Bali Hash House Harriers 2

Hash Trash Run #1364 Serangan Island

Cock Up at Cowshit Corral

Please do not misconstrue this title as being in any way critical of the Hares at last Sunday’s run at Serangan. The only reason I use the title at all is because of its pleasing onomatopoeia and because I couldn’t resist it. Also, Filthy Frog suggested something even worse featuring the letter “C” which, in the interests of delicacy, I could no sooner mention than dob him in for it or heave him under the bus. Have you seen him? Frankly, the bus would come off worse in such a scenario (which he would readily admit). In fact, the best thing about the whole unfortunate affair by far was the run, which after all is why we go to the Hash in the first place, isn’t it? Well…?

The hares labored away under the most trying circumcisions imaginable: heat, cowshit, rusty scalpels (har), capricious and petty Serangan functionaries exercising their piddling authority, cowshit, and still the run was as different as you’ll get, really interesting and a bloody good workout. It had ocean, beach, distant mountain views, other various bodies of water and lots of merciful green shade. Unfortunately, the order of the day was sheer bad luck, due to whatever ancient curse has been cast on this woebegone sand pile.

Let’s face it, the place is a bit of a cluster, a shamozzle, your basic mess in the first place especially on a Sunday when thousands of people in groups of two to twenty two blurt around on motorbikes, in cars, small trucks – they spend the whole day at it, on randomly criss – crossing dirt roads with no visible use whatsoever other than to blurt on. Obviously the other nervous and occasionally startled inhabitants, the cows, do quite a bit of blurting as well. You can see why the human blurters virtually never alight their blurtmobiles.

Where was I before the blurt section? Oh yeah, the Hares were unlucky enough to be told by a boom gate operator impersonating Lord Louis Mountbatten when he was Viceroy of India, that it was out of the question to allow the beer truck to the Hash site and that “special permission” would have to be granted for this at least fifteen years before he would even consider allowing such blasphemy. There are guys and gates like this all over this arid turd pit, we kept running into them when we managed to get ourselves comprehensively lost and drove around in circles looking for the new beer truck location after the run. There was no way they were going to extend the privilege of allowing us through their barriers into whatever closely guarded, wondrous and exclusive secret location was on the other side of the gates. What exactly is there, I wonder? (The smart money would be on more dirt tracks and cow shit.)

I just don’t get this whole set up. What’s the big deal? The big secret? Is there some sort of nuclear research facility somewhere on this bovine crap and dirt depository. Are they doing nuclear experiments on cows? Are they alien cows? Is this Area 51 for cows and goats? Maybe they’re being teleported to and from Tralfamador X3#*%@ in quadrant &$!^Centauri. That’s why you see a lot of cow pats but not that many cows, suspicious, huh? Hmm.

Ok, I’ll stop being a grumpy old fart now. Actually I won’t. I can’t stop being one if I am one, can I now?. We finally tracked down the beer truck parked on the side of the road going out to the Ngurah Rai Bypass. This thin strip of land, giving onto a fifteen foot drop into semi – mangrove-ish territory, hosted what seemed like the combined casts of “Ben Hur” and “The Ten Commandments” but was probably forty-odd babbling Hashers in beer fueled close confinement. The amber article was cold and plentiful and greedily gobbled down by the hot and thirsty mob that had braved the bush, scrub and limestone and dodged how-now-brown-cow pizzas in the sun – thirsty work in anybody’s language. Even a circle was attempted but between the non-stop traffic inches away from the outer periphery’s heels and the rowdy lager revelers you may as well have been farting at Cyclone Tracey. Still, it was great fun when you could make out a word or get one in edgewise.

All round it was a great day out and one of those Hashes when at the end of the day you think: “Well, that was a bit of a grind but a different kinda fun and the fun was kinda different.” You would think this because you would be half pissed and not know what you were thinking. Besides, what else were you gonna do?

On on,

J.B.

2017 / 2018 run fees

MEMBER DRINKERS: Rp80,000
MEMBER NON-DRINKERS: Rp40,000

INDONESIAN VISITORS: Rp80,000
NON-INDONESIAN VISITORS: Rp120,000

KIDS UNDER 15 YEARS OLD: Rp10,000

BAR OPEN: 5:00 PM
CIRCLE STARTS: 5:30 PM
BAR CLOSES: END OF CIRCLE

The Official Beer of Bali Hash House Harriers 2 is Bintang Beer

2017 / 2018 Mis-Management

Grand Master: Nightjar
Hash Master: Muddy Man
On Sec: Spook
Hare Raiser: Allez Allez
Beer Master: Cane Rat
Hash Boutique: Muddy Girl
Religious Advisor: Organ Grinder
Hash Cash:
Hash Beans: Juliana & Sophie
Hash Flash: Pussy Delivery
Hash Maps: Serial Offender

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