The following is the complete original rehash of Sadao Hash Run #1 as it appeared in The Scum, the legendary Songkhla Hash publication, in March 2003. Photos by Ken Straiton.
A Twist of Fate
Curious indeed how it is that the most momentous upheavals in human history
can so often be traced back to such humble and apparently insignificant
origins. The Great Indian Mutiny . . . from a rumour of animal fat on rifle
cartridges. World War I . . . from the assassination of an obscure archduke.
The Sadao Hash . . . from
Rotten Johnny's casual stopovers in Dannok on his
weekly Sunday commute from Songkhla to Sungai Petani.
Friendly and welcoming, Dannok struck RJ as an ideal venue for an occasional
get-together with a few dozen Hashing friends from both sides of the
Thai-Malaysia border. A bit of a run, a few jars of beer, perhaps a look at one
of the sophisticated and tasteful cabaret acts at any of the glittering local
nightclubs. What harm could possibly come of that?
And so it was that, once again, a clash of cultures and the innocent desire
to "have a good time" led to chaos, violence, and mass atrocity. And
it was the geopolitical fate of the poor little town of Dannok – like Austria-Hungary
in 1914, like Poland in 1939 – to be in the wrong place at the wrong
time.
Arrives the Baleful Day
The first indication I had of trouble came about a week before the event, in
the form of an email from RJ bearing the subject line "S.O.S." Already
220 confirmed registrations, he said, and no signs of slowing. It seems we had
seriously underestimated our fellow Hashers' hunger for a really big, really
irresponsible party. Everywhere from Koh Samui to KL -- the better part of a
thousand kilometers -- there were beer fumes and blood lust in the
air.
Even so, I wasn't ready for the sight that awaited me on driving into Dannok
early in the afternoon of March 2nd. Below a gaily painted welcome banner
milled a large, surly crowd of louts of all creeds, colors, and races. They
wore the ragtag uniforms of a dozen tribes, from sleek yellow Malaysian racing
singlets to the bright orange "Run for Peace" shirts of the Hatyai
Hash. The latter featured pictures of George Dubya and Saddam that made them
look like Beavis and Butthead. Quite realistic, really.
Many of these degenerates were already clutching beers and, judging by their
slurred attempts at speech, lurching movements, drooling, etc., had been doing
so at least since dawn, if not the night before. A quick trip around the local
hotels confirmed that many must have come down early: there wasn't a room left
in the whole town. I was almost reduced to bribing the day manager to slip me
into the infamous K.Y. House before discovering that the Songkhla Hash had
booked a block of rooms at Jojo Court, our usual recce HQ, and that a few of
them hadn't arrived yet. I never did find out whose room I stole.
Back on Soi 7 things were getting ugly. RJ and the indefatigable
Galon were
besieged at the registration desk in the lobby of the Hollywood Hotel. The
hotel staff, inexplicably, were passing out bread rolls. The mob was spilling
out of the lobby into the street and even up the stairs of a number of
neighboring establishments, much to the alarm of their tender young female
hospitality staff. I can't swear to it, but I think I might have seen one or
two Hashers disappear into the nether regions of these establishments. No doubt
they needed to pee.
Onto the Highway of Death
Just when it seemed that mass anarchy would envelop the entire town,
Rotten
Johnny,
Bogeh/Duckfart, and
Bapa Ayam appeared, like a three-headed deity, atop
the stairs of the Hollywood/No Bra entertainment complex. The crowd jeered. RJ
attempted to use his bullhorn. More jeering. The GMs waved some squares of
paper, which apparently had something to do with the run. Nobody could hear a
damn thing. Excited gesturing from the GMs. In short, utter chaos. But then
what else had we been expecting?
At this point the GMs gave up and disappeared, and the mob, like some giant
primeval creature, surged off down the soi and across the Pan-Asian
Highway, effectively halting for several minutes all traffic on the Kra
Peninsula. Standing on the far side of the road was our transport: four
towering ten-wheel dump trucks, freshly emptied of their dirt and now ready for
a really nasty load.
And what a sight to behold, Hashers of all sizes and shapes (though mostly
in the XL-XXL range) clambering up the sides of those trucks in full battle
cry. For many it was to be the main physical exertion of the day. Off roared
the trucks, through what we must reluctantly describe as the sleazy side of
town (you'd never find
our Hash meeting there!), the sight of which
seemed to drive the assembled multitude into a frenzy of leering, shouting,
waving, horn-honking, etc. We're lucky we didn't get shot at.
No sooner did the trucks turn the last corner out of town than everyone did
something very strange: they all shut up. For ahead we could see the road
snaking over the crest of a ridiculously steep hill and then disappearing into
what looked to be a vast mining pit. Nervous glances passed between the now
silent Hashers. This might be a serious run after all.
On and on went that drive, the trucks grinding up the hills and creaking down
the backs of them, everyone hanging on for dear life. To our right, along the
ridgeline, snaked the barbed wire border fence. Jungle, razor wire, men herded
into dump trucks . . . was I the only one have River Kwai flashbacks? Evidently
not, because by the time we finally reached and disboarded at the run site --
it felt about halfway to Betong -- there was a mad scramble back onto the
trucks as soon as someone announced that they were returning to a "short
run" site. If you were among them, please identify yourself at the next
Sadao Hash and you may be eligible for a free Hello Kitty apron.
The Run
Once the dust settled we realized that we had only about 30 hounds ready to
start the long run. Fortunately they included several of the young, gung-ho
Hatyai types who we can usually count on to trot off and find checks while we
of a more, uh, contemplative bent strike thoughtful poses around the 360,
identify new plant species, examine our latest skin rashes, etc.
RJ, as lead hare, was appropriately vague about the exact number of checks
and other hazards. And so no choice but off we went, up and down a series of
long rolling hills that were probably steeper than they looked. Add to that the
dusty, broken ground and the layers of old leaves as slippery as banana peels.
And perhaps, even to macho Hashing icons like ourselves, the lingering
psychological effect of that endless ride out there. It really did feel like we
were a long ways from anywhere.
In any case there seemed to be a general sense of relief at every check and
any other excuse to stop. And even the gung-ho types tended to linger around
the 360s, looking at RJ the way a hungry mutt tries to beg a bone. But he of
course wasn't talking. This at least had the effect of keeping everyone
together most of the way, which was just as well since of course nobody had the
faintest idea where we were or where we were going.
In time, quite a bit of time actually, we came upon the short run paper and
some of the short run Hashers. And then out from the rubber and into the quaint
garbage-strewn outskirts of town, finally up a broad concrete road under a
ceremonial Muslim arch. Left turn on the Pan-Asian Highway and a triumphant
romp down the hill to the Time Bottle Bar, where beer and beer girls awaited.
The Circle
For a while, guzzling our cold Changs and feeling the admiring gazes of the
street's female denizens at their first sight of the Hashing Male in all his
après-run glory, those of us on the ice list had a fleeting hope that we
wouldn't have to suffer the indignity of a circle. Perhaps Hash Host Sakorn had
forgotten to get the ice. Maybe someone would realize that it was all just too
out of control even to attempt a circle. Hope does spring eternal.
Well, dream on. There was ice and there was a circle and it was utter
mayhem. I got more khlong water up my nose than beer down my throat, and I got
off lightly compared to some of the poor bastards they dragged out there. There
is a certain kind of Malaysian Hasher who is a holy terror when the ice work
begins, and we had dozens of them. The people of Dannok have seen a great deal
in the few years since they've become Thailand's new boom border town. But you
could tell from the way they hid in the doorways that they'd never seen
anything like this.
Dark Mysteries
One of the mysteries of Hashing is how you can be running along one moment
with five or six other people, and then turn a corner or take the tiniest of
shortcuts and suddenly . . . where did everybody go? You never see them again.
It's as if the jungle just swallows them up.
Sunday night in Dannok was a bit like that. Strolling down a colorful soi
one minute with a gang of mates, and then suddenly finding yourself alone . . .
well, not alone, but not with them, and not anywhere you've ever been before or
could ever get back to again. Couldn't have been the beer, could it?
Anyhow, I have been assured that I had an excellent night on the town,
culminating in some sort of giant disco about the size of Wembley Stadium with
music at about the volume of the Space Shuttle liftoff. Wherever you ended up
in the jungle, I trust you had an equally rewarding evening.
[We can report on at least a few Songkhla Hashers. There was a
surprisingly good seafood dinner at the dubious “Dannok Restaurant”, at which Dungbeetle
demonstrated his mastery of Thai by ordering a soup bowl. They brought him a
bottle of beer. Fukawi’s main mission seemed to be to find roti, though
he was spotted later at the Winner Café, sitting on one of those sleazy
Japanese airport VIP lounge sofas with a couple of the guest relations
officers. Stick Insect kept turning up like a bad penny, in an
increasingly agitated state. When last seen at the Hollywood he was about to do
the unspeakable – chat up a couple Songkhla Hash girls. Rotten Johnny
actually carried on after the Space Shuttle disco closed at 2 am., setting
himself up at a table on the street, surveying the aftermath of the carnage he
had wrought. “A great day!” said someone to Khun Sakorn, the
long-suffering mine host of the Time Bottle Bar. Sakorn gave him a look of
infinite fatigue and said, “At least it’s over.”]
