Bali Hash House Harriers 2

“Ut’s Dulushus”

Things looked pretty grim last Saturday as I peeked gingerly through the bedroom curtains and through eyes that looked like road maps printed in Pinot Noir (which they were) at the low and leaden skies above. I spent the morning watching excerpts from CNN U.S. electoral candidate debates featuring Shillary Glintin’, Kernel Sanders, T.Ronald Dump, Dead Snooze and Rubrico Cubio, and trying to read SMSes from my 90-plus-year-old Mum sending us her favourite recipe using predictive text (not deliberately, probably, I hope) bless her furry pink slippers: “Pour 4 pints of hot custard over pre-warmed guests using the electrician and adding sprigs of bread and some food” or words to that effect. Why did I get her that phone? The Waitangi Day Hash run at Goa Gajah seemed like a much more prufuruble propozushun.

Kiwis are some of my favourite people, I met many a vowel flittener back in the day on the road in Europe or the States or on the Banana Pancake Trail in S.E. Asia. They’re great fun, always up for a drink a lark or a laugh; the “chucks” didn’t seem to mind a bit of “slip and tuckle” either, but this had nothing to do with me. I administered nary a slip nor a tuckle, not me, uh uh. It’s always the iccunt (accent, you dirty buggars) that slays me, though. Do you ever watch “Master Chef New Zealand”? “So what dush did you ulict to cook todoy Kum? Lit’s try ut, shill we, eh?. MMM, ut’s Dulushus.” I was curious to see if there would be any sightings of the actual feathered article at the Hash. They’re about as rare as rocking horse poop in Bali, being as there are so few of them anywhere - such a rare species.

Arriving at Goa Gaja, we managed to dig up two specimens: one, Hare Orful Fuk, barely qualified being a German immigrant Kiwi and attempted only the very briefest of Hakas along with the only actual Kiwi present, Harriet Go Down, who convincingly mangled those poor long suffering vowels with the best of them. This, even while doing the Haka (it’s not in English but you can just tell). So I guess you could say we had one and a half Kiwis out of around fifty starters – not a good attrition rate. But a pretty good run.

I like this run area, which is just as well because we do it QUITE OFTEN (throat clearing noises). I like the quaint waterfall and winding jungle trails at the beginning, the wide concrete stairs and the wider fields of pandanu and, of course, nasi. There are some terrific rural sections of this run and at this time of year the Gianyar countryside is a patchwork of stunningly rich and hypnotic shades of green from the deepest khaki to the most brilliant emerald. Somehow, however, the Hares managed to send us past the mother lode of all garbage dumps with a waft so potent hashers were passing out in dead faints and slipping unconscious beneath the surface of the “gott” waters never to be seen again. Mein Gott, it was heady. This must have been garbage central for all of Gianyar. It was such a sophisticated and huge operation, packed garbage (stacked so high as to menace commercial aviation), loose garbage, I concluded they must be selling it. The powerful and rich Garbage Lobby of Gianyar strikes again.

Never mind, the end result was a pleasant enough outing except for the short runners being sent in along the “footpaths” of the most foul stretch of crappy, noisy, exhaust choked hamlet in the Goa Gajah area. This featured a putrifying dead dog outside a down-at-heel clothing market which was located in a pile of rubble. Nice. Other than that, it was a good, green and enjoyable run on what eventually turned out to be a coolly overcast day.

The question remains though: Why are there so few Kiwis? Perhaps because there are so many killers lurking out there these days. As you know everything causes cancer, even close relatives, so avoid those. Stress is especially caused by close relatives. Under no circumstances have sex unless it is with a trusted pet or a close relative when you are not avoiding them. Even then wear protective gear such as a helmet and a high vis. jacket. This also goes for those dangerous visits to the toilet. More New Zealanders have died from toilet-related diseases than Kiwi deaths in The War of the Roses and The Hundred Year War combined. It could happen to you.

The circle was literally fun and games: fun, what with Dancing Queen improvising with a borrowed brush and pan set now that his Bo Peep crook and toilet seat have been stolen (true, amazing but true); and Jangle Balls conducting an experiment in approval and disapproval of history’s cheaters, liars, murderers, criminals and sluts as measured by cheering or jeering. We have a “hands down” winner, clue: she was in a movie called “Deep Throat”. Of course, nobody knew who Jorje Borgoglio was, clue: he’s the Pope.

Altogether, it was a great run and a great circle: Stars of the show were an English teaching couple from Taiwan. The Harriet’s name was Oral Fixation, and the bloke’s name was… something I can’t recall, I wonder why. He sounded to all intents and surpluses like an American but said he was from Toowoomba. Ah well, Toowoomba or not Toowoomba, that is the question.

On on
J.B.