Bali Hash House Harriers 2

“Follow Me, Oim Roight Behoind Ya”

As we all know, Cunnilingus isn’t an Irish airline (but it does deserve a capital) and Obama isn’t an Irish name. Tandoori isn’t an Irish lullaby either but there are many contributions to the world from the Irish nation for which we owe it a great debt of gratitude. Their many fine exports such as people and Guinness, and people who drink Guinness, the words “shenanigans”, “shillelagh” and “shite” (gob), names like “Siobhan” etc. which have no earthly relationship to the way they are pronounced, grace the English language. Who could possibly confess to not liking expensive single malt Irish whiskeys? Why, the finest of these have the lovely aftertaste of peat bog and also have names originating from other galaxies. Let’s not forget the Blarney Stone and those who have so obviously kissed it e.g. Saints Bob (Geldof), Bono (Hewson), and Van (The Man) who never let us forget that God still maintains an address in Ireland, for taxation purposes. Last Saturday’s St. Paddy’s Day run at Pura Hayang Api was no exception to our debt to the Emerald Isle.

But seriously folks, to do a Donald Trump: I’m not taking the piss. Do I take the piss? I never take the piss. I’m not being a smartarse. Am I ever a smartarse? I’m never a smartarse. Puri Hayang Api was an astute and well-chosen site last week by our Hibernian friends. We hadn’t run from there in quite some time and it was good to drive into the car park again with the tall palms swaying adjacent the picturesque (pronounced “picture-skew”) temple. Before even being sent off by the Hash Monster, drama unfolded in the shape of a huge, ripe and plummeting durian fruit missing the head of one of the Bali Hai boys by mere inches from on high and bouncing off the beer truck with a tremendous crash. He looked pretty spritely on the old pins there for a nano-second, I can tell you. I wouldn’t personally, me, myself, singularly want one of those ugly, spikey foul smelling things coming into contact with me bonce at speed. White Bait, of course immediately ate the dead flesh of the atrociously malodourous offender (the durian, not the Bali Hai guy) and could not therefore be engaged in conversation from less than a kilometer away. I fully intend to try durian someday, if the alternative is firing squad.

But I digress, this is truly a lush and scenic area full of pleasant surprises on the short run such as a quaint water crossing on a short bamboo bridge adjacent high stone walls, and a steep climb up to vast padis. Right up to the short / long split the paper was so clear and informative that Ray Charles and Blind Lemon Jefferson could have found their way to it led by Stevie Wonder. I’m afraid however that after the split on the short, there were a few unpleasant surprises too. It became a case of… “AAAAARRRRGGGHHH” (blood curdling screams and gunshot reports – the sound of Hashers committing suicide in response to the sheer frustration of finding the tenth clump of paper in a row placed in a padi T junction at the exact centre of the top of the T with no other paper detectable by the Hubble telescope in either direction). Sorry, I’m exaggerating, only approximately 10% of Hashes are fatal to the participants, and only a few of them die at their own hands.

Inevitably, the paper ran out completely in mid-padi, as a result of what, who can say? I do not wish to wave the finger of admonition at anyone, nor aim the brown eye of blame at Hare nor farmer. It could well have been those pesky alien space craft trying to beam up the chickens again, or maybe Elvis, who it is rumored, is in hiding from the C.I.A. somewhere in the Tuak Manis area and could have taken the paper to enhance his frankly rather rough and rude sleeping arrangements. In my experience, once the above “Irritations” (a small malevolent Gremlin-or-Leprechaun-like creature found only on BHHH2 runs) start materialising on a Hash, they don’t just disappear, rehabilitate themselves and then suddenly restore clarity and purpose are to the whole enterprise. No, it gets more and more bewildering and you find yourself in the pitch black jungle or padi stumbling around in the night just at the time that any self-respecting local rustic who could be approached for directions is gearing down for tidur mode. No fun, believe me, and if you don’t, ask Gudang, Muddy Man, Alit and a few others who staggered into the circle last Saturday well and truly after dark looking sweaty, thirsty and well, seriously underjoyed.

Not me, uh uh, I was not to be discouraged! I resolutely turned on my heel, pussied out comprehensively and followed the paper backwards to the car park. Yessiree, never let it be said that the pioneering, orienteering sprit of Australian outback ruggedness can be bought off with the promise of a few glasses of Bali Hai beer. Ha! Hell no, the promise and actual consumption of a lot more beer than that will do the trick though. I did enjoy the return trip as much as I did getting there however and could see that the Hares, whatever misfortune befelled their paper, had a damned good craique in mind. For those of you who don’t know the meaning of the word “craique”, don’t ask me because neither do I.

The circle turned out to be more fun than a barrel of Leprechauns (there’s that word again), even though we tried several times to call Social Drinking. It seemed to have a life of its own – kind of like the whole Hash really on that fateful day. Some of us repaired to The Fly Café nearby for their famous two-pronged dish (TWO!). Prong One: Mahi, Prong Two: Mahi.

To be continued (on a different but similar subject).

On on

J.B.