Bali Hash House Harriers 2

“Why Do Birds Suddenly Disappear?”

I’m sure you remember that Puke-Fest version of Burt Bacharach and Hal David’s “Close to You” so winsomely performed by Karen Carpenter of “The Carpenters” (Were they Christians, perhaps? Otherwise the duo’s name would be a prime candidate for the Rock and Roll Hall of Lame, the song sure is). I could never grasp the full value of the lyrics of this musical exercise in nausea i.e. “Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are near?” Why would you want to persue a relationship with someone whose very presence heralds some kind of Hitchcock-esque avian horror movie scene? At the very least it sounds positively unhygienic, at worst, deadly. I witnessed the very opposite effect of this on the run at Sembung near Sangeh last Saturday, hared by the Brothers Spank my Spook Organ and ably assisted by Monkey Grinder.

You know how you sometimes see these gerry rigged bird-scarer set-ups out in the paddys, consisting of tin cans with pebbles in them strung across a field of rice on twine? One end of the twine is usually attached to an agitated Bapak or Ibu shaking the shit out of the string and cans and yelling their heads off in a traditional bawl meaning basically “Piss off, birds” to keep the feathered filchers away from their rice. (And who can blame them?) Well, an alternative anti-avian device seen in Saturday’s sawa was an absolute ball-tearer in its admirably original conception and stunning simplicity. Requiring no human parts at all, it consisted of sheets of super lightweight, super shiny metal sheeting attached to strung wire, which on the lightest of breezes waved around kicking up a cacophony like the death rattle of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. There wasn’t a bird to be seen for friggin’ miles. If the noise wasn’t enough to give the birdies the bum’s rush, the sun’s reflection off the metal would have struck them blind and sent them crashing headlong into the mud and dirt.

Speaking of Germans etc. the local folk living in the area of Sembung that we ran through on Saturday are dang industrious, innovative and hard-working, to all in tents and circuses (har). There was every conceivable type of crop from rice fields to small banana plant groves, peanuts, offering flowers, creepers and tubers of a positively bewildering array. Perspiring Ibu2 staggered under the weight of massive bundles of firewood, Bapak2 rode around on sepedas and sepeda motor2 carrying all kinds of vegetative commerce. These are the Ruhr Valley Germans of Bali, if you can imagine a stout, sausage powered Ruhr Valley Burgher relieved of his lieder hosen and feathered hat and tending his peanuts in a baggy pair of brown jocks and a bamboo topi. There was one agrarian facility toward the end of the run that boasted, and I’m not sure if this is the proper collective noun, a shitload of cows. I counted at least 12 bovine articles - more than your average jungle sapi shed, eh?

As well as all this absorbing agriculture and cow intensiveness, it was a beauty of a run, astutely chosen for its wide open spaces alternating with a lot of jungle sections, clearly marked with both paper and spray paint with well-timed and not even faintly ridiculous checks, so refreshing, a minimum of asphalt and kampong and so little garbage as to be not worth mentioning, (as in Sinatra’s “I Did It My Way” and his regrets, too few to mention, why mention them? I don’t know) but I’m seriously glad we were shown a different area last week, taking off in a different direction from the shooting range. We usually head off in the opposite one, but this was quite unexpectedly novel, so thanks again to the peerless trio of Spook Grinder, Organ My Monkey and Spank.

I do feel however, that I should apologize to the unfortunate young Harriet behind me at the bamboo bridge. Yes, I had consumed a few Heinekens the previous evening, and yes there was an intestinal gas build up problem exacerbated by jolting movement, but honestly I did check in what I thought was a thorough manner for anyone bringing up the rear. Neither did I myself (me) fully expect an anal outburst the length, verve and timbre of the opening to “The William Tell Overture”. I sincerely regret this brassy and tympanic expostulation. I know it’s too late but it won’t happen again, I assure you. It’s terribly unfortunate that first impressions tend to “linger’’.

Last Saturday’s was a surprisingly good circle I must say, considering His Grandness was not present to guide us through the intricate etiquette of shriving, virgin sacrifice, returner roasting, ditty delivery etc. These tasks were performed variously in his stead by such exotica as the two of the aforementioned Hare trio, Labia, Dancing Queen, Jangle Balls, Screaming Lord Clitoris and other novelty humanoids who volunteered themselves or were dragged kicking and screaming from the periphery and placed squarely on, if not almost in, (some of them where there for that long), ice blocks. This is because, no matter how many prohibitions and sanctions are placed upon yapping during circle proceedings, you bloody Hashers seem to learn what amounts to the square root of fuck all, you deserve to be shat upon from a great height, you bastards, me too, sometimes.

Which brings us circling neatly back to our outset. Remember the first paragraph a hundred years ago? Buggared if I do, uuummm, birds, yes. Next week’s run will be located at none other than the Bird Park, where they’ll be suddenly appearing all over the shop (birds). This singular and auspicious occasion (The Easter Run) will be organized by Sex on the Desk and her manifold adherents, one might say apostles, disciples even, or scaley mates, feathered friends as the case may be. So we’ll see you, them, and “The Birds” there. Just like me, they long to be, close to you.

On on
J.B.