my "papers" in a tone that suggested I had committed some hideously grave infraction. I leaned over unbuckling my seatbelt to get to the glove box. "No seatbelt! " he exclaimed pointing at my upper body as if a cobra had appeared there. I'm afraid my already ignited fuse reached the explosives and I leapt from the driver's seat shouting 6 inches from his nose "I just took it off to get the fucking license and you saw me. We were stationary at the time, you…." He reacted by taking the license and registration to his superior officer who pointed at the expiry date of 2014 and said "Wrong year". "Don't be ridiculous" I snapped, tore the documents from his grasp and stalked off. Probably not the most advisable things to do when dealing with people who can put you in a third world jail, but there you have it, I was not apprehended.
What is wrong with these guys? Did they not recently suffer international embarrassment due to the Dutch documentary/phone camera/beer episode? Will they risk anything including homicidal expats to get Rp150.000 out of a buleh on a trumped charge while a family of six locals with no helmets cruises past with impunity?
Anyhow, about the run, what run? Oh, that run. It seems that most of the runners had been sent off 15 minutes before we arrived at 4.30. As the Major in "Fawlty Towers" said "Why do I bother?". "Didn't know you did, Major" as Fawlty said. There seemed to be more French folk than you could shake a baguette at as we trotted through the pleasantly quiet streets of Bangli and out into the emerald padis. The frogs had come out of the woodwork, so to speak. I wouldn't have known any of them if they had bobbed up in my onion soup: mothers and kids etc. and some quite trim maters at that I must say. How do the bastards stay so trim and svelte eating all that creamy, buttery tucker that Keith Floyd used to cook while downing a bottle of Bordeaux in the fields of Provence? Who knows?
The countryside around Bangli was really quite beautiful, lush river valley and cool shady jungle groves, cooling river waters. The ups and downs however were a bit brutal however and I had buggered myself driving around in circles by turns screaming and imprecating with policemen. It was no good, I was all in and it was all I could do to keep up with les enfants and la femmes. The paper also got a bit stringy from time to time stretching my taut patience. About 15 of us followed some idiot off paper after the "on in" and we somehow ended up in the middle of town again with no idea where the football field was – and getting the same dazed reaction from the locals. Maybe the whole place is an asylum.
Finally back at the B.F.G. we discovered that Spook had somehow managed to ram a tree up his nose and was taken to Bangli Hospital from where he promptly discharged himself and made a bee line to Bali Royal in Renon. I don't blame him.
La Cirque at first teemed with frogs as Grand Master Night Jar dispensed with vierges, visitors etc. in his usual Sart Major style which is dependably frightening for the circle inmates in the circle and hilarious to the spectators. In fine and well oiled voice he gave us "Ou Et Le Papier?" which went noticeably unsung by the amphibious ones. By the time Wooden Eye did "Aloueta", a call and response number which included references to the testes of the singer nesting on the chin of the female victim, the leap of frogs had dwindled to a shuffle. Jangle Balls performed The Dung Beatles "Michelle" (Ma belle, can I shove my pomme de terre up your derriere, or your fruits de la mer?) to virtually himself. Not a big beer drinker, the old kodok. The pissed up Anglos and Chindos enjoyed enjoyed themselves though.
On on to Konkorde's moonscape run next Saturday. You know, I'm beginning to miss Pejeng and Tegallalang, even Mr. Pickles. O where o where can he be?
