Hash Trash Run #1312 Br Demayu Tunon 18 March 2017
The Buffalo Hunter Returns!
This was a saying my Dearly Departed Dad would repeat enthusiastically every time I showed my ever more battered visage at the front door of the family home (2 Instone St. Hilton Park, W.A., Australia – an address that sounds a lot posher than it is) after some dubious or ill advised sojourn to some far or not so far flung part of the world. In fact it would make no difference whatsoever whether it had been a weekend surfing trip, a year of trudging around Europe and / or Africa with a backpack, groundsheet and toothbrush or yet another failed attempt at a semi-respectable job in another city / country / hemisphere / galaxy. The prodigal wanderer (see: “hippie bum”) would always have come fresh from another wildly successful season of hunting buffalo, judging by pater’s bluff and welcoming tones. Bless his black rubber thongs and Chesty Bond navy blue singlet.
It seems my wilful, meandering ways have still not entirely deserted me even in advanced years and once again I showed my weather beaten moosh at the front door of Bali Hash House Harriers Two (TWO!) after a trek to Malaysia and back. And Holy Sawa, it was good to be back.
There weren’t seething masses of Hashers at Tunon last Saturday, around 45 – 50 souls, but it was good to see the regulars again in their native habitat, not to mention the topless sungai washing Ibu Ibu in theirs. Ah yes, back to the sylvan surrounds and unabashed simplicity of a “Hello Mister” from the Saturday arvo semi naked Ibu mandi club. It was the St. Paddy’s Day run hosted and Hared, possibly, by that undeniably Hibernian duo Monkey Balls and Barnacle Balls. I say “possibly” because although Monkey Balls was a ubiquitous and welcoming mine host and Hare figure with his “Who’s your Paddy?” leprechaun hat, lime green tee shirt and ankle adornments, Barnacle Balls made a mysterious almost furtive appearance late in the circle looking less than dressed for a casual drop in. Hitherto, nobody had seen him participating in the run as a Hound. Who knows what mysteries, what deeds lurk in the hearts of the Irish? It was a really good run though unanimously praised by all in the circle. I personally enjoyed the bejesus out of it. They took a very much overused run site and with Celtic creativity and imagination turned into a totally novel experience using esoteric trails, byways and previously unused or underused tracks and jungle jalans, very clever.
I did see a snake though, so the only thing missing was St. Paddy himself in the paddys themselves banishing snakes with his brandished crook: “Fook off yer coonts!” You know what they say, they want to get away from us at least a much as we want them to. If I were an Irish snake, I’d want to put some distance between me and O’ Flaherty with a skinful. Good name for a rock band though, The Irish Snakes, specifically U2 (sueing some poor bloody roadie for all he was worth for borrowing Bono’s stage outfit, arseholes.)
Ahem, moving right along, the circle was also a sheer joy to return to (Oh alright, to which to return). Multiple virgins were slayed at the hands of John The Baptist along with a stupid amount of returners. This general hilarity was fuelled by an especially potent, especially-for-Paddy’s-day 3 kegs of deliciously cloudy Diablo lager (about 5% alcohol but judging by the slap happy effect on the crowd it may as well have been 55%). For some reason, there is nothing quite as funny as an Irish joke being told by an Irishman, particularly when you’re pissed. This came in the form of Monkey Balls, who I’m not even sure knew how weepingly, pee producingly funny he was. The “dirty tree and a turd joke” was never delivered in a more devastating manner, brill. We were in fits, sorry, grand mals – it was grand anyway.
One more thing in the spirit of last week’s anecdotal circle. When I first went to central Java to spend weeks at a batik factory seeing my garment order through, I was wondering why the workers were calling the guy in charge of fabric production “O’ Malley”. Was he somehow, against all odds Irish? I asked the factory manager who told me no, they were calling the bloke “Om Ali”.
The Buffalo Hunter