BHHH2 Hash Trash Run #1350 Kuburan Cina Mengwi

Not Quite The Kuburan Cina I had in Mind

Now I’m quite certain that the Kuburan Cina in Mengwi where last Saturday’s run took place is as fine, well maintained and kept up a Kuburan Cina as the occupants could hope for. I’m also certain that you will hear no complaints whatsoever from the residents about the sleeping arrangements of the (ahem) let’s now refer to it as a “Home for The Previously Living of a Certain Ethnic Persuasion” in the interests of delicacy and political correctness. However, for some reason I had a different HfTPLoaCEP altogether in mind. We haven’t been to THAT particular HfTPLoaCEP for some time and I was really looking forward to it. It’s the quite natty one with shiny blue roof tiles, gleaming marble headstones, elaborately painted porcelain “china” vases with Chinese people sporting beards and robes and whistle clean little mandarin style roof tops atop tombs. There are even photos of the some of the residents on the grave décor: a nice touch. Can’t remember where it is though – not Mengwi, I now know.

It’s not that I’m complaining of course, there is a certain ambience of serenity and tranquility at the Mengwi HfTPLoaCEP, but then one would hardly expect wild orgiastic bacchanalia at any given kuburan Cina (whoops) on any given Saturday afternoon. It’s just that, well, the Mengwi one perhaps could use a little brush up – if you ask me.

The car park was dominated by a tree which I believe the technical description of would be “big-ass” around which several hundred if not a thousand or more small birds flew swarming. We prevailed upon the powers of the Grand Master our resident noted ornithorhynchus, sorry, ornithologist who informed us that the creatures had the rather laxative name of “swiftlings” and though insectivores, were on this particular occasion after the small berries which the tree bore. You see? So there, HHH2 is not all sweaty bastards running in the jungle and a big piss up later. I learn something, sometimes interesting somethings, every week. For those of you that think of Hashers as just scruffy drunken bums, you have to peel away the surface layers to get to the hopeless layabout dirtbags beneath.

But I jest. There was another case of mistaken identity last week: the Hare, whose Hash name was Mini Pom, was not a diminutive English person at all but a fellow much more answering the description of the inhabitants of the HfTPLoaCEP. Nevertheless, he was still not the world’s tallest individual of middle kingdom ethnicity. Having said that, he put up a damn fine effort of a run.

Though there wasn’t an enormous difference between long and short (about 100 yds not being an enormous distance), it was clearly laid with not much objectionable asphalt and a pretty good variety of environments. It had spectacular mountain views espied from vantages of jungle trails and neat roads snaking through lush padis. Mt. Agung could plainly seen discharging wispy smoke clouds of blue and white. There were well thought out sections of pandanu groves through which to battle your way and trailside plantations of vividly red offering flowers. It was a much more interesting course than the one we habitually take at this site which is invariably flat and mostly open paddy.

There seemed to be a bit of commerce in large bundles of long stemmed mauve colored blossoms in this area of Mengwi. At one point I came across a gent with a truckload of them selling bundles to a well-upholstered woman on a small motor sepeda painted with scarlet and black barong motifs. She wobbled off balancing the flowers and a small child and wasn’t far gone when the whole shebang came to grief in a pothole about the size of The Sea of Tranquility on the moon. People appeared from all sides to brush her off, right her, sepeda, flowers and wailing infant and send her on her weaving way again. In the immortal words of the Chinese guy in “The Hangover”, and I know I shouldn’t be so shallow, but “It funny because she fat”.

Speaking of funny, back at th HfTPLoaCEP the circle was unbridled hysterics. Night Jar waxed a bit serious about John Milton but it wasn’t  long before he had us wetting our Hash trews again. Organ Grinder conducted a Hash naming ceremony for a dog and Comes Up down-downed convincing Frodo, Sam, Pippin and Saruman look alikes; all this set under mellow tangerine, gold and primrose sunset skies.

How totally inappropriate of us that it was in a cemetery, but as I said the inhabitants didn’t utter a word of disapproval. Very tolerant folk, the Chinese.

On On,

J.B.