September 2014 | By: Scrooble The Scrotable Scribbling, Dribbling Scribe
“Tunon, Turn in, Drop Out"
Arriving at the generously proportioned but plastic strewn car park in Tunon and making our way up the cement walkway across a stream and to the eccentric cluster of constructions that would be our launching point last Saturday, it became gradually apparent that Rabid Mangy Dog was somehow associated with affairs at this event despite his lack of appearance on the Hash map. In pride of place amidst semi-derelict buildings festooned with amateurishly rendered Disney characters and an old bath tub lying on the ground, was a sign board pronouncing the “daftar harga obat” (medicine price list) for an impressive array of healing herbs. “Hey wait a minute” I thought to myself aloud. “Doesn’t Kenny live in Tunon? Is he not involved with generally alternative treatments? Isn’t he about to address the crowd?” Yes he does, yes he is, and yes he was.
His rambling announcement could have been an incantation for all we knew, but it gradually became clear that we were the guests of some kind of healing centre. A smiling and incredibly diminutive Ibu looking like a dusky Tinker Bell in tiny jeans was invoked and introduced and it was made even clearer that herbs, massages and makanan were available. Rabid Mangy’s kindly intentions, of course, were impeccable even when he introduced the impossibly noble notion that Hashers on this run (and perhaps all runs, it was intimated) should perform a public service by collecting trash in large bags made of thick woven plastic of which he had a few samples for volunteers and which looked like the average Hasher could easily fit into and be completely closed up inside of, perhaps for an interesting and longer variation of the bag race. Who knew?
The ever pragmatic Mud Flaps put forth that perhaps the bags were a tad too voluminous for the purpose of garbage collecting/hashing and suggested something a little more appropriately sized, such as your average shopping plastic bag, some of which were rustled up (you don’t have to go far anywhere in Bali to find these, the adjacent car park for example) and thus it was compromised and decreed that the Inaugural Garbage Collecting Hash would proudly take wing.
Quite honestly, I don’t really know whether it was R.M.D. or Ibu Tinker Bell whose concept the whole thing was, but it is a commendable, positive and laudable suggestion indeed. I have only two (TWO!) reservations: 1. Nothing short of an operation on the scale of, say Dunkirk or the construction of The Great Giza Pyramids would put much of a dent in the Bali garbage problem at this point. Any efforts on our level of competence would amount to a fart in a hurricane. 2. I’m not sure it is or should be in the purview of Bali HHH2 to take on the role of flag bearers for civic responsibility. We are after all, a drinking club with a running problem. But the thought was definitely there.
Labia gathered all we little Hash majoras and minoras and sent us chasing a live hare out into the wilds of Tunon. Take note future trail makers: A LIVE HARE. I always approve mightily of these, which foil the evil designs of half the field from getting back early, getting a full head of Bali Hai steam and being uncontrollably loud and obnoxious during the circle. It was a damned fine run if you ask me, and if you don’t. There was plenty of great paddy and distance views, not a preponderance of asphalt or kampong, the checks and the backs weren’t too ridiculous and it was timed to perfection, even if some of the FRBs got back before many short runners. So, great job Coco Pops and Serial Offender though there was quite a bit of, well, garbage.
The part that I particularly enjoyed was a quaint, shady, rocky dell with water sloshing and spraying out of bamboo pipes into a dawdling stream. But being a bumblefuck, I also almost lost it, slipped on a rock and came close to cracking my fuckwhistle head on one as well. It’s an abiding mystery and certified Wonder of the Modern World that injuries caused by this kind of thing don’t actually happen often on the Hash.
It’s high time we laid down a few ground rules for survival and first aid:
Determine if the victim is conscious by singing a line or two of anything from the Barry Manilow song book. If the victim is still compis mentis he or she will attempt to slap you stupid.
Look for symptoms such as an inability of the victim’s eyes to follow your moving finger, or a tree branch sticking out of either eye socket
If there are detached limbs lying more than half a kilometer away, apply direct pressure
If the victim appears to be choking, induce vomiting by making him or her watch an episode of “Jerseyliscious” or show them a promotional “head shot’’ of either or both Kardashians
That should do it.
The circle was a rowdy affair this week, early starters or not. Virgins, visitors, returners, naming sessions were all but inaudible above the inebriated multi decibel cat calling and heckling. Labia and Jangle Balls had to use a level of address usually associated with gauchos on the pampas of Argentina or drill sergeants at Duntroon. The standout attraction was a comely lass from the Fort Lauderdale (more commonly known as Liquerdale) Hash who managed to disgust even dancing Queen with her mercurially tasteless and almost nauseating songs. Jaded Hashers were turning visibly green (ha!) during her refrains, which were delivered in the purest of sweet operatic tones. It was like a horror movie.
Jokes (some good ones if you could hear them) and songs were bellowed at the crowd, but alas, the beast had its own way this week and you may as well have been conducting a funeral service at the bottom of Niagra Falls. I personally would like mine conducted there as long as it is done entirely in a fake upper class British accent by Labia. He, and my ashes, are to be flown back to Bali and scattered over the beer truck (not him scattered over… oh, never mind).
We wove our ways down to the car park, through the strewn plastic bags, which were amazingly, still there. Oh well, on on, and see you next week at Umalas.
On on
