|HHHH Trash for Mixed Hash Run 1788||10 November 2012|
|Location||beside tree on S side of Chobar hill||Hares||Doggystyle and Mouthful|
|Hashers||30, of whom 12 paid for beer||Hashit||L'll Ms Frisbee Shorts|
|Trash||L'll Ms Frisbee Shorts||Trashflash||Rotter, Lost Emperor|
|Remarkables||virgins:Frankie Dowen, Beatriz Moya, Ilkay Yurekien returnees:Ewa Jednaszewska, Shoba Rogers, Billy Whiz visitor: Jamie Robinsona|
|A Very Approximate Report of What Happened|
Who knew what to expect. I sure didn't. As this was only my second hash, I was still not convinced that my virginity-shattering experience at Hash no. 1786 wasn't a dream. A beautiful and bizarre dream, filled with long haired hippies, lost travelers, drunken ex-pats and, of course, the endless Nepali hillside. Arriving at Hash 1788, I wasn't sure if I'd end up in a field alone, left only with memory of the fictional hashing characters created by my jet lagged and tormented imagination.
But hurrah! Upon our arrival at the base of the Chobar tree, all of my memories proved to be true to form. After some financial collection and general heckling from the Grand Master himself, we were off, the other runners and I. We trudged up hills, darted through temples, sprinted through flowebeds, galloped around a carp filled lake, flew down staircases and dodged the spit chunks and piles of cow dung that seem to pave the Kathmandu Valley. Under the auspicious leadership of the one and only DoggyStyle, we
made it through each check, even after being duped by one horrendous false trail. I personally only got lost twice, which is a victory considering my recently lost virginity.
Beer, softies, veggies, salty snacks and tuna greeted us after the run as the Grand Master was relentless in his torments and inquisition of the hares, virgins, leavers and so on. One of the virgins/leavers was seen with a Lonely Planet Nepal in her pocket, where HHHH was mentioned for its lunacy. Turns out, we're famous! I was personally given hashit for identifying a fellow hasher by the tightness of his shorts, when I was wearing shorts that were baggy enough to fit two. The Grand Master eventually met his match, though, as he pointed out the newness of his own footwear, leading, of course, to the consumption of beer out of said footwear.
A joyous occasion all in all. While the roads were uneven, the profanities rough and the hippies pungent, I'm already eagerly awaiting 1789.