November 2013 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
Have you been Pejeng Again? Wash your Hands!'
For no apparent reason, the traffic was a breeze on Saturday practically all the way to the big P. There was momentary concern being passed by a truck with a load of teetering large rocks stacked high enough to menace commercial aviation, but other than that prosaic and everyday heart attack, a dream drive with a perfectly comprehensible map, and at least visible signs (one of which said “BHHH ONE”, oh well, you can’t have everything). We did have an amiable conversation with a local dog while parked opposite an Indomaret in Northern Mas stocking up with Snickers and Beng Beng bars, Coke Zero and other healthy items (us, not the dog), which went something like this: “roof roof”, “he must be talking about those roofing tiles stacked over there”, “bark, bark,”, “he’s probably discoursing on that tree trunk in front of him”, “riff raff, riff raff” “I think that’s aimed at us”. Ho.
A familiar launch site confronted us in Pejeng outside the temple and next to the volley ball court (tempat polly fall for those of you who may be of the Indonesian persuasion). There was plenty of loitering time having arrived in an Official Olympic Record Time for Getting to a Bali Hash 2 by Taruna. And loiter we did until the inevitable call to pay heed to His Hash Master’s Voice. “An ahr an’ an arf’s walk for the shor’, an’ I cahn’ tell you “ow long’s the long, because the fahkin’ ‘are ain’t back yet” Labia glottally addressed us.
What followed was one of the most chaotic episodes ever witnessed on BHHH2. Because one of the hares was indeed not back (the other one was busy taking a nap), there was a kind of a live hare start without a hare. Certainly there was no paper for the first 150 yards nor did anybody have the faintest idea where to look for it. Thus we all overshot the turn off to the right and down to the river and kept going until someone shouted that the hare had been spotted returning toward us. We all did a 360°but then this intelligence proved faulty (it was only a rabbit) so we turned back again only to hear the the “on on” call behind us. Many of us succumbed to dizziness and dropped in dead faints to be trampled by another tide of ill - informed hashers, but the majority soldiered on.
Once the episode of the 60 stooges was over it proved a pretty good hash with some nice descents into running water and, with that, some pretty ups and downs. There were a few deep drops and because recent overgrowth some deceptive grass with no ground beneath it trailside, pretty close to precipitous gorges. You had to be on your toes and this tended to quicken the pulse a tad once or twice. At one point a clutch of sweating and aggressive young frogs pushed past me on a set of rocky and slippery steps shouting “Passeeng” leaving me waving my arms around for balance on about a tenth of a centimeter of step on the side of a 30 foot drop. To these “vagin”, these “tete de bite de la fromage” these consumairs of amphibian parts, I offer the followeeng advice: “Eet ees not ze competitteeon, muzzairfuckairs. Eef you want to pas, do eet in ze rice paddeez, not een meed-fuckeeng air, you mariolles!!!”
Well, having said that to the surrounding rocks, water and bamboo stands I pushed on through the expansive padis (where there was plenty of room to pass) and shortly after on in to a much appreciated and nerve steadying lager. It was immediately obvious that despite the fact that it was something of a Red Letter Day in the Scottish calendar, both Disco McWanker and Wooden McKay were conspicuous by their absinthe, sorry, absence and that these two stout Celts would be missing from the elaborate festivities that are St Andrew’s Day at Bali HHH2. The circle was once again a tepid affair, (though marginally better than last week) perhaps because of this unforgivable no-show.
We actually had a total of (count him) one Scot, The Penguin, who was quite literally a wee trooper and gave us a ditty or three; Grand Master Night Jar was self admittedly not all there (his ear was missing). Labia laboured and Jangle Balls did his jangledest to raise the spirits of the remainder of the crowd - to limited reaction. Some of J.B.’s lyrical aberrations were quite good e.g. in “Scotland the Gay”: “Cum where it really hurts, cum in your tartan skirts, cum in the mouth… of a Ben Nevis cave. Cum where the jocks are strapping, cum where the lochs are lapping”…he thought they were funny anyway. But he may as well have been singing to a collection of lawn furniture for all the engagement and appreciation he got.
Once again the keg ran out while the circle was still in motion convincing us even further that better Saturday nights in Pejeng had been had (the polly paul game opposite and up the road was more lively) and the beer truck was packing up…woeful. Let me say this hashers: if nobody gives a shit about the circle and won’t even allow it the dignity of listening let alone joining in, then it sure won’t be long before anybody who conducts the circle will no longer want to.
So how about it folks? Get involved. Yuk it up, let your hairs down, have some fun, goddammit! It’s not a Las Vegas review, but it is Bali Hash House Harriers TWO! (TWO!)
On on.
