Himalayan Mixed Hash Run No. 1262

15 February 2003

Location Champi airship Virgins Soren, Joy, Jyoti, Mike, Diego
Hares Grumblewald, Raider, Handphun Newcomers Peter, and visitor Lana
Hashers 62
Returnees Geoff, Screwed, and Ever Reddy
Fishit Reider and Grumble - at the same time Leavers  
Trash hopefully, Bill the Brewer Trashflash Rotter

The Pictures

The Trash

Masters of Ceremony

Caught in the act of running No 1

Caught in the act of running No 2

Geoff is assisted by a Hare down a typical example of todays obstacles

Four virgins . . . .

. . . . and the fifth


Recognition at last for the unearthly powers of the GM

The beer goes in and the hair comes out

A shared Fishit

Handphun ditributes Love Balloons

War and love, love and war. The ides of February arrived, and all around the world humankind was indulging and celebrating two of its oldest and most contradictory passions. Troops were deploying, peaceniks were protesting, the French were crying about something or other, and lovers everywhere were exchanging small gifts and bodily fluids. Needless to say, all this existential conflict didn't have a salubrious effect on the already-wobbly HHHH crowd, and rather than stake out a position one way or the other they decided to mark the occasion with a little bit of everything.

The pack had been told to show up wearing something red, which ranged from red T-shirts to red shorts to the more militaristic choice of a red scrap of fabric tied around the head. They had also been promised some Valentine's Day Ms.-Management from several of the female members. But first they had to make their way out to the ass-end of the Bungamati road. The directions the hares posted on the website claimed the on-in was only 1 km from the end of the tarmac, but it turned out to be the longest kilometer in the history of the universe. Needless to say, that didn't help the queasy and uncertain atmosphere that enveloped the pack as 3 o'clock approached.

Dr. Hillary and Jedi then squeaked out something about forming a circle and it quickly became clear that, as usual, the GM was being relieved of his responsibilities. Hillary adopted the persona of Dr. Love, dressed neck-to-toe in red and pink, carrying a stethoscope and wearing a surgical mask, which I think was supposed to represent the chloroform-soaked rag that most male hashers use to get dates. Jedi, meanwhile, pranced into the circle in a black bodysuit and an outrageous shimmering tutu, claiming to be Cupid but looking more like a dizzy dominatrix.

Nerves already completely shot, the pack eventually set off in a southerly direction, and after a lone cry of "No War for Oil!" got down to the serious business of running. (The GM breathed a sigh of relief that no further outbursts expressing solidarity with the world's protesters were forthcoming, as a diplomatic solution would eliminate any chance of business trips to Iraq later this year.)

Appropriately, a crack team of Scandinavian Special Ops were serving as hares for this hash, and they set a run that would have made any desert-camo-clad training instructor proud. Logistics were the currency of the day, as Handphun led the walkers, Easy Reider the "joggers" and Grumblewald the "runners," and all of them were constantly checking in with each other by cellphone anytime one of them reached a check.

The pack first headed down to a nearby village and check 1, from where the trail turned back uphill. Check 2 was only 50 m away, but the runners were sent off on a long loop (except for the ones who were already shirking and decided to hide in the bushes until the coast was clear and they could follow the walkers). The pack then headed over a hill to check 3 on a dirt road and the front-runners went searching for paper further down the valley. The trail, unfortunately, took the high road and most of the runners ended up doing a lot of extra climbing here, which didn't serve them well as the afternoon progressed. Check 4 was up this road, from where the trail turned up to the ridgetop and brought the pack to holding check 5 in the backyard of a VDC office with splendid views.

Here the runners and joggers bade farewell to the walkers, who headed back to the start/finish via the river below. The runners, meanwhile, were sent off on a long loop while the walkers took the direct route to holding check 6. Towed and Emile (a 15-year-old Dane who is clearly being groomed for a top spot in the Scando Special Ops corps) led the way across a stream and around to a small village where the joggers were already waiting. The trail then headed down to check 7 next to a small stream before shooting up an unrunnably-steep hill. After gaining the top of the ridge, the runners were able to pick up the pace for about 200 m before finding that they were then expected to jump six feet off a loose-dirt terrace down into a small latrine behind a village school. Most did not appreciate this return to basic training, but were heartened to find holding check 8 on the other side of the building.

The shortcutting joggers finally got their comeuppance as they then had to join the runners for one final huge down-and-up to yet another ridgetop and holding check 9. Hare Grumblewald (excuse the Germanic-language pun) was gleefully harassing Bog Trotter from the top of the hill until the pack spotted a gassed Apple far behind her, having a sit-down alongside the trail. He then bade the weary pack to check-it-out so he could continue his fevered heckling in private, and the group had only to ascend one more smallish hill to the carpark, passing check 10 on the way across the paddies before spotting the home arrow.

After this bit of martial law mercifully came to a conclusion, the pack was ready to make love, not war, and Dr. Love and Cupid quickly called the proceedings to order.

By now the Special Ops hares had softened their militaristic tone - Lil had even been spotted passing out heart-shaped red balloons that said (gag) "I Love You." The pack saw through this ruse, however, and brought the hares into the circle to harang them about inappropriate use of hills and cellphones. After this merciless mocking, they were left to sulk about a 9.90 rating while burping up their down-downs. (Excellent job on this very challenging, extremely well-organized run.)

The pack welcomed the following virgins:

Mike: typical Canadian - it was like pulling teeth to get him to say anything coherent, but he's apparently come to work at some school somewhere.
Diego: from Bolivia: "visiting" for the sake of his Ph.D.
Joy: friend of Martina's from China.
Jyoti: from India, who claimed she was happy to be there with all the wonderful people. (Yes, she actually said this.) She must have been talking about the gathering crowd of villagers, though, because the sucking-up wasn't enough to get her out of a down-down.
Soren: from somewhere
We then had newcomer Peter, who works for Ever Reddy and claims to be traipsing around the world looking for hashes in cities that begin with "K.". . . and a whole mess of unwanted returnees.

The Hash Mutts had behaved even more poorly than usual on the run, so their owners were first up for special punishment. Jatra was in a frisky Valentine's mood and went around to all the other dogs bestowing oral favors - Hayden was forced to quaff for his homosexual exhibitionism. Midge and Baloo, on the other hand, had caught the scent of war and indulged their taste for blood by biting the heads off a couple of sweet, young, defenseless chickens. (The double-O apparently gives Baloo a license to kill, as long as Doug throws around enough C-notes to compensate the family for their pain and suffering.) Down-downs for Towed and Lao Lover.

There was a horrendous outbreak of cellphones on this week's run, though it was difficult to say whether the cause in this case was love or war. Nevertheless, the pack judged that the Hares, Ever Reddy, and Ruru Lulu needed to be taught a lesson about the dangers of wireless addiction, and did so with a marvelously addiction-free nectar known in the vernacular as "beer."

Hash Crashes: Mouth Organ and 69
Bad Directions: Grumblewald
New Shoes: Martina and Calvin
Rotter: for laying down his weapon and participating in a little Valentine's revelry with some of the Yak & Yeti staff.

St. Valentine's GMs were then called onto the carpet. The dherai-alchhi-laagyo Jedi, who in a single afternoon hid in a bush to avoid a runners' loop, accepted a ride from a Nepali family in a truck, and finally joined the walkers, was awarded a down-down for Alternative Transport. Then, Dr. Hillary, who had been unable to resuscitate the bitten chicks, was punished with a taste of her own medicine while the rest of pack was left to wonder if she's actually a credentialed physician or just one of those quacks who removes kidneys from drugged tourists in Hong Kong hotel rooms.

Even though the RA was mysteriously silent through most of the circle, the pack did get to participate in the holy sacrament of christening, or rather, a re-christening. Ron Crabtree (the hasher formerly known as Sideways) was referred to in a Kathmandu Post article this week as Run Crafty. As this moniker is at least 100 times better than anything the 4-H club has ever come up with, Ron's hash name is hereby changed forever, and you'd better use it so he doesn't make like Prince and change it yet again into an unpronounceable symbol.

Initially, Run Crafty was called in for being in the papers at all (what kind of bigshot gets his name in the papers just for getting off his ass and taking a job for the first time in two years?!). The same punishment befell poor Richard, who had the nerve to allow his name to be published on posters announcing the production of a play he's acting in. Down-downs for the publicity hounds.

Zep and 69 had a kinky little Valentine's moment, where 69 had to drink for not rubbing Zep's feet, therefore forcing Zep into the hands of a reflexologist, for which she had to drink. They claim to be setting the run next week, though they had no idea where or when.

With Bog Trotter acting as prosecuting attorney, Rotter was then formally charged with sporting the camel toe when he wore his tights two weeks previously. The pack was by now wallowing in benevolent drunkenness, and went along with the prosecutor's proposed light punishment of forcing the nominal GM to pull on a pair of tighty-reds over the top of his sweatpants. He put on quite a display, jumping up and down to get them up to his crotch, moving one hasher to remark that he looked a bit like Robin Hood, with the small arrow to match.

Fishit: Grumblewald and Easy Reider split the ultimate award for general Nordic-ness. The GMs decided to teach them a lesson about the evils of war, and made them drink simultaneously from the two halves of the piscean cup to reinforce the theme of love. The lesson apparently didn't take, though, as they started arguing immediately thereafter and almost killed each other.

Social drinking then commenced, but nearly ended in tragedy when a Nepali driver started charging towards the merry revelers in a candy-apple-red SUV with blue plates. It was later ascertained that he was merely pulling the car around so that Ever Reddy wouldn't have to walk an extra 20 yards once she finished her beer. Since her sobriety was no longer quite so necessary, the pack decided to give her a late down-down and then disbanded.

The stand-in GMs did a reasonable job, though they could really use some work on their shouting and screaming (which came as a surprise to most of us who've spent a fair amount of time with either or both of them one-on-one, but I better not say anything more about that). We heard the GM exclaim, as we drove out of sight, "Thanks for doing the circle - it was a complete disaster." Luckily, no one could possibly be offended, as he was standing there with an earring in each ear and a pair of red bikini briefs stretched tight around his groin while the fruit of his loins threw leftover momos at him. Thanks, by the way, to Ms. Rotter and Towed Under for the catering.