Bali Hash House Harriers 2

“Northern and Southern Exposures”

It has come to our attention that there are at least two alarming gaps in the Victor Awards categories that have recently exposed themselves, and as we all know, gaps that expose themselves are unfailingly alarming. These shocking omissions should be addressed with the alacrity that is so worryingly called for under these very concerning circumcisions (or a word like that). As last Saturday’s run so lavishly demonstrated, the categories of 1. Most Wildly Different Map To The Hash Site From Actuality, and 2. Most Meagerly Signposted Route To The Hash Site should be immediately introduced in an effort to include these most deserving contributions.

But ha ha, I jest of course. We all got there, eventually, with only really the barest amount of frustration and spent expletives. We, personally, found our way to the site by following the “on in” chalk signs on the asphalt which were spotted by our alert co-pilot, who only had to get out of the car for this purpose, or to ask directions, or to guide the pilot in reversing and changing directions, honestly, not that many times at all (I stopped counting at six). Just as well it was an extraordinarily, unbelievably fantastic run - one if the best in living memory (which in my case is not long).

This was an incredibly scenic, picturesque and bucolic outing that featured just about everything a great Hash in Bali has to offer: Other-worldly sized banyan trees at every turn, generously proportioned fields of mature gold and beautifully green rice plants in gently descending and rising terraced paddies, the exposures of breathtaking volcanic mountains poised majestically in the not-so-distant distance. At one point I was stopped dead in my tracks at the dazzling prospect of a regimented row of roadside palms in robust early/mid-growth flanking paddies that stretched to foothills and an horizon of towering and jutting peaks bringing up the rear, with a silent, shaded temple in the foreground; all this under a busy brilliant blue sky of scudding grey and streaming white clouds. During a climb on an ascending paddy with a drop-dead lush and gorgeous palm-clad stream valley below, returner Danish Muffin was moved to raise her arms in a gesticulation of victorious and glorious appreciation. It was that good. And almost no garbage! This Hash run was a perfect example of why we go on Bali Hash House Harriers Two (2!), and indeed of why we’re in Bali; many thanks to Hares Multi Grip, ADJ, Gizzard and (naturalment) Muddy Man for reminding us.

Speaking of Danes and views, many Hashers of the male persuasion were very happy indeed to see the return of D.M. along with her Danish blonde friend of similar stature and were eagerly creating some Northern and Southern exposures of their own in their fevered imaginations (obviously not me though). There was also quite a bit of remarkable bridgework to be admired on last Saturday’s run (ahem); but that’s enough about Great Danes other than to say that one more, who was not present would have completed the Hat Trick (clue: Spalf Dum).

Where was I? Oh, a bit behind (har). While vainly searching for the (unsullied-by-an-HHH2-sign) Blakiuh turnoff to Sobangan we once again noted how specific our pronunciations of Balinese place names (e.g. Sobangan) have to be for the locals to form the remotest idea of what we were talking about. We may as well have been asking about the way to Alpha Centauri. They were dumbstruck by our inquiries. I mean, are they thinking: “This buleh has just asked me for directions to maybe somewhere around here (the adjacent Desa in fact) that sounds like it could be “Sobangan”, but that can’t be what he’s after. He obviously wants to go to Las Vegas or Vladivostok and I certainly can’t help him with that.” What is it with this? For people that are so charmingly and luxuriously comfortable with inexactitude in many other areas of life, they sure can be pronunciation Nazis when it comes to Sobangan, Sanur, Bonkasa or Denpasar for that matter. Perhaps I didn’t use the capital letter forcefully enough, and dereliction of capitals is after all the difference between helping your Uncle Jack off a horse or helping your uncle jack off a horse.

The circle was a shot bird from the git–go. The wantilan under which we were camped, while being a brilliant idea for probable downpours boasted a stage and therefore somewhere for cream-crackered hashers to plant their tired arses, which led to a completely separate and fractured socializing area from the laboriously constructed circle. Add to this the incredible din reflected and amplified by the aluminium and tile ceiling and it was like conducting a Papal Address during a World Pro-Wrestling Match, an Audience with the Dalai Lama at the Annual Northern Territory Wharfie’s and Truckie’s Picnic, you get the picture. In turn Labia, Dancing Queen, Night Jar and Jangle Balls labored mightily to keep things afloat but the answer, my friend, was pissing in the wind (during Hurricane Katrina, and all rescue vessels sank without trace). Please return next week for another exciting episode of “Metaphors Go Bat Shit”.

My cohorts were gesticulating for me to drink up and leave, so like a man parting with a sole remaining kidney, I splashed the remains of my beer on the ground outside next to the truck and absquatulated (look it up). Verdict: run without question, and unanimously, fabulous. Circle: oxygen theft.

On on
J.B.