June 2014 | By: Scrooble The Scrotable Scribbling, Dribbling Scribe
“Some Garddamned Thing Must Be Comin’ Up"
Was the quotable quote last Saturday issuing from an American hasher whose name(s) I’m afraid I’m not yet aware of and who looks kind of like a taller version of Crazy Dave, and is definitely an ectomorph very much along the lines of The Crazed One. I’m fairly certain, though, of his mental stability as compared to the aforementioned David of extremely dubious acuity. The above comment was uttered wheezingly as we were around twenty minutes into one of the most brutally winding, agonizing, arduous uphill narrow asphalt slogs ever experienced on Bali Hash House Harriers TWO, for fuck’s sake, on the steep slopes of Bukit Tengah just east and south of Klungkung. Steep? To all in tents and circuses this particular bukit was almost comically conical.
We were surrounded by lavishly spectacular views from on high which we knew were there but couldn’t actually see properly being hemmed in by low lying trees, scrubby bush, tall grass (padang galak) and lantana. This was a frustration and tiredness of the kind experienced when you’re too drunk to cum or you’re trying to sell a house with “ocean glimpses” if you stand on the roof. You just have to keep pushing until you come to some kind of exhausted inevitable conclusion (which would be a great name for a rock band, specifically the Rolling Stones or perhaps the Grateful Dead, about whom I’ve always said I’ll be grateful when they’re dead). Which we did, come to a conclusion I mean.
All of a sardine we were standing path side staring through a long awaited break in the vegetation at an extravagantly sweeping vista across paddys and river and further out across the Badung Straits to Nusa Penida and Lembongan, knuckles planted on hips and jaws agape. I was dumbstruck, or perhaps in my case just struck, the dumb being taken for granted, it truly was worth the effort, effort what effort? That was forgotten about probably a lot faster than it took to wheel heads to the left side of the view consisting of mile upon mile of just the kind of verdantly scrubby foothill we were perched currently on, stretching north to Candidasa and beyond.
So hats off to Dancing Queen and his Monkey Balls or is it Monkey Queen and his Dancing Balls, not to mention Cunning Linguist, who apparently gets spoken to in tongues. Bloody good run and an amazing find, if you ignore the part where everybody ended up in Klungkung having missed the sign strategically placed on the ground at the turnoff to Bukit Tengah and asking dumbfounded locals where that very bukit was located. Nobody, but nobody we spoke to in Klungkung and environs had ever heard of it. I did eventually come across an ancient Ibu on the run later who when I asked, simply replied “Jauh” as if that explained everything. I suppose it would be jauh if you’d been sitting on the same piece of roadside grass for the last 35 years almost within view of the bloody thing.
Aaannyywaay, the barrel Bali High certainly went down a treat after said excursion, and kept going down a treat and then going down some more treats, and well, a shitload of treats. All this while a very good circle indeed was being conducted by in turn Labia, who seems to be less inclined to take any shit in the form of talking hashers these days, Grand Master Night Jar, Colonel Bloodnok, a returned and refreshed Jangle Balls and of course Dancing Queen, the belle of the ball, going for a down down record on this the Swedish National Day run. The D Day invasion was observed by a grateful Night Jar with down downs for several allies including a couple of Croatians (I don’t know quite how they fitted in to the scheme of things) and a Manchurian (who I do know how). Bloodnok was in sterling voice and speaking of the vocal arts, Jangle Balls held an Abba quiz with Abba CD prizes all the way from the land of the midnight sun, Surabaya. Swedish jokes were told and jokes were told by Swedes (gay ones of course, jokes that is, not Swedes).
It was a smorgasbord of fun, laughs, songs and yes, pickled herrings outside the Pura that night. It is a very quiet, forested area indeed up in them thar hills, in fact I think we may have run over a family of Sasquatch on the way down the winding road. Just kidding (it may have been my suspension). It’s funny how those things, along with unicorns, get sighted all the time but never leave any droppings nor appear in the fossil record (not my suspension, but it’s getting close).
I personally think it’s somehow related and possibly attributable to the intake of Bali Hai, myself. Getting Hai in Bali, I think it’s called. Har. We retired to a venue that I can only say sounds like “The Wicked Claret” where a Tri Hashalon party was in full swing and if you happened to ask, you may have got a free beer or two, not that I would know anything about that.
On on.
