Bali Hash House Harriers 2

“Flights of Nothing Fancy”

I’m not going to mention the name of the “budget” airline that cancelled my flights a total of 7 (seven), (VII), (…….) that’s right, eight times to and from Australia over the last 17 days as I now believe it to be the most evil of evil forces in Middle Earth, worse than Sauron, Saruman, Gollum and Vladimir Putin put together (and George W. Bush also put together). It is the name that cannot be mentioned lest a bald Ralph Fiennes with no nose makes a pre-dawn appearance in my laundry basket. Suffice to say that it has a name that might sound like “Jester” or “Jokester”, but the experience was about as funny as an exploding cigar at a state funeral. Nor will I supply you with the grim details of their flights once I did actually, hysterically relieved, finally get on one. Oh alright then, I will, you smooth talking bastards.

It was a cross between a flying youth hostel and an airborne Z.Z. Top look-alike contest being held in Darwin. A female person of the Italian persuasion was across the aisle from me shouting and gesticulating wildly to her “amici” about forty seats away; holding a conversation in other words. She appeared to be type of “traveler” that thinks that other tourists go to airports or get on planes in the fevered hope of catching a glimpse of her luxuriant and wonderfully fragrant pits. A boisterous bunch of Aussie schoolies cut up rough behind me: “Damo almost had a girlfriend once, haw haw”. “Aahh, shuddup Haydo, ya wanker.” A troupe of Brits with impenetrable, unintelligible accents aged from 16 to 60 previously spotted drinking rounds of Carlton full-strength at 7am in the airport lounge and who could have come straight from a working man’s club party in, maybe Newcastle (who knows?) guffawed and chortled their way non-stop from Perth to Denpasar.

The preponderance of tattoos and beards among passengers male or female was disturbing. The seating was a human rights violation and the in-flight staff, again of either sex, looked as if they might have had either “exotic dancer” or “night club entrance custodian” mentioned somewhere in their resumes.

So what has all this got to do with the run last Saturday at Tunon? Pretty much the same thing that would induce me to ever get on another Jokestar flight: NOTHING. After 2 plus weeks of being mercilessly screwed around by a company, which in any other area of customer service in an enterprise, in any other business environment than budget commercial aviation, would appear insanely bent on self-destruction, it was good to be in the relatively stable, coherent and caring hands of the Bali Hash House Harriers 2 (TWO!) once again. Call it budget running and drinking with a million dollar experience, and last week was no exception. Despite the relatively flat area that is Tunon and despite it also being below and smack in the middle of the garbage line, Hares Spook and Organ Grinder (the brothers Organ Spooker) pulled off the impossible with a really very attractive and rubbish-free run. Also congratulations to R.A. Dancing Queen for, once again, not a spot of rain. (I‘ve got a sneaking suspicion that abdication may be in his future before the rainy season sets in after the Hash world’s most coincidentally successful Religious Advisor reign).

But let’s be magnanimous, it was stinking hot when we arrived at the site. Hashers were warning of an impending “hat run” and vying for the few areas of shade in the car park rather than standing around in the blistering heat. Almost magically, darkening clouds materialized the moment we took off and it turned out to be a pleasantly cool affair almost the whole way. Either The Lucky Viking got away with it again or he truly does have some sway in Valhalla. The poor old Hares bore the brunt of the sun and mentioned later that they had battled to find some green parts for the trail, although I remember most of it being fairly verdant. There were as many stream crossings as they could muster, a decent man-made waterfall or two and tons of lovely padi over which pink and orange limned sunset clouds were to be admired on the on-in. There was also plenty of rural and distant lines of fairly thick coconut groves and established tree sections bordering the padis. All in all it was yet another great run for which I wouldn’t swap a dozen (cancelled or otherwise) Jetscum flights.

The circle was an extremely casual one featuring a shirtless St. Tits (Peterphile) wandering in and out of its turbulent eye and helping himself from the jugs of piss therein while no one was paying attention (somebody should have told rehab to retrieve him). The Penguin admitted to 3 score years and 10 in pants-pissing song and it was unanimously agreed that he didn’t look a day over 69. Suspects of a range of aberrations were thrown unceremoniously under the bus by their “friends”; the usual in other words. Quite a few of our number had been savaged and had their bank accounts mauled and mutilated by said Getstiffed Airlines (surprise!) as it turned out, including Jangle Balls who honoured the latter with a hearty round of “It All Sounds Like Bullshit To Me”, which was unanimously and lustily joined in by all concerned. The moral of the story as far as I’m concerned anyway, and from bitter experience: F…k the “budget” airlines. Show your solidarity by flying civilized carriers like Garuda and M.A.S., have a few wines, watch a movie, take as much luggage as you want and it will end up costing you less in the long run (and on the short).

On on,

J.B.