February 2014 | By: The Scrotable Scribe
This Whole Joint Ain’t on the Level…'
For some reason the Hash map to Bukit Jati is more of a leap of imagination than a handy little helper, and getting there using it as an only reference is more a leap of faith than a straight forward tootle. I am fully cognisant of the fact that most of the Hash maps are kind of a “form” map inherited by the current cartographer, but this one is so wildly out of proportion as to be a surrealist canvas of the mapping world in the school of Salvador Dali. I half expected to see limp and hanging clocks draped over Ibu’s Warung and Wayan’s Bengkel on the side of the road to the Gianyar traffic lights, Picasso chickens scattering before the Taruna.
This impression wasn’t dispelled either by the near complete absence of HHH signs anywhere on the way to the site from Sanur to a couple of clicks before Bukit Jati. Yes, yes, I know we’ve been here before and miraculously everybody and their dogs (you know who you are) got there as well, but I think it bears a mention. We were never what you would call “lost”, but kind of faintly confused in a tense way. As I’ve said before, it’s not like I pop up to Bukit Jati for a packet of Mr. Potato Crisps and a Snickers Bar after work.
The car park was suddenly upon us, or should I say that we were suddenly in the middle of the outback Bali version of a multi-story car park, which included roads, jungle, a goat and maybe three or even four levels of whatever the vaguely civic looking building complex adjacent was, jungle, randomly placed concrete stairs, gardens and yep, jungle. The beer truck was two levels up in this format from a sizeable wantilan which, rumours swirled through the gathering crowd, was to be used for the advertised food, music, dancing, games and transvestitism… I must say there was plenty of car parking, if you cared to look for it. I don’t know if we found it all. There may have been another level or two somewhere.
A returned Labia announced two runs to a biggish crowd, no doubt drawn by tee shirts etc. and the prospect of beholding expat blokes, middle aged, and balding, bearded, hairy nostrilled, eared and otherwise, dressed in their wives and girlfriends’ dresses, underwear and lippy. It was, the short anyway, a very acceptable run indeed with all the attractions of a more elevated location but not so distant. There were pretty bukits to look at all over the place – up close and far off - and some mighty big trees as well in this area. A quite deep waterfall or two materialised along the way, quaint dells and dales and toward the end of the run, a very passable view across a ridge of a sandalwood mini forest crowned by palm thickened jungle and huge trees all on one of the many rugged hilly formations. The paper wasn’t exactly plentiful in parts nor very consistent, but there was very little garbage, kampong, asphalt or anjing2 with which to be troubled.
One of the highlights of the run was a glimpse into the fashion world of cow owners and feeders: modeled to perfection by one svelte, mature gent engaged in this pursuit was an ensemble of an extremely tight wrap around loincloth topped off with a zippered plastic fanny pack around his waist, the risqué outfit set off by a woven bamboo hat on a rakish angle. This would have caused quite the stir on runways of Milan and Paris, teeth or no teeth on the part of the model. Well, considering what passes for “fashion” in those sophisticated locations, it wouldn’t surprise me.
Speaking of fashion statements, at the On In we all received a pleasant surprise in the form of a singlet tank top made of nuclear coloured knitted plastic fabric administered from the back of a vehicle by none other than the Hare herself, the lovely Valentine. While this was a very fine touch indeed and wholly well-intentioned, the illustration on said knit was one of the most bizarrely semi-pornographic renditions ever seen adorning a Hash garment, and that’s saying something. Let’s just say you probably wouldn’t wear it to a Royal wedding reception on the lawn at Buck House, or if you did, your presence there would not be long lived.
Back at the first (?) second (?) third (?) level of the car park, Labia tried in vain to initiate a circle but gave up and let the crowd drift down to the wantilan for the promised attractions. There were some hilarious looking entrants in the cross dressers competition and a few worryingly convincing ones (mainly of a certain Gallic persuasion that won’t be identified). The best man, as it were, won and let it never be said that he was from the ranks of the same certain ethnicity, even though he was.
The entertainment continued with limbo and hanging sausage eating competitions but the main event of the evening was on the beer truck level in the form of Whykickanenema, who made a false move and ended up performing a double rollover and pike all the way to the bottom level two or three levels down through garden and jungle growth. “Level of difficulty, eight and a half!” shouted the judges and awarded him the Gold. Especially as he had managed to resurface with his beer glass intact. I guess you had to be there to see that he had his priorities right.
And so as the beer ran down to bottles yet again with thirsty hashers aplenty still present, we bade a fond farewell to that fateful bukit, its gender assignment confusion and its amateur “level” divers (har).
On On next week to I don’t know yet but the Hare is Lost and Found, which will be interesting.
On on.
