BHHH2 Hash Trash Run #1351 Pura Dalem Bongkasa 16-Dec-17

Packing the Hash Bag of Caution (with extra under garment!)

As any good Hasher knows, the Hash is a metaphor for life itself. Thus at about 2 to 2.30 pm every Saturday we must leave the Lounge Room of Lethargy, pack the Hash Bag of Caution, climb aboard the Sirion of Insanity or indeed the Avanza Of Adventure and drive up the Bypass of Oblivion to the Hash Site of Uncertainty. Once there, we must descend to the River of Risk on treacherously slippery trails, we must grasp the Banana Tree of Balance, or even the Dieffenbachia of Desperation to ensure that we do not plummet into the Gorge of Doom. We ascend the Stone Staircase of Sheer Exhaustion, are barked at rudely by the Dogs of Indignity, sometimes fall bodily into the Rice Paddy of Ridicule, follow the Paper Trail of Absurdity past the Garbage Pile of Disgust until finally returning to the Beer Lorrie of Levity and the Circle of Inebriation.

Yes folks, the Hash is a life journey in microcosm. And to think it all started with a certain individual in 1936 in Kuala Lumpur, capitol of the then Federated States of Malaya, who went by the rousingly magnificent continental name of Alberto Estaban Ignacio Gispert, and that at least some of the letters in his name can be rearranged to spell “eat albino bats o pertest one”. Basically, he was an overweight Spanish bloke who wanted to jog off his Saturday hangovers (sounds familiar). No, that’s not right, he was born in London so he was an overweight English bloke with a Spanish name. No, I jest laughingly along humourous lines, ha ha. His very name is uttered with  reverent tones in international Hash circles and he was a fine upstanding patriot, who after founding the Hash, fought valiantly in WW2 Singapore for his country and his way to the bar.

Today, thanks to the estimable “G”, there are Hash Clubs in practically every country in the world, except for a few really fun ones like Syria, Somalia and Iraq where running or at least walking at a very brisk pace is something most people do on a daily (and nightly) mandatory or highly recommended basis, anyway.

And so to Bonkasa last Saturday which is pretty much covered by the first paragraph if you can remember it. For the life of me, I can’t. It’s one of my favorite runs if not the ultimate Hash run in Bali if you ask me, or for that matter, if you don’t. We started out this time, courtesy of Hare Closet Queen, with no mucking around whatsoever, straight past the Pura to the trail perched atop the river valley with its cinematic views of the swollen river roiling and rushing toward us in rainy season silt-like tones. The enlarged wet season greenery through which  we panted and puffed our way was breathtakingly overgrown with constant waterings from endless tropical downpours. Banana trees were twice as big as usual. Many ground ferns were dangling practically overhead, well, over mine anyway. I saw mushrooms the size of former governor of New York Chris Christie, but more well spoken, tree fungi the size of Boris Johnson. So I’m saying that things were pretty slippery.

This made scrambling up the muddy valley sides and narrow rock steps all the more precarious. I don’t know why, but I have a predilection to burp audibly or pass wind in these situations. Perhaps it’s the strain of it all, but I do feel for anyone unfortunate enough to be below and behind me when I let the latter blast away, and I  humbly aplologise. I usually try to mask the audio accompaniment by shouting something like “Aduh” or invoking the Saviour as if in reference to the effort of the climb. A lot of people do this. For example, (and to protect her identity I shall refer to her only as “The Queen of England”). You will notice that she is often accompanied by a large group of men with bagpipes.

The penultimate section of the run was through pleasant and clean villages with friendly dogs and children asking for money; they were very well trained dogs. No, but seriously folks the kampong2 in this area are pin-neat affluent looking affairs, if you offered a dog money it would probably stop barking at you and walk away in a huff. Maybe I’ll try this next week, nothing else works.

Back at the Wantilan of Wonder, the amber ambrosia seemed to flow like the-not-too-distant-from-there river and the circle lurched on  like a zombie extra from “The Night of the Living Beer Truck”. All 367 verses of “The Hairs on Dickie Die Do” were warbled through upturned glasses and 532 of “My Sister Belinda She Pissed out the Window”, not to mention “Greatest Limerick Hits of BHHH2”. If we’d had a Nepalese nose harp and a polka accordion,  we’d still be there. It was a lot more fun than it sounds, really.

We’ll try for a reprise next week.

On on,

J.B.

BHHH2 Hash Trash for Run #1348

Lungsiakan Kedewatan Ubud

25-Nov-17

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Lung Disease Northrup Westwood of Uber

 

I must be the only idiot left on earth with any kind of predictive and corrective text system somehow buried deep in my “intelligent” phone that occasionally and maliciously makes a hateful and unwanted appearance and spits out the above kind of gobbledygook when I’m trying to tell someone where the Hash is located, for example (Lunsiakan North West of Ubud). It drives me nuts and I’ve had several “tech savvy” people pronounce it dead and gone after confidently (and not just a touch condescendingly) fiddling with it momentarily. (Note: read on after the photo section)

“There you go” they say authoritatively handing the funicular thin (sorry, fuckin’ thing) back to me with a flourish, and sometimes a bill for services rendered. This helpful feature never fails to resurrect itself, however making a malevolent reappearance when I’m performing the most innocent and prosaic of tasks. Texting about Australian bird life (don’t ask) a few days ago I ended up with combos such as “cooker borough”, “cock or two” and “brown ruffed bastard”. AAARRRGH.  Enough is enough I’m sentencing the whole funnel thing to be committed to the deep end of the swimming pool tomorrow at dawn.

 

Anyway, Lunsiakan was indeed the location of last week’s Hash. It certainly isn’t as if we have never been to this site before, but the Lievre (pronounced “Hare” without the “H”) Francais did a splendid job of sending us in nouvelles directions. Yes, Le ‘are, was yet another grenouille (“ribbit”), we had a crapaud (“crever”, sorry “croak”) two weeks ago as well and had all kinds of fun with quotation marks and mots Francais for Allez Allez’s run at Ponggang, but we’re obviously not going to do that again this week, that would be wrong. They are indeed clever and creative fellows these sauters (pronounced “jumpers”) and the run was a cracker (“biscuit sale”).

 

But seriously, gen (folks), I thoroughly enjoyed it. The scenery was great, there weren’t too many laborious ups and downs and they weren’t that laborious anyway. The trail was well laid, paper easy to follow. Generally ‘are Flash Dick (“Bite Dick” – google it up if you don’t believe me), who had never laid a run before, did a bon travail if ever there was one done. Even some mild breezes brushed the landscape and it pointedly didn’t rain. There is an observation (ahem) I would like to make however concerning some features of the scenery, this being the colorful and highly visible ablution activities of Zola the ridge back and Pogo the dalmation two (TWO!) of my favourite Hash dogs.

 

For some reason and I have no idea why, to the canine brain the very first stages of a Hash run, any Hash run, is the ideal time for comprehensive and dramatic bowel evacuation. If you wish to be spared this high definition, multi pixel experience, do yourself a huge favor and give both creatures a wide berth. Start the run early or if necessary and it kills you, stay up front with the FRBs. Even Zola’s human, Mount ‘n’ groan, could not hazard a guess at what she had recently devoured to cause such a result, I won’t go into it. Suffice to say that I may have to take sick leave or seek trauma counseling some time this week.

 

Later in the Angela Merkel (circle) Pogo’s human, whose identity will remain a closely guarded secret (Comes Up, who shall be henceforth referred to as either Mr. X or Mr. Up in order to observe the tenets of the Official Secrets Act) was falsely accused of pushing the Hash Master (“M”) into a rice paddy. I would not have believed this even if I had actually seen it with my own eyes, which I had, and I didn’t. Nevertheless he (Mr. Xup) was severely iced and shriven by Night Jar who shall also remain nameless. All very hush-hush you see, this affair, and must be treated with the utmost discretion and delicate diplomacy. After all, this is the Hash. In X’s defense, M did not say “Passing”.

 

The rest of the circle in stark contrast to this was high jollity and hilarity, which I put down to one of two things: A general sense of good fellowship among serious athletes of a high caliber or “beer”. I think I might be onto something with the latter investigative theory. I’ll look into it right away.

 

On on,

J.B.

 

P.S. Don’t miss the next BHHH2 Run Saturday the 2nd of December as it is the St Andrews Day Run located Somewhere in Tagalalang.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hash Trash Run 1345 Pejeng a.k.a

Roll That Sosis

As rock band AC/DC better known in their home town of Fremantle West Australia (which just so happens to be your’s truly’s as well) as Acca Dacca, “It’s a long way to the Shop if you want a Sausage Roll”, or as Sir Mick put it it even more succinctly if not so grammatically “It’s only Sausage Rolls, but I Like It”. Say what you will about this humble member of the golden brown food group e.g. “it’s made from only the most disgusting and non-nutritious bits of the cow, if you’re lucky” or “Yechhh”.

Sometimes nothing, nothing I say will satisfy a mighty hunger developed for example after a Bali HHH2 Saturday arvo Hash run at Pura Dalem Pejeng as a lukewarm and tommy sauce slathered snagger roll. Mmm, mmm, especially good with a freshly drawn glass of draught piss. Excuse my plebian tendencies, I care not for canapes of sturgeon roe-sprinkled Abertam cheese from Karlovy (formerly known as Carlsbad) and a flute of Moet Chandon with the crowned heads of Europe on the clipped grounds of the Chateau de Versailles. No, no, not for me thanks. I’ll go with a piss up with me mates who have names like Hardcase, Long Dong Silver, Night Jar, Mount ‘n’ Groan, Organ Grinder, Zola the Ridgeback and a coupla (okay, okay, a few) of White Bait’s mystery rolls.

Which brings me to the run, an absolute snorter by Hare White Bait himself (purveyor of fine sausage rolls and swimming pools since 1995, I think) in a place I myself, me, personally anyway hadn’t run before. It wasn’t too challenging in the up-up department (crucially important), the paper and markings were clear enough for Mr. Magoo and Blind Lemon Jefferson to follow and the scenery was unerringly, relentlessly pleasant.

We crossed one busy road as far as I recall, the rest was pure Nat Geo. in the Paddy, Soebec and Jungle Publications Company Limited sense. It was glossy magazine material, basically all of it. Comes Up who was running more or less in the same gaggle as me was moved to produce a camera from his person on at least two or three occasions. This is a hardened Bali hasher I’m talking about here, with a dog even. I didn’t think he knew what a camera was but there he was snapping away as if he was turning Japanese (I really think so). Such was the comeliness of the scenery last week at Pejeng. Please do not take umbrage Comes up. I know you are not the subject of a 1979 new wave song by The Vapours nor do I accuse you of being camerally ignorant. I am merely making a point (besides you’re rather a large chap). Wait, I didn’t mean that in a derogatory…oh forget it.

We were back at the Amazing Truck of Beer and Impeccable Service before we knew it, the run went by so pleasantly swiftly. I was tempted to whip my canvas, easel and no.10 brush out of the car and go back out on the trail, but settled for a few beers instead and (did I mention sausage-based food items?) We circled up and were unanimous in praise of the run: “No susu’’, we judged loudly, grateful bastards that we are.

After the customary virgin/visitor/returner gamut running, R.A. Organ Grinder “flushed out” Steve Bannon, Sarah Huckabee Sanders, Sean Spicer and a few other erstwhile White House staffers, or unfortunates that resembled them anyway, for down downs. The same two Welsh visitors kept ending up at the mercy of various “ring” masters, who with unerring Hash taste were all too willing to bring up bovine and lanolin inferences culminating with Jangle Balls’ “Bah Bah Bah, Bah Barbara Anne” (Went to the damn lookin’ for a lamb, saw Barbara Anne and it was wham bam Ma’am”). He is indeed a suave and urbane individual.

With that, all was dag-rattlingly under wraps, if I may be so bold. So we’ll see all you little sosis rollers on Saturday at Ponggan, baaahing any changes (what was that?)

On on

J.B.

BHHH2 Hash Trash Run #1340 Goa Gajah

Happy Trails To Me

 

To quote a notorious Jewish Philosopher  with a beard and sandals, “It’s good to be back” or to quote K. Richards, another even more notorious philosopher after falling out of a palm tree in Tahiti and waking up in New Zealand with titanium screws holding his cranium on: “It’s good to be anywhere”. I don’t think I mixed up those two chaps and their profundities. Was it J.C. in N.Z. with screws in his skull? Keef resurrected? Tidak apa apa (translation: “no what what”). After two weeks of 5 degree C. lows, 100 kph gusts, ten dollar beers and sitting around in houses, offices, bars and restaurants in jumper, jacket, scarf and trackie-dacks-under-the-trews in the exotic, well-heated Perth indoors, a stumble around the Goa Gajah area and a few (har) beers was just what the doctor ordered, just tickety boo. I’m here to tell ya.

 

We drove the alternative route last week to G.G., in other words we followed the directions of a pleasant sounding young lady named Vera with an American accent on a GPS app in a tablet device. This worked a treat or would have done if we had actually listened to her directions instead of pissing ourselves laughing and missing turns because of her Indonesian name pronunciation, which made Blahbatu sound something like “blahdy blahdy blah” and Pantai Sabah like “pantie suburbs”. Anyhow, we got there.

 

Once again a decent sized crowd of 75–odd persons (in all senses) left the G.G. car park with Muddy Man’s advice ringing our ears: an hour’s walk on the short, two on the long. Goa Gajah always proves to be an interesting run. It has wildly varying episodes – some blighted with garbage and entire psychiatric conventions of barely controlled vehicular lunacy bearing down on us on manically crowded jalans, or peaceful countryside scenes of deep green, calm and balm to both the eye and mind. This also depends on the direction we take. Last week the group I was running with were surprised, even shocked (I was anyway), to find ourselves as far away as Pejeng. “How did we end up here?” I blurted spotting a sign on a warung. “I dunno about you but I jogged and ran mostly” a well known smarty pants replied. This didn’t look good for our hour long short.

 

Fortunately it was overcast and a cool drizzle of rain kept us from overheating. But realizing we were an over an hour out and far from home and beer, I was in a bit more of a hurry than I had been up to then. I looked up in my haste and there was an older buleh tourist walking past me on the other side of the road who was a dead ringer for Clint Eastwood. Does this ever happen to you? Maybe it’s just me hallucinating (again), but I swear I have caught glimpses of celebrities etc. on the Hash and in Bali in general as diverse as Julia Roberts, David Attenborough, Bowie (albeit not very recently), Tony Abbott – it’s not impossible. Even if I had run smack into the grimacing, glinting one himself wearing a poncho and six guns whistling a Hugh Montenegro theme tune, I was so beer thirsty I would have said “Clint, mate. ‘Hacksaw Ridge’, loved it, gotta run…”

 

It was indeed an hour and forty minutes by the time I was slaking a mighty thirst back at the truck. “Did you do the long?” inquired Mudflaps. “No, but it feels like it.” What the hell, I was back on Bali Hash 2 pleasantly knackered,  hoisting beers, exchanging jokes, jabs, jests, japes and hilarity with me Hash mates, not freezing my arse off and worrying about what petty law I might be breaking – happy as Larry the Clam in his happy place. A boisterous circle followed in which virgins were merrily slaughtered, Nightjar remembered something historically hysterical, Dancing Queen told a joke that most people understood (a photo was taken of this for posterity), Little Johnny told his parents that he saw Dad in bed with the maid doing what Mum and Uncle Dennis were doing at the beach house last summer and race horses with names such as Neil Amblowmie, Anita Hanjaab, Oil Beef Hooked and Hoof Hearted were banned from entering the Melbourne Cup.

All in all a good night’s work.

 

See you at the Kantor Pos Payangan next week. Bring a French letter.

 

On on,

 

J.B.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hash Trash for BHHH2 Run 1336 Bongkasa Andy Rowson Memorial Run

A Non-Stick-Poking Turnout

It was a respectably sized crowd that showed up for the Andy “Manchu Fukka’’ Rowson memorial run at Bonkasa last Saturday by any measure, a woodwork crawler if I ever saw one. People that hadn’t shown up on the Hash for months or even years descended from the heavens. There were literally people that I thought were dead and gone resurrected and resuscitated, perhaps exhumed, for the occasion materializing before my very eyes every couple of seconds up to the muster and send-off.

In fact every Saturday Hash I’ve been to lately has been pretty well attended. All this led me to the baffling conclusion as we jogged away from the wantilan and into the pleasantly scenic surroundings that we, as Bali HHH2, must be doing something right. Is it possible? Can it be? Are we? Then I’m stuffed if I know what it is. It’s not as if we’re doing anything all that dramatically different.

Okay, there’s the 4 pm start, maybe that’s helping; but the run and beer are the same price, we’re running in the same areas, the circle isn’t that vastly more entertaining recently than it ever was. There just is no magic elixir, no easy explanations, in fact no explanation at all. We can tinker away with the configuration of the committee, the maps, the website, circle, price, change the paper, the beer, whatever. The bald fact is – with all due respect to all the fine Hashers who are now putting or have put a huge effort into the club in their various ways and without whom we’d be comprehensively screwed – attendance figures are as random as buggary. A few years ago we would get crowds of over a hundred on a weekly basis under practically identical conditions as now (given a bit of inflation)…the answer my friend, is blowing in the wind, but it looks like it’s blowing in the right direction at least.

It was a bloody good run, too, last week. Despite being told by one of the hares (there were six of them, in the spirit of the occasion) that it followed a completely different course than it actually did. Really, nothing says ‘gullible’ like a Hound asking a Hare for directions and I should know better by now than to try to prise the lowdown from one. However, my lips are sealed as to his or her identity. All I can reveal is that it starts with “Agent” and ends with “Orange”, but that’s as far as I’m prepared to venture.

It was muddy enough to be diverting and blessedly cool to the point that it gently rained on us from a lowering and overcast slate grey sky. Plenty of ups and downs that were not severe enough to stop us in mid-climb gasping for breath (those that weren’t me anyway) and an array of “non-checks” convincingly check–like enough to be virtually indistinguishable from the genuine article. The only things missing were yer actual Xs.

There was mass confusion in mid-run as we were guided to a weir by arrows of a seemingly genuine provenance to the spectacle of a crowd of Hashers milling around like lost souls in Dante’s “Inferno” (or shoppers at Hardy’s, Sanur). Scouts were sent off in all possible directions to paper desolation. “Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot?” we all thought bubbled until an alert Harriet realized that the chalk wasn’t white and yellow as advertised by Hare Parashit, but white and gold. The local kiddiewinks are getting better at subterfuge and paper re-arrangement though, be warned.

There were two (how many?) run highlights last Sat. One was the black-and-white-fabric-and-umbrella girt massive banyan tree that made the ones in “Avatar” and “Lord of the Rings” look like potted bonsai, and the other was of course the bamboo bridge that was so cute you wanted to tickle it and say “coochie coochie coo”. There are photos of both posted on the BHHH2 website in case I was hallucinating (a possibility to this day). There are also photos of partying Hashers clutching the amber ambrosia that will give you an idea of the tone of the occasion (in case, like me you were there)…yes, well.

Andy’s relatives from Britain made circle appearances and were given hearty rounds of applause. Various other entities such as The R.A., the Grand Master, Hash Master, Jangle Balls etc. also took the floor but weren’t given the clap they so richly deserved. Maybe next time. Stay tuned for another exciting episode on Saturday at Bukit Jati with Hare Kuchit. That’s right folks, don’t touch that dial.

No, wait! Breaking news! This just in! Touch that dial! It’s in Sobongan! Too many exclamation marks!

On! on!

J.B.!