Bali Hash House Harriers 2

“Up To Our Rusty Sherriff’s Badges in Mud and Water,”
Or “Left at the Cow Shed!”

Last week’s instalment concerned high winds, arboreal carnage and pretentious homosexual lyrics from a musical Western (“They Call the Wind Mariah” from “Paint Your Gay Person”, no I mean “Pain Your Waggin”, no I mean “Paint Your Wagon”). Following the logic from this ludicrous musical excursion into gay and lesbian weather patterns and natural disasters, not that there’s anything wrong with that, as Gerry Seinfeld so memorably remarked; this week’s instalment will concern “Tess’’ or rain, or hujan. Hopefully, next week’s won’t be “Joe” or fire, or api. Anygay, sorry I mean way, let’s get to the meat (oops) of the subject at hand (oh, no). Enough of this political correctness.

Saturday’s run at Laplapan was set with every possible good intention for St. Taffy’s Day by Welchers, Welshmen, that is, Wooden Eye, Disco Wanker and St. Tits, who is about as Welsh as Jackie Chan. Never mind, they did their absolute utmost to adorn Hari Dai with as good as possible a run as they could muster. Alas, the best laid plans of mice and Welsh rarebit often go askew as I’m afraid they did on that fateful hari. The vagaries of Bali weather, specifically Tess, was the culprit. She had basically pissed down so much during and since laying of paper that what would have been a damp doddle across a trickling stream for example had become a raging and deadly torrent, a struggle with the Reaper himself. At the turnoff to the short, six feet plus of Blow Joe’s lanky frame all but disappeared to rib height as he committed himself to the crossing then had a sudden change of heart and scrambled pronto back onto weir side concrete.

All five feet five of me counselled myself to fuggin’ forget it, and struggled up a ludicrously steep grade made sloppier than cow pucky by the earlier downpour; wildly grasping desperado-like at unstable stubby greenery climbing like an escaped prisoner to paddy level and the remainder of the long. Blow Joe and Wankervitch announced their intention to “try to cross upstream”, and the thought “fuggin’ forget it” crossed my desk for the second time in less than ten minutes.

Now, I’m not a long runner as my avid (ha! Perhaps gravid) readers know; a faint sense of foreboding stole over me as it started raining in earnest and I could barely see my own shorts let alone where the fuck I was going in the slop and muck of the trampled sawa. The pack had separated quite considerably by this time and I found myself alternately following and leading two Harriets with dogs running hither and thither all over the shop including underfoot, growling, whining and spinning around, no doubt a bit confused themselves – the dogs that is, not the girls, at least I’m pretty sure it was the dogs but it was hard to see in the rain. The paper was all but invisible and things were starting to look bleak when Wooden Eye appeared out of the swirling mist and thunderous torrent as an apparition shouting “Left at the cow shed!” in his rain cape like a scene from a war movie and gesticulating to a distant barely visible construction. Thank Christ he showed up, I probably wouldn’t even have considered the cow shed as an option if I’d been able to identify, see it or get to it.

Blow Joe and Wankervitch also materialized again having failed miserably but bravely at their upstream crossing and were also directed to the cow shed, along with saturated dogs and girls (a good name for a hip hop band - specifically the Black Eyed Peas). Anyway, I trust this excerpt of Saturday’s run will impart the general “atmosphere” of proceedings what with a heavy Tess upon us in the performance of our labors. Having taken the required left it wasn’t too long before dragging our sopping arses into the sea of mud that was the car park. It wasn’t exactly Kintamani all over again, though Disco Wanker’s teeth were visibly and audibly chattering on his return from haring duties, as wet as a shag (the bird, you dirty bastards) before we even started. It had its moments, some of high adventure and fun and some of abject misery like any Bali Hash 2 (TWO!) really, only more so.

Pies were supplied at the end of the outing by (D.W. I believe) and we furiously gobbled them down like ravenous survivors of a plane crash, I was going to say choose your Malaysian airline, but nobody survives those. Labia called us to order and we schlepped and schlopped through the returner, visitor and virgin down-down drills shoe deep in lumpur giving full-throated support to his ministrations in the form of beer and song. We all felt better after a few Bali Hais, even better after a few more then pretty bloody good the one after that. D.W. was meting out punishment to hashers as far as I could tell for being the parents of French children and to children for having French parents.

It was all tres jolie and the ambience was wildly improved in a famille-oriented way until Jangle Balls regaled us with sheep shagging songs vivdly enacted with an inflatable lamb that was conveniently located on the jug table; and a litany of jokes guaranteed to offend everyone (but Hashers, and apparently French children who enjoyed his wild thrustings, base gesticulations and prurient japes immensely, I don’t know about the French parents though).

So our deepest thanks to all the Chinese / American / Scottish / French / Indonesian and Australian eisteddfod winning Welshmen and women who helped us enjoy Leek Day; weathering the weather whatever the weather all together, whether we liked it or not.

See you at Canggu this Saturday.

On on

J.B