Run: 1971, 22 March 2021
Location: Ramindra, Chatu Chot 10, Uncle Chu’s
Weather: Strange
Hare: Checkless (even stranger)

IT was a perfect evening for Hashing. The usual muggy overcast was made more intense by some tropical storm coming across from the South China Sea – another gift from Red China like all the touches of flu. The temps dropped from being intolerable to a balmy 29 degrees, there was a threat of heavy rain, thus the setting for a perfect Checkless run. Pussy Virus was early (i.e. almost on time), KC was late (i.e. just over an hour early),

This time, however, the dampness was not caused by his customary erotic imaginings of a thrash in the shrubbery with a nubile Harriette, but by some shiggy that he had arranged with the help of a compliant paddy owner. Sharp eyes also discovered traces of shrubbery twigs and seeds on his sweaty but erotic arms, and traces of long, strong, black pudding hanging from under his running shorts – which enticed a Harriette to investigate more closely. "Wow!!!" she said and then "WTF - Eeeeeeekkkk!!!" Not what you think, alas, alas, they were only leeches that Checkless had picked up along the way, and was intending to turn into some sort of collection of exotic pets.

The pack was out at 17:30 promptly - the initial portion of the trail was brilliant, wide dry sois, well-marked and fast-paced – until the first check. There was some unnecessary confusion. Despite searching hither and yon, but not to the side, they missed a back-check and a loop. Fortunately PV or SD or WC, or maybe someone else, just continued straight ahead, Tinker-style, and discovered where the loop crossed the T. On-On might have been called. Or not - the only calling to be heard usually are the soi dogs.

To cut to the chase, figuratively and literally, the trail was laid in two parts. Part 1, the On-Out, was a series of long stretches on laterite, sparingly marked with shreddies & chalk, just tricky enough to keep the FRB’s together but not a cluster F**k. The idea, assuming the hare has ideas, was to get the pack as far out into the boonies as quickly as possible.

Thus the Pack quickly split into the FRBs (Codpiece, KC & Co., never to be seen again by this scribe), and the SCBs, the "Never mind the weather, as long as we’re together" - strollers out for a chat and a cheap beer. The Senator generally called the shots, and turned the SCB’s around just as the trail got interesting. Gawd only knows where Cap’n Erik went.

Part 2, the On-Back, was something completely different, a clever assortment of winding paths, bushwhacks, shortcuts and confusing, bizarre checks – basically where the hare decided to stop the shreddies for a few hundred metres. Or maybe the dogs ate it.

One of the shortcuts was diagonal across a few thousand rai of stubble. There must have been a check in the middle coz the paper evaporated. Fortunately, there were a couple of Burmese labourers nearby, sitting on a pile of straw, deciding where to spread COVID next. They pointed to a couple of red flags about two klicks distant, and that sure enuf, was the way out. (Knowing the hare, one suspects had he been able to converse in Burmese, he would have suggested that once the FRBs were milling aimlessly around in the middle of the paddy, the Burmese would have fired the stubble just to add to the frisson of solving the check.)

But the hare did succeed in having a farmer start up a pump, which accomplished two things: 1) turned a dry paddy into the first shiggy of the season; and 2) created a formidable obstacle. The drive belt, rapidly snapping between the engine and the pump at about crotch height, was athwart the bund and was definitely something to be reckoned with. It might have torn off a Hasher’s whatever. (See end note.)

However, that was quickly forgotten as one approached the hare’s pièce de résistance, not another check, but THE WALL. The shreddie took you straight at the WALL, no hole, no ladder in sight, just WALL! The shades of night were falling, no backtracking once you’re this far into the bundu. Gingerly forging into the reeds, brush, thorns, snakes, whatever, was the only option.

Thoughts: "Ah, thank goodness, there’s the end, only another hundred metres." "Sh*t, it’s just a corner!" "It goes on for-bloody-ever!" "Gawd, that hole was bottomless!" "By the time they find my body, there won’t be any organs left to donate." "Checkless, you utter %#@@^%$!!!" (That last one was Eetan.) Tickler took a selfie to help identify his body.

Not even a torch helped much; after about two kilometres of WALL, sometimes clinging by fingers to a slight shelf to avoid falling into an abyss, you crashed over some pieces of a destroyed bridge and onto dry land.

At that point, all was forgiven in the doddle back to the beer, just down the next turn in the maze of sois – but not every bright light was Uncle Chu’s bright light. A bit further on, there was a less than bright light demonstrating his command of Scandahooligan at one of the houses the hare led us into. There was also one more slight excursion into the unknown, and then salvation – if the sight of a half-naked GM changing into something more casual is your idea of salvation.

What’s left to say? Bump elbows with the hare for a great run that took you back to the origins of the Hash in war-torn Malaya. A few frosty beers, fried chicken finger food (Thanks, Khun A), idle chatting, a five-minute warning called somewhat diffidently by the GM, the usual nonsense about lynching the hare for his great run, and the eternal stand-in RA, Pussy Virus. Bollywood was the star of the show, comparing her six-pack with PV’s beer keg, suggesting a brilliant re-naming for Checkless (no, not Shagless), and in a moment of incaution, accusing the RA of something or other. Unanimous acclamation for Bollywood for PoTW, letting the three forgettable shrinking drinking violets off the hook.

Uncle Chu made certain that the Hashers were well-watered and well-fed. (The world’s biggest bowls of tom yam soup, and lashings of fried rice, both dishes saturated with shrimp.) The hare tried to take credit for the F&B selections, but no-one believed him, and so in a fit of pique he charged an outrageous 200 Baht per head.

In closing, Hema, if you’re listening, there is a nice model of a farm tractor and trailer for sale near the entrance, but not John Deere nor Massey-Ferguson, according to No-No.

OnOn

P.S. - end note: Because Checkless has claimed exclusive rights to use the word "scrotum", I haven’t used it in the write-up. (Ooooops!)