Revelation in Java! The first step of a lifelong
addiction!
It was 1985 in Jakarta. My company had been asked if we would sponsor a ‘hash run’, Jakarta Hash House Harriettes. I had no idea what a hash was, but the man who asked me was fairly senior in a large oil company so it seemed wise to say “yes, we’d be delighted, who should I make the cheque out to?” (You can see why I’m so popular with all those friendly Nigerian guys who are always sending me offers of millions of dollars if I’ll just send them my bank account details!)
To my consternation, they requested that I turn up at the run site, in shorts and running shoes, so I had to buy some quickly. Wednesday arrived all too soon; couldn’t I pass on the run? No, it’s expected that the sponsor be there. I had a driver in those days, well, it was really more like a UN aid programme, ‘cause he didn’t know his way round Jakarta and got confused by the number of pedals in the car, so quite often I drove and he sat in the back, I was young then, it didn’t matter! I arrived at the run site a little bit late as one does in Jakarta, well, as this one does anywhere. Just follow the paper they said and so I did.
Trailing well behind the pack, I found myself in a Kampung, brushed dirt tracks, the vague smell of burning wood tickling your nose that is always present and hundreds of small Indonesian children, wearing their national dress of dirty T shirt, torn jeans and flip flops. They run alongside you all the while calling ‘hello mister!’ or the more linguistically inclined could also manage ‘good morning’ even though the run started at 17:00.
The paper had disappeared! At the foot of a steep hill the paper was no more, I was without, lost in that vast, atmospheric Javan landscape with only 15 words of bahasa. However, my new found friends, the gang of kampung urchins proved that they really loved their foreign visitors and pointed out the way. Half way up the hill I glanced down and saw them all, howling with laughter as they pointed at the dumb orang putih, I also saw a large group of assorted bules and Indonesian runners about 500 meters away, on the flat, going in the opposite direction. Thanking my juvenile benefactors profusely as I stumbled down the incline and wishing I knew the bahasa for ‘I’ll kill you, you little shits’ I was back on paper.
I wasn’t an athlete, never had been, loved soccer and rugby, but had no talent and I arrived back at the run site late and exhausted, the circle was under way and what a circle it was, a mixture of comedy, singing, drinking. I really felt I had discovered something special and I was hooked. I transferred to Singapore a year later when oil crashed to US$ 10/barrel. There I ran with Lion City Hash and then to KL where Petaling Hash became the destination of choice on a Saturday afternoon.
But why was the hash so special? For me the hash was unique because it was lawless and attracted people from all walks of life. I’m a non athlete, with a lung capacity about 2/3rds the size it should be due to chronic asthma, the hash encouraged everybody of any capability to turn up and do whatever you could and not just as regards running, people really made an effort to entertain, songs, stories, jokes, runs with a theme. If it was Australia day, what to do? Take the piss out of the Australians, St George’s day? Invite the British ambassador to the run site, he came and made us proud with a great humorous speech. Though I do remember the look on his face as the Jakarta Hash master thanked him in a broad Aussie accent and added, “I’m surprised you turned up mate, we thought you’d be far too full of yourself to come out here in the mud with the boys”
Jakarta men’s hash on a Monday evening, probably the best circles I’ve ever been to with the most outrageous collection of characters imaginable.
Following the trail (oh, yes, I used to do that!) one Monday evening I came across the defence attaché from the British embassy, he asked if I was the last runner, I answer in the affirmative and he
It was 1985 in Jakarta. My company had been asked if we would sponsor a ‘hash run’, Jakarta Hash House Harriettes. I had no idea what a hash was, but the man who asked me was fairly senior in a large oil company so it seemed wise to say “yes, we’d be delighted, who should I make the cheque out to?” (You can see why I’m so popular with all those friendly Nigerian guys who are always sending me offers of millions of dollars if I’ll just send them my bank account details!)
To my consternation, they requested that I turn up at the run site, in shorts and running shoes, so I had to buy some quickly. Wednesday arrived all too soon; couldn’t I pass on the run? No, it’s expected that the sponsor be there. I had a driver in those days, well, it was really more like a UN aid programme, ‘cause he didn’t know his way round Jakarta and got confused by the number of pedals in the car, so quite often I drove and he sat in the back, I was young then, it didn’t matter! I arrived at the run site a little bit late as one does in Jakarta, well, as this one does anywhere. Just follow the paper they said and so I did.
Trailing well behind the pack, I found myself in a Kampung, brushed dirt tracks, the vague smell of burning wood tickling your nose that is always present and hundreds of small Indonesian children, wearing their national dress of dirty T shirt, torn jeans and flip flops. They run alongside you all the while calling ‘hello mister!’ or the more linguistically inclined could also manage ‘good morning’ even though the run started at 17:00.
The paper had disappeared! At the foot of a steep hill the paper was no more, I was without, lost in that vast, atmospheric Javan landscape with only 15 words of bahasa. However, my new found friends, the gang of kampung urchins proved that they really loved their foreign visitors and pointed out the way. Half way up the hill I glanced down and saw them all, howling with laughter as they pointed at the dumb orang putih, I also saw a large group of assorted bules and Indonesian runners about 500 meters away, on the flat, going in the opposite direction. Thanking my juvenile benefactors profusely as I stumbled down the incline and wishing I knew the bahasa for ‘I’ll kill you, you little shits’ I was back on paper.
I wasn’t an athlete, never had been, loved soccer and rugby, but had no talent and I arrived back at the run site late and exhausted, the circle was under way and what a circle it was, a mixture of comedy, singing, drinking. I really felt I had discovered something special and I was hooked. I transferred to Singapore a year later when oil crashed to US$ 10/barrel. There I ran with Lion City Hash and then to KL where Petaling Hash became the destination of choice on a Saturday afternoon.
But why was the hash so special? For me the hash was unique because it was lawless and attracted people from all walks of life. I’m a non athlete, with a lung capacity about 2/3rds the size it should be due to chronic asthma, the hash encouraged everybody of any capability to turn up and do whatever you could and not just as regards running, people really made an effort to entertain, songs, stories, jokes, runs with a theme. If it was Australia day, what to do? Take the piss out of the Australians, St George’s day? Invite the British ambassador to the run site, he came and made us proud with a great humorous speech. Though I do remember the look on his face as the Jakarta Hash master thanked him in a broad Aussie accent and added, “I’m surprised you turned up mate, we thought you’d be far too full of yourself to come out here in the mud with the boys”
Jakarta men’s hash on a Monday evening, probably the best circles I’ve ever been to with the most outrageous collection of characters imaginable.
Following the trail (oh, yes, I used to do that!) one Monday evening I came across the defence attaché from the British embassy, he asked if I was the last runner, I answer in the affirmative and he
started
picking up the paper, I asked him why and he looked around and whispered ‘it’s
the hares, they work at the Soviet embassy, I need to see what they are up to’
the paper was squares and covered in cyrillics and that is probably the best
excuse for telling the wife why you will be late home tonight that I’ve heard!
(‘My dear, I have to go and drink Bir Bintang, run in the ulu and put up with
the most dreadfully boring group of people, it’s so tedious but I do it for the
Queen, I’ll be back on Wednesday’)
The run by the safari park near Bogor is enscribed forever: one runner scrambled under a wire fence and disappeared round some bushes, returning a moment later, white as a sheet, ‘I’ve seen a rhinoceros’ he said, ‘rubbish’ was the answer as the rest of the hashers wriggled under the fence, until the beast, not a Sumatran rhino, but a full grown African rhino appeared round the bushes, snorting loudly, perhaps the regulations concerning fencing around safari parks needed examining.
But perhaps nothing will ever eclipse the story of the Scottish Ambassador, a well known Petaling hasher, who went from the run, to the On On at a restaurant and on to the Triple On at a pub in Bangsar, KL. Early in the morning he loaded up his land cruiser with inebriated hashers and headed home, going the wrong way down a one way street. At the end of the street was a police drink driving unit. A Malay sergeant stepped up to our hero’s window and said ‘have you had any alcoholic drinks sir’ receiving the reply of ‘ only a few officer, I could do with another if you have one’
The friendly sergeant invited him to step out of his car and take a breath test. Our hero said ‘no problem officer, but there is one thing, I have diplomatic immunity, I’m the Scottish ambassador’
The sergeant walked to the front of the Land cruiser, looked at the plates and got serious ‘you don’t have CD plates sir, get out of the car’. Motioning for the policeman to come closer our ambassador asked him if he had a family? ‘Yes I do’ said the officer. ‘Then you’ll know what its’ like, there’s a reception tonight at the Venezuelan Embassy, my wife has taken the Mercedes and driver and I’m left with the land cruiser’
The sergeant stepped back, saluted smartly and said ‘Goodnight sir, I suggest you go straight home’ and it was rumoured they heard ‘to Scotland’ muttered under his breath! That’s a true story.
On On Gan Yao
The run by the safari park near Bogor is enscribed forever: one runner scrambled under a wire fence and disappeared round some bushes, returning a moment later, white as a sheet, ‘I’ve seen a rhinoceros’ he said, ‘rubbish’ was the answer as the rest of the hashers wriggled under the fence, until the beast, not a Sumatran rhino, but a full grown African rhino appeared round the bushes, snorting loudly, perhaps the regulations concerning fencing around safari parks needed examining.
But perhaps nothing will ever eclipse the story of the Scottish Ambassador, a well known Petaling hasher, who went from the run, to the On On at a restaurant and on to the Triple On at a pub in Bangsar, KL. Early in the morning he loaded up his land cruiser with inebriated hashers and headed home, going the wrong way down a one way street. At the end of the street was a police drink driving unit. A Malay sergeant stepped up to our hero’s window and said ‘have you had any alcoholic drinks sir’ receiving the reply of ‘ only a few officer, I could do with another if you have one’
The friendly sergeant invited him to step out of his car and take a breath test. Our hero said ‘no problem officer, but there is one thing, I have diplomatic immunity, I’m the Scottish ambassador’
The sergeant walked to the front of the Land cruiser, looked at the plates and got serious ‘you don’t have CD plates sir, get out of the car’. Motioning for the policeman to come closer our ambassador asked him if he had a family? ‘Yes I do’ said the officer. ‘Then you’ll know what its’ like, there’s a reception tonight at the Venezuelan Embassy, my wife has taken the Mercedes and driver and I’m left with the land cruiser’
The sergeant stepped back, saluted smartly and said ‘Goodnight sir, I suggest you go straight home’ and it was rumoured they heard ‘to Scotland’ muttered under his breath! That’s a true story.
On On Gan Yao
I remember Mr Holmes. How he got away with that I will never know. He could hardly walk when he left us that night.
ReplyDeleteHowever at least he remembered where he had parked his car.
In the diplomatic car park?
ReplyDeleteof course - only car with a kilt
ReplyDelete