Bali Hash House Harriers 2

Hash Trash Run 1360 Pura Dalem Tengaling Blahbatuh

Blah Blah Batu

It’s a difficult area to work with and kind of well named. A Scottish poet or folk soothsayer might have said something like “It’s a Blah Batu that blahs nae guid, luddie” or maybe “Och aye the noo, it’s an ill Blah that Blahs Batu”. It’s not the most antiseptically doctor’s-waiting-room-toilet clean area in Bali either, but enough of this happy badinage. Dancing Queen and company (no, not the Swedish National Gay Ballet, the Hares for this week) laughing in the face of diversity, sorry, university, no, adversity managed to “pull off” something of a “cut the grass” (a French saying) and make the four, yes five runs (Huh? Re-count. Ah.) they laid actually something in the area of mildly diverting. I jest again however like a chuckling fool, the runs were quite entertaining, considering the area. We were offered a super short, short, medium, long and super long. No shit. I’m not even sure it’s ever been done on Bali HHH2 (TWO!), someone enlighten me. It was quite the achievement, really, if nothing else.

Nobody is going to pretend that these were the most spectacularly scenic runs of the millenium, day, hour. In fact it was pretty obvious as Dancing Queen sent us off warning of all kinds of dire danger: miming having to brave rickety bridges suspended over dizzying heights, scaling precipitous topography clutching at weeds. We immediately and almost without exception thought bubbled so vividly the word “bullshit” that you could read it from Pyongyang. Only one or two of the more gullible individuals, perhaps virgins, amongst us considered banned performance enhancing substances. (This was established later by random urine testing).

There were rice paddys involved, and some greenery, trees, dogs, asphalt, kampong – all that stuff (a lot of asphalt and dogs, green ones), but having been away for a couple of weeks in a neighbouring country that won’t be mentioned (I’ll give you a clue: Malaysia), I was Jonesing for a Bali Hash 2 run and wouldn’t have missed it for quids (but make me an offer for next week, har). Highlights of the day were:

1. Yours truly testing what looked for all the world like solid black ground and ending up both knees deep in sticky slop which caused sustained hysterics on the parts of certain Hashers who giggled like schoolchildren and who also won’t be mentioned (but let’s just call them “Serial Offender” and ‘Muddy Man”, to protect the innocent). Tragically, it must have been a reasonably comedic sight.
2. Another certain Hasher “A” with a certain motor bike and yet another certain Hasher “B” as pillion passenger being given a ride by certain Hasher “A” materialized just before the On In with ludicrous tales of traffic gridlock (harrumph, as if). These dastardly miscreants will CERTAINLY be identified. The only thing that could possibly inhibit me from doing this would be the very real possibility of their beating me to death with bamboo poles this Saturday for throwing them under the bus. They were of course (censored) and (censored). Who did you think they were?

Back at the car park the long absent Mr. Bean finally reappeared and justified his abscess, sorry absence. We welcomed him back with open keg, but left before the circle for reasons which include the words “jazz”, “Sanur” and “amazing buffet” (see me). Later in that self same seaside resort at another venue so popular with Hashers that it is actually owned by one, we were informed that the circle was one not to be missed: Drat, foiled again by the fickle finger of fate! Evidently it starred a small Chi Chi dog who was incredibly not Organ Grinder, Disco Wanker, Koncorde, Dancing Queen or Wooden Eye and who took a shine to a certain Harriet and spent much time and energy humping or attempting to hump her leg or bag. This was apparently hilarious and appealed mightily to the gathered Hashers’ refined senses of humor. Naturally the Harriet, not the dog, ended up on ice for her misdeeds. Sorry, but that had to be funny.

Ah well, there’ll be another circle next week, after the run at (or near) the Bird Park and if there’s no small doggie, I’m sure there’ll be no lack of volunteers to perform its part, (including me). See you there.

On on,

J.B.