Hash Trash Run #1323 Balai Subak Jempeng, Carangsari
Paradise Found, One Owner, Low Mileage
Carang Sari, the area we ran in last week, has to be one of the most scenically, astoundingly, narcoticizingly pleasant on Chook Island. In fact the larger surrounding area including Petang and Sangeh is pretty dang spectacular even on the drive getting to the site, if you ask mois. Most importantly none of it is as demandingly up and down valley-wise as your higher elevations for Hashers of HHH2’s dare I say predilections, um, peccadilloes, ah, delicate vintages perhaps?
“I mean some of those valleys up in the mountains” as one of our more mature Hashers pointed out to me after the run, will “kill the shit out of you”. Now I’m not going to name anyone here of course, but as etiquette demands, I’ll give you a multiple choice: 1) Night Jar 2) 69er 3) Screaming Lord Clit 4) Worm (a younger mature Hasher in our smörgåsbord of maturity). See how I got out of that? I couldn’t remember who it was if you attached battery charged crocodile clips to my testes and interrogated me all month.
As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, this is an area we don’t often run in. I’d be surprised if I personally had run there before in fact; and I’m the proud owner of a 300- run achiever’s tee shirt – to prove how far gone I am in Alzheimer’s terms, or for those who prefer a gentler term, mixed dementia. Carang Sari is charming in its versatility, too. There was everything from extended flat views of outrageously green palm clad paddys with not a sign of human habitation in either direction for, well, quite a ways (with distant mountain glimpses), to impressively proportioned bamboo stands in slices of thick jungle, houses and compounds nestled in cameos of outlandish quaintness isolated a fair distance from one another, plus a ludicrously attractive stream walk was tossed in as a bonus on the S and L.
The only thing marring the whole package were fairly liberal pepperings of garbage in some spots to the point where I actually had the front of my right Hash shoe encased in a “Pop Mie” instant noodle foam cup for a meter or two, performing the fancy footwork of James Brown doing the “Funky Chicken” to cast it off. There must be inhabitants around there somewhere, but I didn’t see too many, barely any at all in fact. And what a balm that is for folk from the Old South Land, the land of cotton (jersey).
Even from outside the small and insanely precious temple and matching button-cute miniature wantilan opposite, beers in hands waiting for the circle, the sunset view of the palm and tree line across the fields was so rurally relaxing and flat out luvverly chuvverly, I didn’t know whether to slip into a coma or burst into song. I did burst into song later but that had more to do with the beer than the scenery. In fact we all burst into song when Night Jar performed by popular demand for the third week in a row “No Balls At All” and in honor of the fiftieth anniversary of “Sgt Pepper’s”, Jangle Balls regaled us with some potty mouthed, Dung Beatle psychedelia.
I still haven’t said all I want to say about the x-treme bucolic environment of Carang Sari. I know I’m ranting and babbling a bit, but I do that. So thanks to Hare Toilet Brush who we hadn’t seen on Bali Hash 2 regularly for a while and who made an impressive return with this outing. If I’d had a no. 10 paint brush, an easel and mounted canvas, I would probably still be there dabbing, slashing and flicking away, adjusting my beret, twirling my non-existent moustaches and holding a thumb up at some unsuspecting piece of scenery. I don’t think I was alone, most Hashers in the circle agreed that it was pretty outstanding. At 5.7 clicks for the short run it wasn’t over-demanding either, with just enough checks to make it interesting – the Goldilocks Zone for Paleolithic Hashers like me.
We had tall cans of “Diablo” last week rather than a keg, which the Beer Master had procured for us through a deal he made with Bali Hai. If anybody doesn’t think it is indeed a strong brew, then find my prescription sun glasses because I was so pissed I lost them comprehensively. Oh well, as my Latin motto goes “Irrumator praetor” (shit head). I was not that happy with myself. At least the beer lasted all the way through social drinking though – a stand out event these days.