Hash Trash Run #1320 Pura Dalem Beng Gianyar

BHHH2 Hash Trash Run #1320 Pura Dalem Beng Gianyar

Hash Trash Run #1320 Pura Dalem Beng Gianyar

The Healing Waters

We had a spot of rain at (as far as I could make out) “Beng” near Gianyar last Saturday on the Hash, which is to say it urinated down on us mercilessly. Or as Ronnie Barker reading the weather on “The Two Ronnies” once said “There’s rain in Haine, precipitation at Prinsep Station and in Lissingdowne…” Rain gets a bad rap really, it’s not such a big deal, in fact it’s quite fun to get shag-wet, soppingly saturated and run through the jungle in a downpour. Look at the English: the only time they seem to be happy is when they’re in the middle of a biblical deluge. In fact any other time of year in, for example London, you rarely see a human tooth. It cheers them up no end. Some Muslim cultures call it “water from God”, you can see why if you’ve ever been to the vast expanses of hot, treeless fuck-all called the Middle East. This brings me to my favourite Humphrey Bogart movie exchange: “What brings you to Casablanca Mr Rick?” “I came for the healing waters.” “But there are no healing waters in Casablanca, it’s in the desert.” “I was misinformed”. We are sooo lucky in Bali.

Having said that, this “Beng” wasn’t exactly the most salutary area of Bali in which we’ve run. It was all a little down-at-heel and a tad sad-ish if you ask me. The village anjing2 were straw thin, leathery apparitions with random patches of scuzzy looking fur on them, barking at us in deranged and pathetically repetitive ways like maniacal threadbare carpets (no, too big – area rugs). The village buildings and houses were tumbledown, ramshackle and erratically designed affairs some that seemed top heavy and gravity defying with Tower-of-Pisa-like leans on them.

Every spare piece of land, garage or yard was chock full of rusty old pieces of tin, metal or wood-full-of-nails junk that shouted “tetanus” rudely and loudly as we passed. The only people that seemed remotely interested in me were a group of older boys at the edge of town who thrust their hands out and yelled more repetitively than the anjing2: “Many, Mister, many, many, many Mister”. What would a buleh be doing running through a remote kampong near Gianyar, wet to the bone in a singlet and a pair of board shorts with non-existent pockets full of “many”? Whatever.

Okay, I won’t go overboard in the area of criticism, it’s easy to get into a spiral of negativity (who, me?) and it was only one part of Saturday’s Hash. It was mostly quite well planned and a bunch o’ fun. We were led into some very pleasantly rural areas, some parts were downright wild. Knee deep in grass and blinded by rain I went tits up a few times and almost arse over head a few times more, so did the Chinese guy I found myself running with. It would have been entertaining to have recorded the frequent outbursts of “aduh”s, “klang”s, “ah shit”s and “for fuck’s sake’’s delivered in quite convincing tones. Otherwise, there wasn’t much conversation as we were both too busy trying not to break an ankle. Never mind, it was an all-round good run, there was an abundance of DBTs (dirty big trees) of all descriptions, though the trail did suffer from recurring trash. There was plenty of well-laid paper (also of all descriptions), chalk and a very visible split. Many thanks to our Hares Bouncing Czech and No Deposit; a sterling and capital effort, or whatever currency and economic system they use these days.

Just one more observation that I found arresting and culturally illuminating: At one point during our kampong-doggie-gauntlet run I proceeded past a warung with no less than five people comprehensively unconscious in various postures of repose. Even when I shouted a deliberate “on on” (and the dogs went nutso) to see if they would stir, I may as well have addressed the inside of a morgue. Well, why not sleep? It’s raining, there’s nothing to do. One might as well take the check-out option, and why not with friends and family? In a way it makes more sense than Western politicians during a natural disaster or crime investigation holding forth on how under control everything is with a wall of alert fat-necked uniformed persons behind them looking like they’re in haemorrhoidal agony. Why aren’t they out there in the field rescuing or protecting? They may as well be as dead to the world as the Warung Five for all the good they’re doing.

The circle started as a damp affair but with the aid of a member of the Superior Viking Master Race (Religious Advisor Dancing Queen) who controls the weather with his invisible “rod”, the rain dissipated and things proceeded drily. The Adolf haircut is a bit of a worry, though, even given his 80’s credentials. Grand Master Night Jar who has credentials from a different decade (the Roaring Twenties – kidding, har!) regaled us with a chestnut he recovered as recently as last week “No Balls at All”, a catchy air about an unfortunate female newlywed’s disturbing discovery. I think you have the picture.

The merriment continued until – daa duuuuuuuum (horrific screams of abject terror, an enormous explosion, a squeaky fart, music box music) we ran out of piss – again – early, before social drinking was even a spermatazoozoo of a thought.

This cannot go on, I won’t have it! Make it staaaaaahhhhhp.

To be continued, on on. J.B.

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