Bali Hash House Harriers 2

Night of the Walking Virgins

I don’t consider myself to be particularly gullible, but three times (THREE!) I have had my “urine stolen” or more colloquially my “piss removed” from me in the last two (TWO!) weeks by the very same Hasher. For reasons of my extreme embarrassment, this individual’s identity can under NO circumstances AT ALL, EVER be revealed (Virtual Erection), just let it be said that he describes himself as a “truck” driver in England, which is like describing yourself as a “lorrie” driver in America (mighty suspicious behavior from the get go).

The first time this heinous “bladder product theft” occurred was last week when a story was related to me on the circle’s periphery thus: “I was driving a truck in England” (a shaky enough proposition for a start) “when I picked up a swarthy, bearded hitch hiker with a small backpack. As a matter of security I asked him what was in the pack. He replied ‘Nosy bastard aren’t you?’, I drove on for a while and asked him again. He said ‘Nosy bastard aren’t you?’ again. I demanded of him to show me the contents of the pack or get out of my truck. He shouted ‘stop the truck’ and got out, but left or forgot the pack, so I took a look inside…” At this point I could no longer contain my curiosity: “What was in it?” I breathlessly inquired of our truckin’ friend. “Nosy bastard, aren’t you?” he retorted. Drat, got me the bounder. Truck me dead!

The second and third times were at the Banjar Gahgah Hash last Saturday, again at circle’s edge: “I was a bit late for the Hash today”, V. E. remarked casually to me. “I had to bury my mother-in-law.” “What, here in Bali?” I credulously wanted to know. “Yes”, he continued, “I didn’t realize how out of shape I am.” Foiled again! As if I hadn’t already demonstrated my naiveté enough, I later fell for: “My uncle got struck off the medical register for having sex with a few of his patients”, “Really?” “It’s a damn shame, he was a really good vet.” I didn’t know whether to piss myself or kick myself, the swine.

If last week’s run at Banjar Gahgah was run of the year as suggested by some in the circle, and this is a title which it very likely deserves, it was also one of the most controversial. It is an astoundingly beautiful area of both dramatic geographically dropping and jaw-dropping 360 degree terraced padi views, equally mesmerizing lush, jungle clad valleys, steep heart pounding, lung busting climbs, knee trembling descents and quiet mid-forest temples in settings of insane beauty. I can’t stop babbling about it to anyone or anything including attentive pets and furniture. I absolutely loved it and was and still remain boggled utterly. Furniture groans under the weight of adjectives and pets have died of boredom. Not mine fortunately, they met a similar fate long ago.

Trouble was, there were busloads of virgins, visitors and your standard tourists who, well, let’s face it, weren’t really up to the task at hand and who, still being out in the wilds of Gahgah well after dark had to be rescued in various degrees of the meaning of the word by the Hares. At one point of the evening an 82-year old Japanese gent was guided into the car park when visibility out in the padis and, God forbid, jungle would have been substantially less than zero. Worryingly, he sported a pair of glasses the thickness and clarity of sandpapered Coke bottle bottoms. How he made it back will remain a Hash mystery forever, in a serendipitous Mr. Magoo-like manner I can only suppose.

Thanks to Hares Organ Grinder and Spook who put in a valiant effort in every way. Say what you will about last week’s run, it was well attended. Everybody and their dog was there (literally) and at one point in the circle Dancing Queen hosted a joke competition between Wooden Eye, The Penguin, Jangle Balls, Spook, Virtual Erection (need I mention?) and others. We all lost but we, and the circle, giggled like schoolgirls, guffawed like Foghorn Leghorn, drank down downs and generally partied hearty. Okay, I don’t mean like the 70’s or 80’s when one might wake up in an entirely different area code or country than one’s underwear, but we had as good a time as humanly possible for farts of our oldness (and younger farts also seemed to be enjoying themselves).

The one outstanding absence on Saturday was of course Grand Master Night Jar, rumours of whose death have been greatly exaggerated recently (ref. Samuel “Chuckles” Clemens, AKA Mark “Bobo” Twain) and who is currently, I’m told, recuperating from a medical procedure here in Bali, the result of which we hope does not return him once again to the ranks of the deceased. Just kidding, okay? Get well and God Speed Night Jar from all of us at BHHH2. We miss you.

So to the run verdict: unbelievably attractive and varied course, little garbage, not much asphalt and blindingly clear road signage, paint and paper - take note future hares! At one point in the middle of one of the most arresting, vast and stunning padi views in S.E. Asia was a banana frond with “VIEW” sprayed large in white upon it. Ahem, I’m not saying this was going overboard in stating the bleeding obvious, but it was kind of like those skyscrapers that have something like “M.L.C. Building” or “Get a Life Building” (insurance) signs on them. It’s not the M.L.C. Ablution Block, is it? Where was I? Oh, great circle too.

See you all next week (note to Night Jar: “all”, okay? Hospitalization or lack of vital signs is no excuse for absence).

On on,
J.B.