October 2014 | By: Scrooble The Scrotable Scribbling, Dribbling Scribe
"Down in the Not Too Badlands"
Bruce Springsteen made an album called “Badlands’’ and it was also an extremely popular reference used in Spaghetti and Non-Spaghetti Westerns (Tagliatelli and Vermicelli Westerns for example) to identify rocky, dusty, mesa, cactus and rattlesnake-filled territory. You would be lucky to find a cactus or a rattlesnake in some of these Badlands, in which case you would be in the Worselands, Worstlands or Downright Appallinglands. Some unfortunate victim of a Clint Eastwood squint would be the receiver of tidings concerning the Badlands such as “I’m headed for the Badlands, Mister, but I need that there hoss ‘a’ yours”, delivered through a clenched jaw and chewed cigarillo, massive piece of artillery insinuating itself into the discussion, dangling from his upper thigh.
Bali has its own version of the Badlands, but because Bali is Bali and even the worst volcanic moonscape on the Island of the Gods is still fairly attractive or interesting, or not far from somewhere attractive or interesting, its Badlands are in fact Not Too Bad At All Lands (unless of course you are on The Dark Side, which is an entirely different proposition, let’s not even go there, shall we?) Last Saturday’s run took place in the aforementioned N.T.B.A.A.L. from a vast car park full of swirling dust, ocean-side at Sabah and Hared by Long and Strong and Chippie in honour of St. Crispin’s Day. This particular sainted individual is a Shakespearian and historical figure, who (some of us live in ignorance) I’d never heard of. He was evidently beatified for killing a shitload of French people in a battle, which demonstrates the depth of the divide between Dover and Calais, not to mention the kind of humanitarian posture traditionally associated with extremely pious leanings.
Anyway, in the lack of either Hash Masters, a Grand Master or for that matter an official R.A. or even Co or Deputy R.A., the Hares sent us out along the black sand volcanic beach adjacent a reasonably well behaved and steel blue-grey ocean, then left, inland (the other options being straight ahead to Candidasa or right to Nusa Penida) across a further expanse of dusty, treeless waste until, Hey Presto, Sim Sala Bim, Abraca flamin’ Dabra, there we were smack bang in the middle of rice paddy and palm tree land! We did pass a few (spine chilling, blood curdling scream) “projects”, a sight in Bali of which I am now heartily sick and majorly nauseated by, but generally speaking the surrounds were relatively green and easy on the eye, albeit a tad dry.
The paper was sensibly laid and it wasn’t the Hares’ fault if some of us chatted away airily and thus strayed off it a couple of dozen times. I know I did but my excuse is that it was bloody hot and I was thus not in a sprinting frame of mind, more one of eloquent rumination to anyone bored or stupid enough to listen. Some Hashers were put off by the stroll up a muddy stream and under Jalan Professor Doctor Major General Admiral All-Round Super Hero and Nice Guy Ida Bagus Sumantra, but this didn’t make me anywhere near as revolted as sighting yet another half built hotel or villa. Back down to the beach and an elaborately painted sunset, a brisk stroll on the sleek, silicon sand and, Bob’s a doughnut, on in to the car park and a hugely welcome bevvo. Well done Hares Lippy and Chong and Strong, I mean Strippy and Chong and Long, good run in the Badlands boys, and thanks.
It was touch and go last Saturday as to whether we were going to make Hash history, have no circle at all and go straight into Social Drinking. Nobody seemed too keen on taking the reins and prospective stand-in Hash Masters were hiding under towels in the backs of cars, under the beer truck, burying themselves on the beach etc.in order to go unnoticed. Finally Spook took the controls and saved the day, and it turned into one of the best dang circles ever mustered.
Everybody but everybody took a stab at it: Chippie and The long One reenacted St Crispin’s battle and slaughtered a token Frog with a small plastic toy bow and arrow, good shots too, right between the eyes. Jangle Balls ran amok with a plastic sword, Cane Rat told a multi punch lined Italian joke and Franger, Undies and contingent from the Perth Hash contributed many ditties and endured multiple icings. These Perth Hashers may have resembled I.S.I.S. members or Madonna’s dance troupe in their black shorts and matching “tops” but they didn’t behead anybody or perform movements that resembled people having sex with invisible partners while receiving both barrels of a shotgun blast up the jacksie. Speaking of which, in one of Chippy’s many circle appearances that evening, he sweetly rendered one of the most touchingly romantic couplets ever contrived from “These Foolish Things”, and I feel moved to reproduce it here:
“A used French letter in a London taxi
A whiff of syphilis from a horse’s jacksie”
Isn’t that arresting? Or perhaps he should have been arrested for singing it. This circle will go down as one of the most unplanned, spontaneous, outrageously good BHHH2 circles ever. The uproarious hyena cackling must have disturbed dogs as far away as Irian Jaya.
So, from the sublime to the ridiculous or vice-versa next week and we’ll see you for Whitebait’s Tampaksiring episode, thousands of kilometers from anywhere, which reminds us that there’s more than one reason to describe somewhere as the Badlands.
On on,
J.B.
