Originally (to be) published on the Himalayan Hash House Harriers website. It's basically a report of a standard hash run (as described earlier), meant for insiders. But perhaps fun to read one of them to get a bit of a feel for it. The only bit of background info I'm gonna give is that the name GM stands for Grand Master, sort of the ring-leader of a local Hash branch. Our GM, that has held this position for many a year, hasn't shown up for a few weeks in a row.
GM! Why has thou forsaken us? Hashes of late have been spiraling out of control! For all of mankind's clamors for democracy and mob rule, the hashes here in Kathmandu make it clear that the only thing we really need is an iron hand that smites us with insults if we forget our place.
GMizz, she tries. And she shouts, and she puts up a show. But she hasn't got that burning evil deep inside of her like you do, to bring it all to life. In your absence GM, the hashes turn more into boyscout affairs, where we play these things called 'games'. Like 'Duck, duck, goose', where we have to run around a SITTING circle and we are supposed to have FUN. There has been to much clowning around lately GM (dijenkletser!!!). Under you rule, surely, this despicable frivolery would never have the chance to catch root, I'm sure.
Let's take the latest hash as test-case. It all started out innocently enough: A circle was formed. A healthy circle. About 36 in all. Two virgins, some visitors, some returnees. The hares were called in the middle, who explained the hash had a tennis theme, because of some tennis thing the hares have been coocooing about for weeks on end while no-one really cares. You would have verbally lifted the hares by the hair, GM, for their insular and self indulgent behavior. Weeks ago. Before their words became action.
But anyway, done is done. Water under the bridge. The run itself started in a relative orderly fashion. Sweetcheeks would take the runners and Shaggy Baba the walkers. At the halfway point they would switch.
The runners went through the farm field, up a hill, and even more up the hill and even more up the hill. The first half was all very pretty and tasteful. Nearing the halfway point we lost the trail. And here we sniffed a hint of what to come. Turned out there were a some minute snippets of paper hidden in the middle of the mountain, far up the mountain, in no-mans land. After eons we managed to pry a hint out of Sweetcheeks, and up we went; relishing the hardship of up-mountain-going, being the toughened hashers we so undoubtedly are.
Not soon after we hit upon the halfway point: A nice and pittoresk Hindu temple, the name of which I hope Keeled will replace the last part of this sentence with. The runners as a group were still quite complete. But when the run resumed, stuff went bonkers. As the runners, taken over by wild the excitement that is hashing, pored out of every orifices of the temple had to look for a lead. Even though Shaggy Baba was quite clear in his hint about the continuation, which he himself proved bonafide by going in that direction himself.
This didn't stop from a whole slew of cocky hashers to think their intuition is better than the memory of the people that actually layed the hash. Right there and then we lost a quite a number of our dear comrades, and good riddance to them.
As an aside it should be noted it is a bit worrisome that amongst the first to loose track of where they are supposed to go were a couple of pilots. If they can't find their way across a couple of acres of farmland, how will they navigate across the world. So the fact that they are probably still searching their way home is perhaps more a gain than a loss to the aviation world.
The rest of us rushed down that huge hill we climbed up not so long ago, running past the walkers, and a surprisingly large number of defected runners, who just were not (wo)man enough for the big girls/boys. And good riddance to them as well!
Not long afterwards they saw us coming again, because (the pattern became clear) all the false trails were laid in such a way that they would reveal themselves to us only after enduring endless hardships... Which, ehh..., which is of course the way we like it! Yes... hmm...
Anyway, we scuttled up the stairs which deceividly brought us down, and we went down again, cause we couldn't find any paper going up... And the walkers thought this was ever so funny, seeing us pass them all the time, getting sweaty and all.
We found our way again eventually, went downhill, and got caught by another false trail, while yet again the real trail was impossible to descern for us with only five senses. And it was here that your correspondent caught a glimpse of a more sinister side of Shaggy Baba. By piecing the pieces together in retrospect your correspondent managed to uncover that every time we were about to follow one of those false trails into oblivion, Shaggy Baba was there with his camera. The satisfaction quite clear on his face when yet again we were on our way to search for paper, probably buried with shovels several feet below the earth surface.
The pinnacle of sadism we encountered when crossing a 200 m hanging bridge, that swayed savagely from left to right as we clampered for the sparse support, lest we not fall off. As your reporter tried to mount the bridge, the act itself a death defying act, Sweetcheeks (who was helping the walkers over at the same time) stood at the bridge base, asking: "How was that false trail?" Smiling in a way which was hard to place. Your reporter crossed said death-bridge, seeing several hashers and locals plunge to their demise in the gorge below... Only to hear at the other side that we were following a false trail. This to great delight of the walkers that managed to survive that chasm of doom. No doubt Shaggy Baba got al of this on CMOS.
We were expected to run back across the bridge, back to a checkpoint about 2km away, but luckily the gals/guys leading the pack (as is their custom) went ahead in a completely random direction which, for a change, happened to be spot on course for the next check.
Soon after we came to the (7th?/8th?) check, after which the continuous paper shortage, due to excessive administrative strike in the Tarai, gobbling up all of the nation's paper supply, we were treated on a live hash which basically led us to the first road, which led us to base camp.
Total time: about 2h15 for the runners that didn't get lost, died from falling damage, defected wimpishly to the walkers or suffered a subset or all of the preceding; That markes the second 2h+ run in a row.
The Circle: As follows from the before sketched void in leadership, it seemed like there wasn't gonna be a circle at all this hash. The GMizz seemed to lack a base-level of authority this week to do any mismanaging, and her call for a circle was met by a blunt apathy bordering on passive rebellion. But eventually the crowd gave in, more out of pity than anything else, and formed a squarish, oblong kind of shape.
The formal procedings that followed tied certain hashers to certain titles in the following way:
Got lost: HeBitch, Algerian pilots, Chimp, three from the Agerwal posse
Returnees: Rabi, <name missing>, another Agerwal
Wearing shorts: Spiderwoman
Waxing his legs: Hebitch
Late arrivals: Hebitch, Kimbo, Vane Cock and Cocklear
Virgins: Two guys from the Agerwal posse
Setting next hash: Hash Scholars
Hash crash: Impressive, One Eyed Trouser Trout, Kimbo, Hebitch and your reporter, for the second time in a row (without being named last week due to a shameless hole in reporting quality), who unfortunately missed his head when showing his cup was empty, because of Bihari Ultimate Telecom Technician, who by some stroke of magic came between head and cup, thus recieving the minute sprinklets of beer that managed to pry themselves from the cohesive forces that bound them to said cup.
Newcomer: One Eyed Trouser Trout, who actually has lived in Kathmandu, but hasn't showed up untill now due to a misperceived clash with work hours.
Fashion disasters: Mostly Childkiller, but in lesser degree also Chimp and Super Suction. For wearing trousers that go all the way up to just under their receding hairline.
Hashit: Shaggy Baba, for the awful mess he and Sweet Cheeks made of the hash (Sweet Cheeks somehow deftly avoided this title due to supreme social maneuvering)
Well, as is clear above. Things have turned into a godawful pile of shite, GM! Come back here and stamp your authority on the backsides of our fellow hashers before their death-rate due to mismanagement and backstabbing leaves us with no hashers at all! And then who should I write trash about when I feel bored?
Are you running? Really? Do you want my ticket for the Stockholm Marathon?
Iet ies ze truz! Once a week, 2h in a row. It's hard to comprehend for me to. And yes, can I? But only if you'll also pay for a ticket to Stockholm...