Bali Hash House Harriers 2

“A Staff Member or a Stiff Member”

There are occasions when a single letter in a word gratuitously added or cavalierly omitted, perhaps mispronounced in ignorance or heard or overheard wrongly can get you into a spot of bother, a litre or two of hot water, as it were. Some examples: a light house keeper or a lighthouse keeper, a prosecutor or a prostitute, a bit of a cult or a bit of a cu-t (c.u. next Tuesday), a bar steward, a bustard or a B’stard, a woody or a woodie. I doubt whether I’ve ever more innocently caused more confusion to both myself and the addressed parties in this way than Saturday last on Allez Allez’s run in Pongang fairly late in the piece in a dense and dark bamboo forest after rain had mostly pummeled the paper into non-existence or at least invisibility, and I’d become somewhat, well, misplaced. I chanced upon an Ibu and a Bapak, both of whom had a fairly agricultural look about them, what I could see of them that is, which wasn’t much in the gloomy cover of a darkening bamboo canopy at a rainy and overcast day’s end (I was able to make out that madam was sporting a pair of black rubber boots, something you don’t see terribly often in rural Bali, in fact never saw at all until last Saturday) and I prevailed upon them to direct me to Pongang.

I was reasonably confident I’d managed the pronunciation correctly, but alas the pair stared at me and each other in absolute bewilderment, jaws agape. I attempted Pongan, Pongaan, Ponggan. Ponganan, at one desperate point Pangong, Pangang and Pongatan with exactly the same results: profound head shaking bafflement. “How many places around here start with Pong for f…’s sake?” I was about to bellow at them, when a look of dawning comprehension slowly broke out over the rustic gentleman’s features. “Ahhh”, he announced “PonGAAANG!” “YESSS, I shouted “PONGANG”, nodding vigourosly and thinking “Isn’t that what I said in the first f…ing place, Jesus.” It really wasn’t their fault, poor buggars, being confronted in the semi-dark with a sopping, drowned rat-looking, sweating, frantic, malodourous and possibly unstable buleh importuning them in a voice perhaps an octave or two too high. I suppose it would be tantamount to our being accosted in the bush by a hyperactive green alien brandishing a ray gun and emitting weird squeaky interrogative noises.

The whole venture was a bit like this last week; thank Christ I was with someone or other most of the way so we could look for paper in suspected directions separately when we came to junctures, ahem, several, at which it was, cough, less than blindingly clear where we were supposed to be headed. Having said that (don’t you hate people who say “having said that”? I do.) it was an undeniably brilliant run. Allez Allez is apparently in possession of an unerring eye when it comes to scenery, adventure and a bit of a challenge. Not as much of a challenge, it has to be said (people who say “it has to be said” should also be put to death) than Whitebait’s great run of the previous week at Tampaksiring, but it may just have had the edge in the scenery department (people who say the anything “department” are unequivocal see you next Tuesdays as I have just adequately demonstrated).

It really was a knock ’em dead, unbelievably beautiful excursion. The interlude in which we struggled to elevated paddies through a dense jungle trail to be greeted by a sweeping and clear vista of five massively imposing mountains was unforgettable. Even the very long section at the beginning of the run on a concrete path was way better than asphalt; how very astutely chosen by our Francais grenouille ami the whole thing was. There was barely a scrap of des dechets or ordures, in stark contrast to our fishy friend (ami de poisson) Whitebait’s avalanche de merde of the previous semaine. Okay, I’ll stop all this merde de taureau pretentieaux now, but as far as I’m concerned Allez Allez is Le Grand Fromage of all ‘Ashers de gaulois, and fuque all you chattes who etre en desaccord, oqeauy?

The circle was, I believe, necessarily a more muted affair this week as every bustard had urined off early due to the double whammy of an apparently fabulous but grueling 11 k long and a substantial drive back to anywhere swivelised, except maybe Ubud (hmm). Virgins were inducted with plant life, returners were returned to the wild, R.A. Dancing Queen once again narrowly avoided an exposure to the weather, but those hideous multi colored shorts have got to go eventually. The G. Meister ferreted out some “calendrical significance” to the day, coming up with obscure Hindu observations and English poets’ birthdays. You’ve got to hand it to him, he knows a calendar when he sees one. Jangle Balls went Dung Beatle on us and it was all over.

Thank the hand of providence that The Fly Café was nearby with a mahi mahi or two (mahi mahi mahi mahi). The food there is outrageously good and getting better, so is the band, and I don’t mind saying so. A handful of Hashers went home very happy campers indeed.

See you at a location TBA (The Bali Area).

On on,
J.B.