Bali Hash House Harriers 2

“Leave My Cluster Out of This…”

Watching the news on the BBC pre-Hash last Saturday, I was struck by not only what a total cluster f…. the world has become but also the slickly stylized way in which the whole cock-up is dished up to us in the media these dreadful days. An impeccably coiffured hay haired female presenter with lavishly bee-stung botoxed lips, in the hushed and excited cadences usually reserved for deliveries of kindergarten stories, enlightened me about “Anti-rathithm marcheth in the U Eth thtate of Ahrlabahrma” after which we were taken to an interview with a French gendarme outside the Eurotunnel in Calais surrounded by the chaos of desperate individuals trying to storm impenetrable (ha) chain link fences in order to attach themselves to the undercarriages of lorries on their way to Nirvana. “There eez notheeng we can do unteel we ‘ave ‘ad our lurnch. Gaston, pass the salt and peppair spray.” Another interview followed with quite a liberal English lady parliamentarian on the same subject, which pretty much amounted to “Oh, do let the poor things in. You see, Aye live in a leafy suburban street in Chipping Norton and Aye’ll never have to see them.”

Thank Christ my co-pilot and the other transport unit of our Hash convoy showed up before I could do any (more) damage to the t.v. screen. Thank the same deity, well any one of them really, I’m not picky, for the Saturday Hash to take your mind off all this ridiculous malarkey. It may also be a complete goat f…. from time to time, but at least it’s one with beer and pretty much zero pretension. It’s difficult to be pretentious when you’re covered in mud and you’ve got a mug of the frothy article grasped firmly in your grimy duke or while singing asinine dirty ditties. “Carpe Cerveza!” I always say (“Seize the Beer!”). Maybe The Hague should issue an international law making it compulsory for all the wretched inhabitants of the first paragraph and their ilk to attend Bali Hash House Harriers Two (Two!) and get their respective heads out of their arses at least once a week.

Yes, yes, okay, there will be a mention of a run somewhere in this rant, promise. Keep your shirts on while I cast what’s left of my mind back to Pura Hyang Api, which is somewhere in Tuak Manis, which is somewhere near Payangan, which is somewhere in Bali. It’s a pretty remote area this, and the nippiness in the air, before we even started running reminded us of its elevated situation. A troupe of schoolgirls practiced marching on the spot in the car park, no doubt for Augustus Tujuhbelas when the children of the nation are proudly sent out onto the highways and roads of the nation to celebrate Merdeka. There were some mighty old and tall palm trees there as well with some mighty numerous and gravid coconuts in them, a bunch of them poised directly above the beer truck about 85 feet from the ground. The Bali Hai boys were not concerned at all. Neither in that case was I, but put it this way: I wasn’t going to jump up and down in front of the truck to see if gravity was still working, no rain dances either.

At the risk of sounding flakey: just as every city, town, beach, person, dog etc. has got a “vibe”, so too do Hashing areas. Do you know what I mean? No? Alright, I’m Flakey Foont the flakey koont, then. And Tuak Manis is one of my favourite “vibes”. It has a really rural (or if you’re a BBC news presenter, weally wuwal) and wustic, sorry, rustic flavour to it. No garbage, at least other than the strewn plastic cups the junior marching squad left behind, few motor bikes and cars, beautiful roadside palm rows, large trees and padis, and the long quiet section of road at run’s end passing through some thick areas of jungle encroaching overhead was just fantastic even though I’m not that fond of running on asphalt. Thanks go to Kuda Lumping and I believe Muddy Man (again) who was not only live Hare, but was spotted in mid-run, hitting the toe energetically and clutching a fistful of shredded paper to right some paper-laying wrong somewhere; what a diligent devil he is.

It occurred to me making my way through the course last week and occasionally staring heavenwards to see if it did or did not look like rain despite the R.A’s solemn promise, how much tropical, and especially Bali, skies are in the business of clouds. Just as with kaleidoscopic reefs seen through some parts of this island’s gin clear ocean waters, the cloud formations are also spectacularly varied and colourful. There were angry looking lead-dark cumulus below lightly edged bone and cobalt billowing cumulo- nimbus on high with slashes of bright cirrus white, not to mention the rich blood orange and gold with red and green tinges that are on show at sunset from time to time. These are almost as colourful as the language and cast of characters in the BHHH2 circle as it proceeded on Saturday with the usual generous serving of lager fueled abandon and lunacy.

Dancing Queen showed off his monarchist tendencies once again, at least we hope that’s what they are, resplendent in regal raiment and using his “wand” in a reverse of the 70’s “Gong Show” format to pull people INTO the circle, not drag them out of the spotlight. I’m sure there were some victims who’d have been delighted to show him what to do with his piece, and perhaps assist him with a live demonstration, but what the hell, eh? Everyone was tickled pink (ahem) with it. All in a good cause, live and let live, rules one to five, oh sorry, wrong rules. A daughter of Night Jar (how many has the buggar got?) came out of the woodwork to be named (how many years did she get away with that?). A lovely and demure lass, she ended up with “Jarred Nightly” which I’m sure she didn’t deserve; these things aren’t necessarily genetic, you know. It could have been worse, something to do with chamber pots springs to mind.

Jangle Balls “finished them off” with an ode to The Dude himself on the 47th anniversary of the completion of “Hey Dude” by The Dung Beatles. A stand–in Dude was used, but nevertheless a Dude in his own right, St Tits, who was stoic in the face of the proxy pillorying he received about masturbation, alcohol and mental instability-related problems, as I’m sure the genuine Dude would have been.
So we bid a fond adieu to Tuak Manis, mainly because the piss ran out, and headed Flywards, conveniently located on the Hash map, to find some more. We look forward to a Yeye run this Saturday at a location T.B.A.

On on, J.B.