Bali Hash House Harriers 2

“Night Jar’s Birthday Run or: On The Origin of The Species Erectus Hashicus and Associated Complications”

Being in the mountain forests of Auman last Saturday surrounded by such abundant nature, soaring eagles, buzzing insects, soaring deer, buzzing snakes, I began to muse on the evolution of the Hash species. Of course Night Jar is the original specimen of Balicus Hashicus who emerged from the primeval slime many millennium ago, and down downed a Bintang. I came to the conclusion that the most serious problem experienced by the species Erectus Hashicus Currunt (excuse the Latin, “to run” if you must know) is communication across the various genuses (geni?) of Hashicus. For example Australopithecus Hashicus (a representative sample: me) has a great deal of trouble understanding Hashicus Miltonus Keynesian (a representative example: Labia).

Actually, several of us, it turns out, had problems with Labia’s introductory remarks on the run, for which he was a Hare, representative sample: “You don’t want to come up on the same paper where the long and the fahkin’ short meet and keep going down to the fahkin’ river or you’ll never get fahkin’ back, right?” or something along those lines. This put the wind up both old hands and virgins alike, and anything that remotely resembled a river or river valley were either avoided like the plague or very gingerly approached indeed. “This must be the place he was on about” was heard on more than one descent. Quite a few nervously turned back, then turned back again, then turned back again on descending topography, not quite knowing whether to take the risk and enjoy the boundless rolling natural beauty or risk the apparent wrath of the river, or tyranny of distance, perhaps the Walking Dead, or the dark secret of Desa Adat Auman: Donald Trump’s Toupee was down there, EEEEK!. I didn’t know what to do either, twice. Just as well I stuck with it, following paper as I do because it turned out to be pretty much Run of the Year.

We don’t get runs like this every week, no sir-ee Bob (when was the last time you heard “no sir-ee Bob” used? I must be friggin’ ancient, in fact the whole first line of this paragraph reads like it’s about senior incontinence). It’s wild up in them thar hills (See, I am friggin’ ancient), but wildly, insanely, peacefully, vastly, relaxingly, beautiful. And there’s NOBODY there. I was the only soul for it seemed miles though I can’t have been, even after we’d separated the sheep from the chaff on the descents. The forest was so dense, however, as to give this impression. Before we even got to Auman, I was, in fact, driving the only car visible on the quiet country road.

The forest had become a lot lusher than last time we were in this location in what, September(?), when it was dry, crackly, dusty and brownish. The whole thing has transformed into massive greenery, the sheer scale of the woods, the silence…ah the silence, the quaint dells and vales, deserted paths, thick green tropical growth. If I sound like I’m ranting, I am, it was an astounding run. Thanks to hares Labia, Inflatable Bedmate, and of course, Night Jar for giving us such a treat. And I haven’t even mentioned the word “champagne”.

I have now. We were presented with a thin sparkling glass of the lubberly bubbly and a singlet, of course, as we mounted Labia’s property line. These two offerings were kind of faintly incongruous being in the jungle, and coming together as they did (it’s hard to imagine Stanley offering Livingstone a lively flute and printed under garment, or is it?) but a nice touch, nevertheless. I had another champagne then another, It was quite more-ish. Further up past the young teak trees and parked cars was the inevitable and more plentiful Bali Hai beer. A “few” of these also found their ways into my newly acquired mug as a circle tentatively formed.

Right off the bat I have to say here that I believe R.A. Dancing Queen may have been under the misapprehension that this was either a fancy dress or a pajama party. I don’t think I have ever beheld such a gaily patterned and colorful “cabana suit”. “Gaily” being the operative word. Anyhow the circle proceeded with its usual uproarious and cacophonous abandon, although D.Q.’s raiment did tend to grab attention and quieten things down a bit. Tell me that’s why he disported it, please. Rabid Mangy Dog “knighted”, eventually, Night Jar after first suffering the Grand One’s wrath and being shriven and iced for his disrespect in daring to belittle the high office with such inappropriate levity. And rightly so. Harrumph.

Jangle Balls presented a tribute in song to the tune of “Dance of the Hours” AKA “Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah” AKA the balletic hippo and elephant song from “Fantasia” to the Grandee’s amazing imbibing abilities. Those of us who stayed overnight retired to the grandeur of the dining room where the best fish and chips ever concocted were served, and N.J. adequately demonstrated the aforementioned Herculean powers. Some of us were not that far behind him on that fateful night.

A note if I may: If Labia had not dug me out of bed at an unmentionable hour of the next day in my room 500 mts up the road from Auman Palace, I would probably still be there so I owe him a huge vote of thanks, and his Missus for taking me up there on a bike in the first place. I only know this last detail second hand. Yes, it was quite the night.

And one more time: many happy returns, Night Jar! We’ll see all of you on Saturday at a location probably not near you.

On on,
J.B.