|Himalayan Mixed Hash Run No. 1536||12 April 2008|
|Location||On the Nagarkot road 6 km east of Bhaktapur||Hares||Yogi Hare, Rubberlegs and Apple|
|Hashers||47||Hashit||Nobody as rain stopped play|
|Trash||Ties steps in||Trashflash||Howe's That and Rotter|
|Remarkables||virgins: Manoj Aryal, Sagar Chalise, Dan Boom, Richard Luff returnees: KL, Tea Cosy, Farooq, Liz, Prakash, and, completely at odds with Hash Convention, Rotter|
|The Pictures||The Trash|
It is curious indeed that this Hash should be without a Trash for so long. One would expect potential Trash-writers to combat one-another with hot wax to acquire the privilege to write the Hash trash, considering the two epiphanies we were slapped across the face with during that memorable day. I waited at the sideline, so as not to be burned. It seems however safe to creep out of the shadows and present the writings I scribbled down with frantic enthusiasm just minutes after I got home and within reach of my writing gear:
Well, jolly, I'm still shaking from what I've witnessed today. Jolly me how absolutely upheavaled I am that I had to write down all as SOON as I returned to my pad. I tell ya, it's all wonderfully amazing. Two earth-shattering events took place that bring 8-classed earthquakes (on the scale of Richter of course) to shame.
First of all the GM was back! Nice to see the old codger can still put one foot in front of the other while at the same time letting those same feet carry the weight of his body, thus thrusting him forward.
All our hopes (and by all I mean me) were concentrated upon him to bring order to our flock with all the dignity that is expected of a leader of men. And well, you know how it is with pent up expectations we expect from those who we remember to have been great. They can only let you down. And while you fall all the way down to the pavement that is reality, the feeling isn't as painful as the smack you feel when you eventually hit it.
Luckily our expectations of the GM were not so great, so the way down wasn't more shocking than than stepping out of your car. The GM himself unfortunately seemed to have a totally different attitude about it. While the incessant shouting was definitely there, and we definitely appreciate it, there was this air of self-absorbed importance about him. I don't know who or what might give him reason to believe we were in grief by his absence, but whenever in his (too long?) speeches he indulged in this behaviour, a ripple of disgust rolled over the crowd.
However, let us rest for now from this dark episode, and let's point our eye to what brings us together and bonds us at the regions around the gut: Hashing.
Because this week's Hash, laid out by Yogi Hare and his comrades Rubberlegs and Apple was exceptionally nice and pretty. And with all things nice and pretty, something was looming overhead, so as to show us the nice and pretty thing is actually nice and pretty, and not just the drudgery that is the unending status-quo of everyday-dom. In this case the thing that did the looming was the weather. Which was hot and pressing, and wanted nothing more than rain its ass off with all the pressure clashing pressure fields can give it. [Ed. What was the name of that Dutch writer who was recently shot?]
At the beginning of the Hash it started drizzling slightly, with a promise of more, but curiously the promise wasn't delivered upon... yet...
The landscape we jogged across was nothing less than enchanting. As we reached a high vantage-point we could see the walkers ploughing through a corn-field of sorts, like young hobbits on the beginning of their quest to get rid of one or another kind of jewelry. I'm sure the rain that had been falling in spades all week didn't hurt the prettiness either.
A little onward we were led through the all but empty bedding of the promise of a river. And we should count our lucky stars (or whatever), for the halting of the rain a bit before. Because already the rocks forming the bedding were quite slippery. A bit more wetness and there would be cracked skulls and protruding bones galore.
And on we went, beautiful view shifting places with beautiful view, till it got boring. And then a nasty evil befell yours truly. Feeling a strange stiffness at the heal I checked and dipped my hand in drying blood! A vampire of sorts had sucked the lifeblood out of me, leaving a big bloodstain on my left sock (as calculated from the position from my eyeballs looking outward from my face), and upon discovery the full extend of this theft, the blood rushed from my face. Where was the little devil? Inside or outside my sock/this dimension? My fellow Hashers assured me the leach (leach indeed!) had already let go, but during the rest of the trip I couldn't help but constantly check if the critter had magically reappeared on the position of the stain. Basically the only thought keeping me from fainting was the promise of free beer in the form of a down-down for having endured the first leach-suction of the season. Oh, how disappointed I would be...
Yogi Hare dethroned?
But before we reach the dramatic conclusion of this little 'histoire' let us contemplate. For have you, dear reader, not noticed anything odd about the description of this Hash. A discrepancy between our own accumulated knowledge about the turning of the world and the hard evidence this Trash supplies us with? Yes, exactly! This is supposed to be a Yogi-hash. The only kind of hash I know of that is a noun, just because of the inclusion one of it's creators.
And what is this Yogi Hare known for? Laying excruciatingly hard hashes. Not for pretty hashes! Not hashes that will bring you back to your childhood, mesmerizing on how beautiful and perfect the world was then (which is true and a fact). No! He sets the kind of hashes that will surely kill any participant over 55. Or will at least crumble them to a pile of bones on reaching the finish. Sure this felt more of a vertical affair than a horizontal one. A trait all to common of a Yogi Hash. But that doesn't automatically make it hard.
So what's going on here? Has Yogi Hare lost his edge? Did he acquire a girlfriend? Is he in some form of Dire Straits? In other words, why did Yogi Hare loose his Hash-setting passion? I want to put forward the thesis that there is only one answer possible: Yogi Hare has lost his crown! If not in our mind, than surely his own. My guess is that as a connoisseur of hard hashes he saw the future, and in that future there is no future for him. He has seen that the Hash Scholars are students no more. Last week they have submitted their Masters thesis and Childkiller has, however unwilling, crowned their top marks with a silver lining. Can we conclude anything but that the reign of Yogi Hare has ended? So let's hail the new kings of impossible ballbreaker Hashes!
Stealing our thunder
And now let us get back from theorizing and get back to the Hash, which has drawn to an end. And what a disgraceful end it was! For once more the GM found it necessary to flaunt his power. As we gathered in a circle and the Hash Scholars were properly thanked for last week's hash by both getting a backpack emblazoned with the Perth Interhash,.. ehh..., emblem, the GM, disgruntled with this dilution of attention, unleashed the power of the winds, and he smited us with rain and thunder; his evil eyes slightly mad with fury, and his beard dirty with bits from last month's dinner.
And that was that. Everybody fled to her/his car, and within two minutes the place was deserted. An unceremonious end to a respectful hash. G*, *f *o* c**'* *e*v* y*u*s*f, *u*t *t*y *w*a*! [expurgated by the hash censor]
*o* c**'* *e*v* y*u*s*f, *u*t *t*y *w*a*! [expurgated by the hash censor]