Bali Hash House Harriers 2

“Hello Mister, You Plan Wrong”

This advice was offered to me as I rounded a corner in the labyrinthine narrow back street walkways of Ubud after leaving the Jalan Raya, crossing the bridge adjacent the old “Beggar’s Bush” then across the street and into a concrete claustrophobic hodge-podge of less-than–huge homestays, Lilliputian losman, itty-bitty bungalows and atomically proportioned accommodations on the BHHH2 run last Saturday from Lungsiakan volley ball court. I turned to scan the alley for the owner of this disembodied voice but caught only the briefest glimpse of a wooden doorway swinging closed with a creak and slam and a disappearing sarong and foot encircled by a black rubber flip flop. It was kind of strange in that as altruistic as the suggestion may have been, the conviction that accompanied it didn’t seem to merit a face–to-face encounter or explanation. “Huh”, I said to myself. “That was weird, self. We are on paper, and arrows”. Did he know something I didn’t? Was he feeling guilty about something? Was he some Shaman-like being or guardian wraith that had followed my entire progress through life and could no longer restrain himself from a helpful comment? If the latter was the case, he wasn’t too far off the mark.

Whatever the motivation and whoever it was, proved suspiciously prescient. It wasn’t ten minutes later that my two companions and I were racing around in circles like hamsters in a wheel getting nowhere fast, hot, sweaty, pissed off and following contradictory arrows and paper in the padis until our collective head was up our collective arse. “How the f…k did that guy know this was coming, self?” I again addressed me. “How the f…k should I know?”, I replied.

Actually, the whole affair had that kind of flavour last week (much like the week before, for that matter). It wasn’t all that promising as we alighted the Mirth Mobile ll to be confronted with the spectacle of Muddy Man encouraging anyone who would listen to start early. “Start early!” he pronounced as he shooed harriets up the road and away from the car park as quickly as he could. “This way”, he gestured energetically at around 4.05 pm, though looking a tad sheepish. He wasn’t allowing his cards to stray too far from his chest as I interrogated him and co-hare Tin Tin Balls. Me: “How many km for the short, Muddy Man?” “Seven and half”. Tin Tin Balls: “Haaaaahahahaha, I wish.” Me: “Shit a brick!” I do have a fairly comprehensive selection of eloquent, short and colourful expressions in my verbal quiver when the occasion calls for it.

Never mind though, it was a spectacular course, well-chosen too, with the inclusion of sweeping views from Campuhan ridge and arrestingly quaint precincts of Ubud we don’t normally investigate. BHHH2 had not traversed the ridge for some time and it was great to be perched once again atop the crest of this natural wonder. It was however, including the subterfuge, cock-up or whatever in mid-run, a very long short and I’m glad I decided to put a pretty good dent in it early in the piece and when crossing the ridge, with a somewhat respectable clip. Other Hashers put it at about nine to nine and a half km. I don’t know, but I was moved to conduct a room-to-room Voltaren search of the premises at home later that night leaving destruction and a scattered pharmacopeia in my desperate wake. I was hysterically relieved when I found a strip of the wonder cure pills buried deep in the darkest recesses of the pantry and fell to my knees to babblingly thank providence.

During the circle I have vague memories of the Mudster being iced and shriven, but I’m not sure whether this was in response to the run or for some other largely imagined transgression, as usual. He took it like a man and, if anything, seemed to be enjoying himself down there if the position of the back of his shorts was any indication. It had been a very warm day and perhaps he needed refreshment in certain locations after the rigours of haring a not totally untainted run. At any rate, he was eventually released into the wild and stayed wisely out of sight for the remainder of ceremonies. Dancing Queen hosted some manly fellow Vikings in his multi-coloured jarmie shorts, part of a set that mercifully wasn’t present in its full glory, and he was still pretty funny even without the entirety of this hilarious regalia. Seeing as the subject of masturbation had “come up” several times, Jangle Balls sang a song that went: “something something something something, something something something something, too much wanking makes you blind.” This touching sentiment was repeated severally until the ditty reached its logical conclusion, or something like that.

So once again, good folk, a very acceptably enjoyable day out even though, as the actress said to the Bishop, It had its drawbacks. Thanks and panjang umurnya to Tin Tin and his Balls and the same to M. Man and his. We’ll see you next week for Gudang and Horny Herring’s Easter run. That should be interesting given their, um, track record.

On on, and always look on the bright side of life! Dum dedum, dedum dedum dedum dedum dedum. Crucifixion? Yes please. To your right, thank you. No wait, I was just kidding! Sorry, too late, crucifixion it is.

J.B.