Bali Hash House Harriers 2

“Lambing” Season (every three years)

Last Saturday’s Hash left from a site we haven’t visited for around three years, according to Hash Cash, The Religious Advisor Himself, The Superior Viking Master Race “Member” Dancing Queen, who set the last run there, and other trusted sources. Why we haven’t been back to Pura Desa Lambing in such an inexcusably long period is a mystery to me and everybody I spoke to on Saturday including some of our canine members. In fact BHHH2 as a body, not necessarily a hale, hearty and healthy body, one in fact more akin to the bodies that populate such t.v. fare as any C.I.S. show with a theme song by The Who and produced by Jerry Bruckheimer, but a body nevertheless, was baffled on this front.

What an astute choice then was this beautiful serene and green Pura and surrounding countryside by Hare Whoreator and co. I’m not certain who the “co.” were this last week but I have a sneaking suspicion about a certain facilitator in orange garb (or was it a hat?) that set us off acting as a live hare (or was he?) who looked very much like Organ Grinder or Spook, who look very much like each other (or do they?). As you can see my powers of observation remain undiminished by age (or do they?), (or don’t they?)

At the risk of actually telling you something about the run or being remotely informative, I will say that for its location and elevation close to Mambal and therefore not even really in the anthills of the foothills of Bali, it was shockingly garbage free. I don’t think I spotted so much as an empty (or full for that matter) Silvikrin shampoo untuk rambut hitam sachet. I remember being amazed at how clean this neck of the woods was three years ago, and am even more so now. The run was basically in and out of a river valley relatively close to the run site and in the surrounding padis. There was nothing anywhere near as dramatic in terms of both views and challenges as the previous week’s run at Banjar Gagah in Tegallalang, but it was the ideal follow up to that assault on the senses and body. The short was a merciful 5 km and just a delight of greenery, mellow rolling scenery and undemanding conditions.

There was a little drama close to the run’s end whereby none of us in a small clutch could find paper that promised to traverse a padi but petered out to nothing. Visiting Hasher Cockney Wanker’s “t” consonants were getting more strangled as he became more frus’ra’ed. “I cahn’ see it goin’ dahn to the bleedin’ wa’er again, can you?. No, no’ tha’ bleedin’ way, ha’i ha’i.” (“hati hati”, in case you were wondering). An Ibu working in the fields insisted we continue in the direction in which she constantly gesticulated. Obviously she had seen other Hashers take that route but we were skeptics to the bitter end. She was, of course, absolutely right and we were idiots. There are certain times at the Hash, or in life in general for that matter, which expressly do not call for idiotic behavior. This particular time (i.e. now) is one of them and why of course, we have Donald Trump.

To continue in the spirit of the paragraph we just left, the circle was all kinds of fun, and of course games, beer, and of course, skittles. These are what I call the comma, and of course, comma something else constructions. They come in handy when you have a pleasant but uneventful Hash and circle to write about. It was a circle very similar to other circles (comma, of course) other than the fact that Cockney Wanker kept interrupting everybody with his pithy observations. For example, Jangle Balls attempting to tell a joke: “An older couple were sitting on their verandah having a glass of wine… Cockney Wanker: “Tha’s jus’ a fancy way of saying “poach, inni’ ?”. Jangle Balls: “Okay, they were sitting on their poach.” Cockney Wanker: “Yeah, poach tha’s i’ ” etc. etc. ad Stepneyum, ad masturbatium.

Anyhow, where were we? The circle? How easily we forget, I do tend to forget a bit these days. “Forget what?” I hear you reply. Songs were sung such as the New Zealand national anthem, “I Still Call Australia My Home” and responded to by a song to the tune of the actual Australian anthem and which was quite rude about Australians, sung by a Kiwi (the upstart, how dare he?) The Engineer’s Song was lustily performed by a large group at least one of whom may have been an engineer. It wasn’t a huge crowd on Saturday evening to begin with and it shrank as the evening wore on to quite an intimate gathering: me.

And so I ask me, what of the verdict on the run? Certainly the most pleasantly and comfortably enjoyable of the year, brilliant paper with one outstanding exception, smartly executed with not much kampong or asphalt. The most succinctly chosen and overdue location ever in the history of the universe and I never, ever exaggerate.

On on to Kemenuh on Saturday with Selak Selut. Is it just me or does that name sound somehow less than entirely Indonesian and about fruit, and what gender is she?

J.B.