BHHH2 Hash Trash Run #1330 Puri Damai Tunon
Teleported By Dog
Apologies, gentle readers, for my heinous absence in the last few weeks. I was freezing my Perth off in arse, but it’s good to be back (Q: What’s the opposite of cold and expensive? A: Bali!). I flew back on new budget airline “Batik Air”. Now, I know they are in all good conscience differentiating themselves with a touch of cute nationalism by giving the service an indisputably Indonesian name, but I was a little taken aback when they handed me a metal stamp, some melted wax and 30 meters of cotton fabric to go to work on. Kidding! If they were not really a full service airline, at least you get better seating than Air Asia and an actual meal that you more or less want to eat; a movie too if you had the foreskin to bring your own earphones (which I didn’t).
So where were we? That’s right, this is supposed to be about the Hash. There has been much ado (aduh!) during my unconscionable absence and I find a fairly shocking amount of grass has grown under my innocent feet. Bintang has usurped Bali Hai! (here I insert my old personal school motto: “Qui Dederit Cacas?” (look it up if you give a shit). It served me well through years of lackadaisical studies, in other words “beer is beer is beer”.
Despite 42 years of tradition we have elected to start runs at 4 pm. “Health and safety, mate” as the men in the acid lime green high-vis vests would say, despite the fact that the only Hasher we ever may have lost due to Hash activities sustained his injuries in broad daylight setting a run. Run fees have been reduced. Suits me, if they had gone up by the same amount it would still be the cheapest piss-up this side of a fermented yak milk party in a Mongolian yurt.
Oh, it’s all good. I wish our hard-working Mismanagement Committee the best, and I hope that our beloved Hash will attract greater numbers and prosper, even though I kind of enjoy the intimacy of a 40 or 50 strong Hash (as was last Saturday’s, and I did notice that many of these arrived at the site closer to 4.30 than 4 pm). As the farmer in “Babe” put it, “That’ll do, pig”.
And that applies especially to me, so let’s get on with the run at Pura Damai in Tunon last Saturday. The short was, well, short, not that it wasn’t enjoyable. It was almost impossibly pleasant in fact; a beautiful (no other word for it) temperature of 28 cool degrees, breezes just below stiff and laughing Balinese kids and adults flying kites of all shapes, shades and sizes in a porcelain light blue sky with fluffy white clouds out in the verdant paddys. Can’t say fairer than that, governor. The paper was coherent and Hare Rabid Mangy Dog kept us on our toes right from the start putting the pack through a fairly deep water crossing and quickly alternating environs from paddy to quiet kampong to busy jalan and back again with teleportation speed.
This is where I segue into the highlight of the whole affair: an alarming post-circle incident of such high drama and singularity that names will be changed to protect the innocent. There were several Hashers involved, but the main protagonists were a large and muscular dog, let’s call her “Lola”, and her human, let’s call him “Mountie” (he is neither Canadian nor constable, but I’m a bit concerned about the pronunciation of the first syllable in the second word).
We were standing around, beers in hands laughing like hyenas and practicing being idiots, as usual (practice makes perfect). Lola’s staunchly thick leash was casually wrapped around Mountie’s wrist. Suddenly something attracted Lola’s keen canine senses just outside the perimeter of the grounds of the Damai complex, something of earthshaking import no doubt, like a cat or maybe a rat.
Now, I’ve been kicking around on this here blue globe for some several decades now and I have never seen neither man nor beast move as blindingly fast as what these two did before my very eyes on that fateful eve. Mountie was breaking several land speed records for a distance of approximately 25 meters BACKWARDS as Lola took off in a brown blur like a furry first stage satellite launcher. This was of course before, with a resounding crack, Mountie’s head came into explosive contact with the handle of a mechanical plough parked at the edge of the property. He vividly hit the deck which failed to slow down Lola for even a nanosecond as she dragged the poor bastard bodily through the brush and foliage border. They both comprehensively vanished.
Okay, long story short. We managed to relocate Mountie eventually and staunch the blood flow that would have killed a sober man, but it was touch and go for a while. A couple of us also tracked down the alert hound and tether her to a nearby sturdy shrub. I’m pretty sure they both survived the ordeal more or less intact. But let this be a lesson to you Hashers…I don’t know on what particular subject, but let it be a lesson, okay?
Glory, glory hallelujah…