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Hash House What?

Phen and I had been on the island for a couple of months when a new German friend of ours named "TV" asked, "have you ever been on The Hash before". "What?" I said. Phen and I both looked incredulously at TV. "Yeah, sure I've been on the hash before, been on the piss and the coffee and the cigarettes too, what about it?" I replied to TV.

"No, no, not the hash, The Hash" said TV again. "You know, bunch of loonies get together, run through the jungle for an hour or so, then get so drunk they fall down". "What are you talking about TV?" I asked. "The Koh Samui Hash House Harriers, haven't you heard of them?" replied TV.

"Oh yeah" I said, "I know of the Hash House Harriers, sure, they run." I remembered running once or twice in Fiji with the "Hash". Or rather, more truthfully, I don't really remember running with the Hash in Fiji, I just remember getting terribly, terribly drunk on beer and that is about it.

That was the beginning of my relationship with the KSH3 (Koh Samui Hash House Harriers). I am now on the committee. I am THE Hash Law. That means that I can make up rules. Any rules I like. Silly rules. Utterly stupid rules. The spirit of Hash is fun - "a drinking club with a running problem" is how they often refer to themselves.

Worldwide, you can and will find "Hashers" running around like lunatics, following obscure trails of paper, yelling out at the top of their lungs "on-on" and "are you?" and "checking, checking". The calls of the Hashers can be heard ringing through the tropical rainforests on the mountains of Koh Samui each second Saturday year round.

Come rain or sun or cyclone - the Hashers are out there getting lost in the jungle, fighting with wild animals and natives bearing dreadful weapons. Poisonous insects abound and pitfalls and dangerous rivers typify the trails laid by the often-sadistic "Hares".

A Hare is the person or person who goes out before the run and lays the trail of paper that the Hashers must follow to get to the end of the run - and the beer.

So, on run number 15 of the Koh Samui Hash House Harriers, in September of 1997, I had been elected to be the "Hash Scribe" for the day.

This meant that I had to write a short report of the run to be published in the fortnightly KSH3 magazine; a small 3 or 4 page publication produced in the spirit of furthering the fun. I wrote the report and with a great flourish and fanfare, it was published.

The following is the report of Run Number Fifteen.

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Well, it was another Hash run. Jay, who’d on this very day been aptly named "Relay Delay" by Capt. Sqaull due to his ingrained habit of seriously considering what you just said to him before replying, had laid the trail. We all knew Jay and we all knew that this was a trail to test our serious work-ethos. I shuddered in fear at the thought.

After the usual "where the fuck is the site" questions, mainly from a certain motorcycle riding cretin who’d arrived and hour early and got lost in the bush, the group assembled in a picturesque valley inland from Mae Nam.

After the usual preliminary blurb by Capt. Squall and others, Jay waved his hand wildly in several directions and shouted "on-on!" The mountains looming in the not-too-far distance appeared threatening and dangerous. Many a mind I am sure was thinking "Oh God no, not the bloody mountain". But no, even Jay with his heavy work mentality had had the sense to run us around the fringe of a large hill/mountain.

The first check found several members discussing the psychology of the very, very obvious trail of paper half way up a nearby hill track. "Hmm" people muttered. :"Hmm, that is far too obvious, it must be a false trail". But those possessed of vast wisdom had already plumbed the depths of Khun Jay’s mind and simply knew that this was his trick, his rabbit-in-the-hat.

Of course, if it was so obvious we’d say.. "Hmm, so obvious" and go elsewhere. Certain fools tested the theory only to be left behind the bunch; apart from sympathetic sidekicks who’d hung back - it was indeed a false trail.

The run rapidly broke up and spanned a few kilometers. The rear runners soon came upon the front runners, running back down a huge hill and cursing -"fucking bastard, we’ll get him for that one". ‘Twas a nice li’l’ loop around a seriously large hill. The front cursed, the rear sighed in relief for having been far enough back to avoid this pitfall.

The trail wound on through a scenic and gently undulating terrain. Verdant tropical growth was everywhere, the trail mossy and damp. The occasional large hole and small river crossing breaking the monotony of the long distance runner…..

Soon, Capt. Squall accompanied by a few sturdy female runners came upon what the Capt. informed us all was referred to by the "Coffee Boys" as the tunnel of love. There ahead was Mooselips displaying his all for the assembled group. (he dropped his pants and mooned them all!).

The women, gagging and retching later arrived late after getting lost? Lost? Hmmm…. Sure saved them a few miles… maybe it was just the debilitating effect of Mooselip’s brown-eye?

A couple of useful zigzags allowed a tad of shortcutting for those who were (a) to the rear and (b) had their eyes open. It’s always fine to see the slugs catch up with the real-runners, eh what?

Here and there along the trail the paper appeared to peter out a bit - just the rain which although had not dissipated the tapioca powder used for the check’s and false trail markers, had somewhat decimated the paper-shreds. This led to some serious searching here and there but in the end, as usual, the trail was picked up again.

Good old Internuts was up back there, pulling paper-wads back out of the bushes, separating the strands and placing them back in far more obvious locations, complete and complemented by arrows and pointers scratched into the sand track with a palm frond. What a kind soul is Internuts, and a damned fine sweeper into the bargain!

A long trail, laid by a professional work-ethos expert, it was a test to the bitter end. The trail had obviously been the subject of several days of careful and time-consuming research by Relay Delay (or is that Delay Relay?)

Several dangerous river crossings, No "killing-fields" and no "bush-of-thorns", the trail was possessed of both virtuous and sinful characteristics. TV antennas and knife wielding natives sprang out from behind the jungle cover. Fruit was to be had along the way, rambutans and star apples.

The last leg of the trail ran through a coconut tree felling area complimented with over 50 logger’s trails and again, a thin trail of paper. As confusion again (as usual) began to take a firm grip, the more hardy and experienced realized they were not "far from home" and eventually found the trail and got back on track again. By now the runners were spread out over more than 2 kilometers. Would they all make it home? Hmmm?

The run started at 4:30 PM and the first runners came "in-on" home around 5:50 with the last group arriving at about 5:05. Speaking of which, this last group was made up of several of the runners of the gentler sex who all claimed to have become quite lost somehow.

Hmmm, seemed to some of the gathered congregation that perhaps, just perhaps, they’d simply dropped back and waited to hear the Hash-Horn closing in on the in-on end of the run? Just perhaps? Naaaaah! How could one ever think such a thing?

A very good and quite laughter-filled down-down followed.

(note: The "down-down" is a ceremony held at the end of each race. The group of runners stands in a circle and tell various nasty jokes about each other, force large quantities of beer upon each other and generally enjoy themselves, reminiscing about the run that day.)

Jay was bestowed with the name "Relay Delay" (again, was that Delay Relay?). T.V. - represented rightfully by Pubic Chechenya - left message that he had failed to attend due to a nasty little cut on his index finger. How he got such cut? Hmmm….

Pubic Chechenya was accused of spending his days at Coffee Boys and Exit (Gay clubs) in Chaweng and reminded of what Mooselips and The Capt. referred to as rule-6… "NO POOFTERS". He attempted to pull Blind&Fast Eddie into the circle later, to back him up. Stupid fool!

One of the virgin’s - "chatterbox" as Capt. Squall was heard to refer to her - almost died at from laughing at the utterances within the circle and without!

After the down-down the group decided on a radical alternative and retired to The Congo Estate to sample the reggae music and inexpensive beer and food. Apparently all were in general agreement that said Estate provided good value for the baht in these tough times.

The final judgment of the run? All seemed to agree in a generic manner that (a) it was not too long, (b) it was not too tough, (c) it was quite certainly very scenic, and (d) perhaps a few too many checks? (perhaps), (d) a bit wet in places, like in the deep-end of the river crossings and finally (e) not to award Delay-Relay-Delay the Hash-Shit.

So, Clueless retains the title and life goes on as before… until the next run in Nathon, already reco’d by Pubic Chechenya.. oh you fools, you poor fools!

Footnote: The run that was subsequently reco'd by Pubic Chechenya (the writer) earned him the title of "Hash Shit". It was a bad run, too short, very confusing, several people got quite lost. But in the true spirit of the Hash, the group simply had the best fun ever, bestowing the title of Hash Shit upon Pubic.

The title had been carried for several months by "Clueless", who had laid out a run that was far too long and arduous. "