Bali Hash House Harriers 2

Over The Falls and Far Away

Before I begin my usual manic ranting, pray indulge me a moment of your time to wax sentimental if not maudlin. Last Friday a certain close, young, male, hashing blood relative of mine graduated from Bali International School. His name, of course as Hash etiquette requires, shall remain forever shrouded in mystery (Ballderdash). The ceremony attending the occasion for the class of 016 was excruciating for him, (those of you who know B. must acknowledge that he’s not the world’s most extroverted individual), but for me, and I was not expecting this, it was almost tearful. When the horrendous embarrassment of it all was finally over for him and I shook his hand and hugged him in his mortar board and robes, I almost sobbed like a two-year old with an empty ice cream cone. If the hug had gone on for a nanosecond longer, I would have. Perhaps the thought of the ludicrously extortionate tuition fees I’ve paid to B.I.S. over the years caused this almost tearful situation to arise, but it just goes to show that beneath my callous and uncaring exterior, there shine the faint glimmerings of a complete bastard.

Thanks for putting up with that, but if you are a Trash reader I’m afraid this is just one of the digressions up with which you must put, if you will. Last week’s run started out, and was more or less advertised as a relaxed ramble. However, slowly but surely it turned into much more than a piece o’ cake or a walk in the park. In fact the analogous piece o’ cake turned into a large stale loaf o’ bread and the park turned into Jurassic Park, much harder to get through than the misapprehension under which we were originally put (if you must, again) by Hare Selak Selut, if not a tad dangerous. How do you know a hare is bullshitting you? When his lips move. Six k on the short turned into, well, more than six k. I don’t know about the 9 k long, but there were plenty of long runners coming in after dark. Did it matter? Not in the tiniest quark (a measurement used by aliens and scientists). It was an absolutely terrific run, unanimously and enthusiastically approved of in the circle by all including Yours Truly who thought that it may even have been a challenger to the Bookends’ Banjar Gagah run three weeks ago.

The piece de resistance (literally “the piece of cheese”) was of course the waterfall on the short. What an incredible sight! I don’t usually approve of exclamation marks being an ex-English teacher and old fart in general, but this truly deserves one. The bloody thing must have been 100 metres if it was a centimeter of cascading whiteness. Ok, I’m admittedly not an expert when it comes to waterfall measurements and I didn’t have my trusty Butterfly Brand plastic tailoring rule on me at the time, so anyone who might have a better clue than me, feel free to contribute, or better still look it up on line which I would do if I had been bothered to find out the name of the body of falling water in question. What a lazy barstool I am.

Some Hashers decided to go for a dip in the catchment area of the falls and seen wallowing and frolicking in it were Worm and Inflatable Bedmate, who won’t be mentioned by name. The bottom crossing itself wasn’t ridiculously easy, what with pesky tourists from nine or ten corners of the globe getting underfoot and in the way as we made our way across the river clinging to strategically positioned lengths of wood, but the top crossing after quite a precipitous climb and dash through jungle trails was a Rhodesian Ridgeback of a different color. While I’m on the subject, Mount ‘n’ Groan and Zola, his Hippo were with us on the short scaring the crap out of various locals and tourists, Zola in leather harness looking like something that either should have been attached to a chariot or displayed in a parade of captured exotica from faraway lands behind one at the Coliseum. Ah, the might of the Roman Empire.

Anyway, where was I ? The top river crossing? Have we done that? Did I forget? Have I come out of a coma? Nurse? It was no easy peasy Japanesy feat getting across these strong, angry and swiftly flowing rapids especially if you’re like me, less than tall (knee high to a grasshopper I believe is the appropriate phrasing here). There were two kiddiewinks behind us about the size and weight of popsticks who had no show at all of making it across and who would have been swept away and gone over the falls in a Seminyak minute. Fortunately two Hashers who won’t be mentioned because of the peril of their dying of embarrassment, went back from half way across the river to retrieve them. Where, one wonders, were the nipper’s guardian/s? Hmm.

Fast forward to back at the beer truck where a circle coagulated. One virgin only was fed to the lions last week and all kinds of silly buggars performed tricks of varying pyrotechnical skill. Night Jar was miraculously returned to us more or less intact and gave us the history lesson we had so sorely missed for the last few weeks. It was hilarity itself. A frighteningly energetic Hasher from an Oregon Hash named Barely Something-That-Sounded-Like-Manilow-But-Meant-Penis-In-Inuit-Or-Something performed rapid fire amusing ditties as if his life depended on it, the same with his Harriet companion. The Penguin did something pants pissingly funny about his sister’s cat and a dark pudding being placed in its anus (weather permitting) regularly. Jangle Balls held forth about Boguns and Dancing Queen disappeared as soon as it started raining for fear of the crowd’s livid and drunken retribution.

We stumbled off in various directions, having drunk the lager vehicle dry, but also having had a fantastic Hash and a trouser urinating evening.

Same again, or swimilar, next week.

On on
J.B.