|HHHH Trash for Mixed Hash Run 1766||30 June 2012|
|Location||football pitch, Bhim Dunga, Sitapaila||Hares||HeBitch and Dr.Death|
|Hashers||28, of whom 13 paid for beer||Hashit||Robbert the screamer|
|Remarkables||virgins:Catherine Beach, James and Judy Oglethorpe, Emily Picciota returnees:Varun Lohia leavers: Million$Visa|
|A Very Approximate Report of What Happened|
Yesterday I lost my virginity. This morning I woke up, my innocence no more than a mild headache, a reminder of my lost virtue. Would I see the world differently? Would the ground open up and suck me down into the hellfire beneath? I decided it was too late for doubts and self-recrimination. I had done the deed, taken the long upward thrust of the path and had to face the day and, stiff as I was, record what happened, a commitment made when I was starting to get bladdered.
I have never enjoyed mass indoctrination rituals or matey compulsory drinking. As a VSO in Africa I spurned invitations to Hash House Harrier meetings, believing them to be full of drunken, racist, rugby playing expatriates. So with some trepidation I arrived with J at the Hash to be greeted by the Grand Master, resplendent with pony tail, piercings, a black and white dog and a LandRover. Promising. The Harriers, gathered on a clay football pitch on the side of a hill somewhere outside Kathmandu was mixed, various and extremely fit looking as we stood in a broad circle awaiting the off. Walking is one of the greatest of life’s pleasures and I thought J and I would be the only ones not running. But a group of seven of us set off, led by Jo, who had sacrificed her running to be the Hare for us.
The wrinkles in the small intimate valleys were verdant with new growth. Human voices from the invisible floated through the fresh, humid air. Small paths took us past huts and homes of bricks and corrugated iron roofs, goats and cows tied up in small barns, women and children sitting crossed legged on grass mats out on the stoops, winnowing, doing homework, talking, laughing or staring in open mouthed wonderment as we walked past on common paths passing by next to
their homes. A fellow Hasher handed me some delicious fruit, sweet and tart together plucked from a tree. The talent amongst our small group was prodigious, professional souls walking along soft brown paths, through gardens and upwards in steps hacked from from the soft soil. Far below, stretching towards the embrace of the hills that stretched green to meet it lay Kathmandu, the brave city, remote save for the aircraft that swooped in, penetrating the clouds and dust, visible through the clear air we inhaled. We turned for home, down, down, talking — my head light with exertion and altitude — along a dirt road. Six young men on three motorcycles moved up the hill. In an instant in response to an unheard comment our Hare grew teeth and let lose a stream of fluent Nepalese. Impressive in its fluency and volume it was powerful enough for the last young man on the seat of the last bike to turn and shout out, ‘it’s okay don’t worry.’ The position of women in Nepal was a rich insight I gained walking on the fertile, agrarian soil that afternoon.
Beer never tasted so good as we sat drinking, awaiting the first of the runners to return and the arcane ceremonies to begin under the command of the HeBitch, the most puzzling aspect being no pocket billiards. The virgins stood in the center of the circle and we introduced ourselves, drank from a special tankard and became a part of something I had previously so misjudged. Including me there three VSOs present. With thanks to the Hares, Jimmi the HeBitch, and the GM who shows such commitment to HHHH and all who made the afternoon possible.
Best wishes, and thanks