Bali Hash House Harriers 2

“Come On Ahead Back Forward
(Follow Me, I’m Right behind You)”

The first sign that things were going awry last Saturday was with the horrific, slowly dawning realization that I’d left my “post” Hash shoes at home (blood curdling shrieks, high pitched violins scratching one note). I had hoped to make it through a day without yet another reminder that I’m a doting, doddering, dribbling old fart just short of having a full poo complement in my adult diapers, but I see now that I was a fool. OF COURSE I left my spare pair of Precise brand Hash House Harriers, size 40 purchased in Robinson’s Dept Store, Jln Tueku Umar on special at 50% off but were actually one size too small anyway when I got them home, at home. There’d be something sorely amiss if I hadn’t. It was their turn and it would only be shoes if it weren’t socks, jocks, shorts, hat, bandana, glasses, phone, wallet, brain, penis (same things), umbrella or towel. And of course it was pissing down raining, so feet and one only pair of shoes were going to be wretchedly and irredeemably wet and shitty at day’s end. Not an auspicious start to proceedings, and I’m afraid it was pretty much all downhill from there. No, wait. That was exaggeration for effect, a fine journalistic Hash Trash tradition, but don’t mention the Mayweather / Pacqioeau (how the friggin’ hell do you spell his name?) fight, I may have to beat you or myself or both of us to death with a tire iron.

But seriously folks, problems and setbacks were encountered on the old Hash trail last week. Fifteen or so minutes out on the short we were face to face with the entirety of the long runners’ number heading smack toward us and coming from the opposite direction. Shouted interrogations were exchanged along with mystified shrugs and expressions: had they veered off paper somehow? No, had we? No, paper all the way both sides insisted. Had they caught sight of the split? No. Had we? Definitely not. But you’re going backwards on our out trail, we inveighed them. No we’re not, they countered, you’re going backwards on ours. This was doing man nor beast no good at all and only served to entrench our respective positions, actually the beasts were far better off. At least they ran ‘round and ‘round in circles and got excited sniffing other absent dog’s pee, where the humans were just asking a series of stupid questions, giving stupider answers and getting more aggressive about it. Maybe we should try this pee sniffing thing, certainly seems to keep the furry ones happy and animated.

To make a long trail short, we refused to budge in our mission of divine correctness. We believed not a word of these ne’er-do-wells’ outrageous accusations and blatant fabrications. Having fought the good fight, we kept our bearing to straight ahead and on paper. We did not for a moment deviate from the path of righteousness, were not led into temptation, and were ultimately delivered from evil. We never did sight the split, however, and I’m pretty sure we walked through the valley of the shadow of the most ugly-arsed concrete structures and hideous kampongs on this Chicken shaped Isle. Nevertheless, the run did have its moments, out in the paddys and among the lush mature green-gold rice, of real beauty the equal of anything seen in higher regions. The hares did their utmost to keep things interesting, enjoyable and fun, which it largely was with jungley bits and pieces. It did indeed have some semi-rural and surprising aspects of openness and freshness from time to time, considering the location. We even had a distant hazy view from the Pratama Villas carpark (home of Drunken Bastard) of, I believe, Mt Bratan. Thanks to D.B. and deputies Muddy Man et al for this outing.

The circle was a bit better-behaved than it recently has been (not difficult). There was a circular pattern of bricks which acted as a natural delineator and it was amazing how hashers actually seemed to follow the suggestion of the layout (a circle that is), which in turn led to something more regulated than the usual shape changing, chaotic and babbling rabble. The naming session of a Dutch carpenter (“Clog Fucker”, naturally) kept us easily amused if not tickled. Scandapudlian girls voluntarily placed themselves on ice without a by-your-leave; perhaps that’s what they do in their toilets or kitchens, who knows, post coitally perhaps? The opportunity was taken to shrive them though, while they were down there, so to speak. Everybody contributed something foul, ludicrous or manic and the evening wound down to Jangle Balls’ “Minnie the Moocher / Harriet the Hasher” “performance”. “Scat’’ I suppose is how you might describe the style but “scatty” springs more readily to mind, having witnessed it.

Yes, it was all in the finest of taste and urbane discrimination as usual. Oscar Wilde, George Bernard Shaw and Quentin Crisp would have been horrified; that’s the whole idea. But wait! I almost forgot the good news. You will be ecstatic to know that even though I left my spare Hash shoes at home I had the amazing foreskin and prescience to bring an extra pair of socks (accidentally), and using some plastic bags in between the two pairs I was able to wear the muddy wet and disgusting runners without at all having wet feet! A tribute to the resourcefulness and can-do attitude that is an essential requirement of Bali Hash House Harriers TWO membership. And a testament to the fact that no other human beings would be weird or drunk enough to even consider the idea.

See you next week at Goa Gajah, which is within easy driving range from anywhere, if I remember to bring the car.

On on
J.B.