Bali Hash House Harriers 2

“Meet Monsieur Marquis, Trevor De Sade”

It was like wisdom tooth extraction getting the lowdown about last Saturday’s run from the Hare before we struck out. The conversation went something like this: “So how’s the run today, Trev? “Leave from here, follow the paper until you get back here.” “I see, and will there be a lot of checks?” “When the paper seems to run out, look around” “Thanks Trev, that’s mighty enlightening, you’re a fountain of information”. Whitebait, not known as a particularly garrulous individual at the best of times (except when he’s telling dirty jokes), can be a man of very few words on occasion, and this was one of those occasions. After further interrogation, in the course of which I had to administer electric charges to his gonads, insert bamboo slivers under his fingernails and apply a sock full of one thousand rupiah coins vigourously I managed to pry out of him that this was a “walking run” (three whole syllables) because it was “very pretty” (four syllables, I was in in ecstasies of achievement). I’m not saying this was like the Nuremburg Trials or The Spanish Inquisition, but it bore several outstanding hallmarks of these types of investigations.

As it turned out, Whitebait had entirely understated the whole affair (surprise!) It was an absolutely classic run; much more than merely “pretty”, the scenery was sweeping when it wasn’t bucolically pristine and arrestingly quaint. The views just kept on comin’ and there were interludes of perfectly quiet paddy-side trails, you could have heard a Puteri Malu plant closing. There were high trail views of tidily kept temples far below, lush valley sides coated in thick and luxuriant green with regiments of palms climbing their heights. The thoughtfully multi-coloured paper was easy to follow and the checks weren’t objectionable in any way. Unfortunately, for those of us not exactly enamored with steep hill climbing and just as dramatic drops, it was pretty brutal going, to put it mildly.

Alright, alright, I can hear the cat calls, booing and jeering “ahhwadzamaddawijyayabluddiepoofdah” from all you fleet footed, macho and rugged individuals who glide up 90 degree inclines like Himalayan goats without so much as an intake of breath, but I’m afraid my days of extreme performance hashing are far behind me if they were ever in front of me, extreme performance anything for that matter (sorry girls). There were at least three major ascents and descents that just about hospitalized me and several minor ones in between. I stopped counting and cursed the ground the Hare had walked on, literally, “merciless bastard” I muttered with as much passion as you can gather while suffering a massive cardiac infarction.

There was a bit of anjing activity in them thar hills on Saturday. One of our number, an English gent was attacked by a possibly rabid example of fine Balinese canine-hood (mad dogs and Englishmen, as it were), tended to by Cane Rat and his first aid kit and dispatched to Denpasar to seek anti-rabies shots. At one point labouring up an asphalt road through a kampong, a fairly robust, nasty, pointy eared and squat looking creature (it probably thought the same thing about me) had a weird kind of half bark that cut off in mid-yelp. This coupled with Marlboro Man Fanny Wank’s thunderous wheezing behind me sounded like the Cannonball Express a-comin’ round the mountain with Casey Jones himself at the throttle. The ugly little bastard actually gave chase and snapped at me (not Fanny Wank, the dog did), sorry to confuse you.

Altogether a terrifically arse-kicking run, one of the best if not the best we’ve had this fiscal year, or however we measure them. And this was later unanimously borne out in the circle when Hashers were asked their take on the run. Just one thing… and I think all of you who were there know what I’m about to say. During my enquiries when I chanced to water-board Whitebait in an attempt to find out about the characteristics of the run he managed to gurgle out that there “might” be something to write about this week in terms of garbage. What he failed to mention was the fact that we were forced to make our way through a cascade of rotting crap the likes and size of which put Jakarta and Manila rubbish mountains to shame; the cheeky bastard. Ah well, shit happens. I’m here to tell you.

The circle was another successful riot in organized chaos. Gland Master Night Jar had returned to us from Irian Jaya where it was not clear whether he had been gobbled by native folk or was merely enjoying a spot of sedate(d) bird watching. He ferreted out something significant from the “calendrical system” with which to honour the day but I was rudely interrupted by my infernal, eternal folking phone and missed it. Damn, but he’ll probably excavate something similar next week. Let’s hope so.

A lot of folk must have folked off early this week as I recall the crowd dwindling rapidly as Jangle Balls came on, or maybe because Jangle Balls came on. I’m of the opinion that they must have been folked because of the day’s extreme folking exertions. I for one felt completely folked. So with this Jangle Jingle ringing in our ears to the tune of Jingle Bells. Let’s all get folked. “Tampaksiring, Tampaksiring, wear one round your ear, let it dangle freely, just about round here, oh, Tampaksiring, Tampaksiring there’s nothing to fear etc.”

On on,
J. B.