Hash Trash for Lungsiakan Run#1321

A Guided Meditation for Hashing…floating Amongst the Muddy Drunken Foul Mouths

 

Hello, my name is (not) Jason Stephenson and for the next few minutes I will (not) be taking you on a deeply meditative journey (unlikely to be) the most relaxing and serene experience you have ever had short of passing out dead drunk in an Ubud alleyway with Hashers named “Blow Joe”, “Night Jar”, “Jangle Balls”or “Wooden Eye” (tinkly, whooshing new age “music”). Give your thoughts permission to leave you and take their own journey to return in the morning and find you with a hangover of Hiroshima proportions and a tongue tasting like the floor of a Mexican jail. Now let’s clean up those Cakra locations: first the lower Cakra which is located at the bottom of your spine in the general area of the arsehole, is a fiery orange swirl of flame, perhaps as the result of a calming Chicken Jalfraize at Little India in Jalan Cemara, Sanur. This Cakra is responsible for responsibility, feel it being cleansed in a rotary motion with a handful of Paseo Elegant (hygenic, soft and natural) tissue roll. (Long pause with more whooshing sounds).

 

But I jest of course, I take the piss, I remove the urine. I’m not serious about any of the above and I’m sure that Jason Stephenson is a fine young man totally dedicated to making a fortune on You Tube with New Age meditative blatant twaddle and buying a place in Coff’s Harbour with an ocean view. And I’m certainly not serious about our upstanding and sober Hashers, pillars of the community such as the respected video artist, handicraft entrepreneurs and self-described “national treasure” author mentioned above.

 

Ahem, so now (at last) to the Hash last week at Lungsiakan volley ball court, a mere folley pall’s (local pronunciation) throw away from the joys of downtown Ubud and not far from the Fly Cafe (Why the “Fly” Cafe? Somebody enlighten me).  It’s not as if this course was spectacularly novel, nor it must be said was the semi-permanent (har) Hare, who must just about have Hash Hare tenure at this point. I doubt if he’ll be taking a sabbatical though any time soon (our little buddy, bloody, cruddy Muddy). He readily admits that he likes the free beer privileges too much that go with Haring, in his refreshingly frank manner. But you must concur, this is the very quaintest of oft-used trails on the hash. It genuinely is picturesque (pronounced picture- skew) so let’s all give Muddy Man the clap he so richly deserves (spontaneous, deafening applause).

 

The view from atop Ubud Ridge to the valley below and surrounding countryside and scenery is as exotic a tropic panorama as you’ll see anywhere on this blue globe. It doesn’t matter how many times you gaze at it, it is truly remarkable. The impossibly quaint little eateries, temples, homestays and trickling gotts  along twisting and turning paths that wind through Ubud’s back blocks and out into the paddys after leaving the chaotic lunacy of the bridge area below the old “Beggar’s Bush”; now a wrong-headedly rainbow colored monstrosity that totally betrays its storied past, are mesmerizingly cute still. A more senior (cough) Hasher I was running with at this point called these alley ways “Lesbian Lanes”, don’t ask unless you’ve never been to planet Ubud. He will remain unnamed because he’s already got one (Spook, oops).

 

Where were we with our blocked Cakra cleansing? We don’t want our Cakras blocked, do we? Move your focus now to the second (or is it third Cakra), I can never remember when I’m thinking about what color Lamborghini I want. Ah screw it, I’ll get a red Mazerati. What? Oh yeah, Cakras. The Cakra around the area of the heart is bright green and shocking pink (as if you didn’t know) while we’re on the subject of colors. And this Cakra is intimately involved and caring in all matters of the, well, heart. Try now to picture in your third eye (no, not the brown one) this garishly ugly, no wait, this vibrant and spinning, swirling colorful vortex being scrubbed with a stiff brush and a fifty fifty solution of water and Porstex. Whoosh whoosh, tinkle tinkle. Or even better, have your own pembantu do it…

 

Alright, alright, enough of this levity nonsense. To the circle, where we were vastly entertained by the usual silly buggars, and while it was once again a hoot of unmatched comedic proportions, once again, we swiftly ran out of the amber ambrosia that fuels these occasions. I don’t profess to know what is going wrong here – there weren’t even any bottles left as far as I could tell – but something is going wrongedy, wrongedy wrongo. Let’s hope the upcoming mismanagement meeting can take this dilemma, the horns of which we are upon, and grapple with these very horns.

On on, J.B.