August 2013 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
Nightmare on Jalan Ngurah Rai
As all before us who had innocently trod the road to Hell, good intentions were our prime motivator. Last week we had given ourselves much too much time to get to Sembang shooting range and were hanging around like spare pricks at a wedding, or maybe even stale bottles of piss, in the car park, waiting for events to unfold (yawn). This week we blithely took to the bypass at 3pm, a more realistic departure time, breezing along the wacky cartoon two level asphalt laughing and joking like, as it turned out, the idiots we were.
At first the traffic started to slow, then thicken, and then crawl until there was a sea of bobbing helms and glinting side mirrors ahead, a sludge of cars, giant buses and trucks as far as the eye could see. What was the hold up? A polisi check point? An upacara? An alien landing? A Beatles reunion? Miley Cyrus twirking? No, no, no, no nooooooo. Of course, it was a massive 10 ton truck that had broken its axle and sheared its back left wheel off. Two sweating individuals were extremely busy unloading from it, shovelful by shovelful, about 20 tons of limestone into an identically huge second but evidently functioning truck in the middle of the road, while several constables milled around "policing the area". How do these driver guys do this shit? Wouldn't you think that a noise coming from the rear axle that sounded like a cross between the parting of the Red Sea and the sound track to "Poltergeist II" would convey an inkling that all was not well in the vehicular department? Don't ask.
Bottom line was, after an angst - filled drive nervously checking our watches every 2 minutes we were 15 minutes late, quickly parked, leapt out of the Avanza as if it was about to explode and took off like scalded cats down the concrete steps adjacent the temple and enormous banyan. I love this spot, never tire of it. For a start I love that tree. Isn't it funny how they all grow next to temples? Why is that? Sobongan is a magic area and there were more cute little nooks and crannies on the run than there are crooks and nannies in Bali. Around every corner was some quaint dell, incredibly long concrete padi path, bamboo stand festooned with draping overhang from some exotic tree whose name I've been here long enough to know but don't because I'm a lazy bastard, etc.
At the top of a set of jungle steps I chanced upon an older rather thin local gent with an ensemble that defied imagination. Did anybody else see this guy? I thought I was hallucinating. He had one of those white linen jackets (nothing underneath) you see in 1930's British colonial movies (albeit a tad tatty) and for some reason I felt an urge for Kentucky Fried Chicken. The effect was only slightly diminished by a pair of Rip Curl board shorts, and a pair of thongs. He even had a kind of pencil thin moustache like David Niven, which was also only slightly diminished by a facial wart with hairs growing out of it. He opened his mouth and I half expected a line such as "Lydiah, A'hm having an affaih with Cynthiah", but all I got was "Hello Mister". I wanted to wrestle him to the ground and take his jacket; I've been looking for one of those since 1983. However, I didn't think this would go over too well with the other villagers, so I just turned back to make sure he wasn't pouring himself a cocktail while I wasn't looking, and jogged off. The things you see on the Hash, I rarely fail to be astounded.
We weren't the only late comers and I was soon joined by a returning Worm who, as I promised to mention, threatened to urinate on me while standing in the middle of a check around hosing away to his heart's content, and Wooden Eye who informed me he had just eaten a quesadilla. I didn't hang around to find out what kind of effect that would have on him after the Worm trauma. The short run turned out to be a mere 35 minutes long but made up for its brevity in its sheer beauty; I could have kept going until I dropped. A sincere thanks to hare Sapi Gila, what there was of it was great.
The circle was also a brief affair; the piss ran out early and so did we, basically. Highlights were Labia, whose Beery Bush seems to be growing in leaps and bounds, defiling virgins and Wooden Eye severely and hilariously icing a disrespectful and none too bright looking Aussie specimen for, well, being what I just said. Excerpt, whilst offender was on ice: W.E.: "If you can't tell us a joke then sing us an Abba song." Offender: "What's Abba?" W.E.: "Aborigine, mate." Low lights were Jangle Balls and his Dung Beatle (that he keeps in his pocket) doing "Bummer Obama" from "Scabby Road" and informing the crowd that St Tits couldn't be there as he was attending the birth of his future wife. A more sober crowd than we are used to being recovered our conveyances and exited stage left hoping to Christ that there would be nothing in the genus "Truckus Fuckupius" on the way home...
On on
