Bali Hash House Harriers 2

“The Moving Finger”

Television, the internet, a DVD player, some electronic culprit or other, or perhaps Tony Abbott (why not?), must be held accountable for the rare, almost impossible, sight I beheld, horrified, on Hard Case’s Perean Tengah run last Saturday. The fact that it was a virgin run in a remote area as well rendered this startling event even more shocking – a local farmer actually flipped me the bird, literally in the middle of nowhere, for no evident reason. I’ve never been given the finger of admonition, as it were, by a local anywhere in this island archipelago in the forty - odd years I’ve been coming here, living here, visiting, travelling etc. Not in the bowels of Jakarta by thuggish looking individuals, not in the scarier locations of Lombok (the Valley of Thieves, The River of Bastards, the Mountain of Complete Arseholes) okay, I made the last two up but not the first one, not on the foothill outskirts of Surabaya (ahem, I was there on business), nowhere. Has any of you gentle readers ever had this experience in Indonesia? I doubt it, and if so it would be, or is, as rare as rocking horse shit. It’s just not in the culture.

Yet there it was, unmistakable, the rude digit, the flag off, the flick salute performed with admirable élan and dexterity by a thinnish and grinning middle aged man in woven rounded bamboo hat and what could possibly have been a brown pair of Terylene slacks in a muted check pattern highlighted by blue rubber flip flops (no shirt, if that has any bearing on this bewildering incident) quite near a rice paddy. It was utterly bizarre, almost as if the gent was greeting me in what he might have mistakenly thought was a gesture of friendliness - a jolly, jaunty thumbs up gesticulation. The remote location, though was the kicker, or just maybe, the explanation. Who knows? He may have recently emerged from a warung where for some incalculably unlikely reason “Easy Rider” was being viewed on telly, in which case he didn’t stay for the shotgun part, or worryingly, he did. I was rooted to the spot for some moments even when he nodded, turned with a raise of the eyebrows and sauntered off. “W.T.F. self?” I said to myself, “Over.” Static… no explanation was forthcoming.

It was indeed off the beaten track last week, an original and brave venture by the intrepid duo of Mr. and Mrs. Hard Case, (the Cases to their intimates). Although I’m led to believe by a trusted little birdie source that the good Lady Case was put somewhat off a potential trail section by the presence of a couple of cobras thereupon and that the section was summarily abandoned by both parties on her insistence. Can’t say as I blame her. I too have had cobra intercourse (alright, alright) on the odd occasion and don’t wish to repeat the performance. It was blissfully quiet and as novel as all get out in its relaxing rural beauty, this diversion in the boonies, even more so than Little Fart’s outing the previous week. Being mostly flat and also untrammeled on the paddy berms, it made for a good “running” run and I found myself doing exactly that on much of the course – like the proverbial dog licking its balls - because I could. Even so, I was sorely tempted to slow down, stop and get a few eyefuls. It was as bucolically, verdantly scenic as it could possibly be for a run without much variation in height or depth. The locals though few were incredibly polite and friendly, with one possible glaring exception, there was little or no garbage, and the checks were just enough to give the FRBs (one of whom was surprisingly last week, at least on the short, me!) the workout they so richly deserve and keep the pack together. Altogether lovely, thanks to both Cases for their hinterland labours.

The circle was a somewhat muted affair as well, Sabtu last. Well, when I say muted I mean other than lager fuelled uproarious, outlandishly weird demonstrations of questionable taste that border on the exhibition of dubious mental stability; the usual in other words, but ever so slightly more quietly delivered out there in the hushed countryside, by about a decibel. The Grand Master reflectively regaled us with incomprehensible addresses in French after it had been pointed out that all the frogs had hopped it, and recited obscure verses from the 15th or one of those centuries, equally incomprehensible. Never mind, everybody enjoyed it thoroughly as usual. He did “draw” attention to the fact that it was International No Tobacco Day by firing up a Marlie White and reminiscing about his childhood pipe. You could not kill this man with heavy doses of Strontium 90 let alone alcohol, tobacco or chemo therapy.

Religious Advisor Yancing Queen repeatedly reminded us that he was of superior Wiking genealogy as were some other circle members until a by standing Cane Rat felt moved to enquire if he was a bit of a “Viking wanker”. Speaking of wankers Jangle Balls paid tribute to the composer of “I Did It Sideways” and “Oh Please Remove Your Teeth, Diana”, Paul Anka whose surname rhymes with the obvious. It was an orgy of masturbation or at least the enthusiastically simulated variety. Yes, all in a good cause, if you can figure out what that is.

So, we’ll see all of you that don’t have a note from your therapist next week hilltop at Klungkung this Saturday for Swedish National Day hared by the Scandawegians.

The moving finger has written…
On on
J.B.