October 2013 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
Ein Kleiner Nacht Musik
It must be remembered, at least for the time being, that G.P.S. systems in vehicles are a tool and are only as effective as the tool who is using them. Thus we find 18- wheelers in Arizona flinging themselves off non – existent bridges into fast moving bodies of water, grooms at Lithuanian street weddings being dragged some distance attached, against their will, to the under carriage of a Hertz rental car, and of course country priests in rural Ireland being pursued by Land Rovers down the aisles of their churches. We are not totally surprised at the last example given the ubiquity and strength of the Liffey water on said isle. Last Saturday we thought we'd give a Sat Nav a burst and entrusted it into the hands of a high tech enthusiast of a tender 15 years of age.
It was incredible and displayed our conveyance represented as a moving dot, unfailingly directing us at every turn on a route that it believed was the most direct and therefore most rapid to the Margarana War Heroes cemetery, site of last week's hash. We arrived in an amazing TWO HOURS – a journey that took our co – leavers and non - G.P.S. bearing fellow hashers from Sanur under 60 minutes. Never mind. It kept our young passenger, who would otherwise be bored out of his skull listening to a couple of old farts rambling on in the front seats, engrossed and engaged for the aforementioned period. The problem is that the system does not take into account that this is indeed Bali, and the most direct route loyally displayed in pixel form doesn't yet indicate 10 ton trucks parked in the middle of the road, inexplicable snarls on tiny, narrow meandering back roads, police "expediting" traffic etc. etc. In other words, it does exactly what my sopir does every time I am stupid enough to allow him to take ''short cuts" for my benefit.
Anyway, we made it in plenty of time (just as well we took off early) to hear the hash master let us know that the short was to be an hour and 15-minute affair and the long to be a 2- hour plus excursion; and we cantered off following early leavers by a period of variously 20 to 30 minutes. I don't know, every time I hear the 2 hour plus utterance concerning the long I must confess thinking to myself: "Isn't an hour and a half long enough for them, an hour and three quarters? It's the tropics for Christ's sake. It'll be almost dark in two and a bit hours?" Little wonder indeed that those of careful natures, advanced years, degenerating parts, female persuasions etc. wimp out on us and piss off early. Although there's not much excuse for doing it on the short and those that do this should, in the words of the Maharishi, examine themselves.
Now this is a pleasant enough run as we all know, possibly too well, and after all it's an unmitigated pleasure and balm on the brain to get out into wide open spaces and really, really quiet in this case, areas such as these. The paddies especially are expansive out this way and there is some lovely green undulating topography. It's so quiet out here I felt like an interloper just listening to the sound of my hash shoes, slap, slap, slapping on the country concrete paths and once or twice had to quash the urge to say SHHHHHH a cow or passer by. Even distant flocks of herons were silent as the grave. "A Flock of Herons", would that be a good name for a rock band? How about "A Flock of Hairdressers"? There was a band in the 80s called " A Flock of Seagulls" that I thought looked more like "A Pack of Wankers", but how easily I find myself off paper and how little to say about this run (why do wankers always travel in packs, anyway?).
It really is arresting, though, coming into view of the graves of the fallen as it is just about anywhere in the world in places like this; and like anywhere in the world you can't help but fall into a respectful and contemplative hush, not in small part marvelling at mankind's innate inability to avoid wars and wasted lives. Perhaps this is why the extended area around the gravesite is so very, very quiet.
Which it was anything but at circle's height later that evening. What a cast of musical merry makers were paraded before an appreciative audience of loud Yeigermeister gargling Tuetons: the Grand Master himself with a rousing "I Don't Want to Join the Army" no doubt in honour of the onlooking former foe. The Penguin put on a hilarious Germanic sounding "That's What They Taught Me When I Went to School" though there were some diversions of a decidedly Caledonian lilt, Marlene Dietrich goes to Aberdeen. Jangle Balls took up the flag, though we're not sure which one, with an ode to a stand in Wooden Eye (Comes Up) regaling us with "It Don't Have a Wooden Eye" ("Ein kleiner hand, ein kleiner sock, ein kleiner oil, ein kleiner cock, just like a cuckoo clock, but it don't have a wooden eye"). The krauts were getting more voluble and J.B. mentioned the war, but he thinks he got away with it.
Rabid Mangy Dog dressed as the Fuhrer, but what else would he do? Several industrious Hash burghers provided us with delicious burgers and fraus, frankfurters etc. It was an all round oom pah pah success. Even lederhosen was provided for those that didn't have any, such as Muddy Man and that may have been the year's most incongruous sight. Mud Flaps certainly suited hers or vice versa (perhaps there's a yodeller in her family closet). If not they (the hosen) certainly did encourage various yodelling methods.
Ya, ya it vas all goot unt many shteins mitt much bier vere enchoyed by all manner of Danish, American, Dutch, Australian, British and Indonesian Germans, pretty much as usual.
On unt on
