It was a dreadful Saturday morning. Your Scribe had been scheduled to travel to Europe on Friday night, but, realizing that the Bush Hash was on this Saturday, made last minute arrangements to leave a day later. Left with an extra night in Bangkok, your Scribe succumbed to the usual temptations and found Saturday familiarly unbearable. Racing against the clock with blood alcohol qualifying for long-term imprisonment in most other countries, your Scribe found his way to the day's run site: a riding school off the highway between Pattaya and Rayong.
Ahh...green hills, untouched countryside. Hare Charlie Manson had really done it this time! Things were really turning out for the better. This illusion lasted until the car door was opened and the stench of decomposing horse shit hit you. Then the flies attacked. Never has a pack been more eager to commence a run. No sooner had the virgins sworn fealty to the Bush Master and swallowed their unHashmanlike water down-downs, than the pack galloped off along the track.
Away from the flies, the stallions and mares settled into an easy trot. The paper trail brough us along a pretty, sloping countryside interspersed with some local habitats. The graveyard stretch was particularly memorable, and the Hare might consider doing a naked midnight run here at a later time. From here the trail turned up a steep hillside with bush worthy of this particular Hash. After a couple of checks, the pack reached the hilltop, and your Scribe made a mental note to register this as a potential site for his future wilderness bar. Then the trail ran down until...wait a second, isn't this where we started?
To use advanced Hash terminology, Charlie Manson had cleverly set a so-called A to A to A run. Your cynical Scribe secretly suspected the Hare of accidentally leading the trail onto his origin when setting the run, but the pack congratulated him on this cunning Hash innovation. After some refreshments and the Hare's explanation of why we would get lost on the second loop, but not to worry, just go back to the paper, then follow the other paper through the loop, unless of course if you've been there before, and if...and other encouraging messages, the pack was off for the second half of the Bush Hash.
The pack found paper at an early check, but it stopped in a plantation, and no amount of additional checking seemed to produce additional paper. With notable exceptions Ringworm and your Scribe, the pack decided that the trail "had to" go in a certain direction, and off they went. The two independents continued checking and eventually found paper. Selfless Hashers that they are, they yelled their throats horse (that's a pun, not a misspelling) until the pack finally heard them. The trail then went up another hilltop and into a pretty valley before turning back again to the Piss Truck. Your Scribe noticed a significant increase in the pace among the front running bastards as they smelled Piss Pole Dancer's gastronomical creation of the day - Norwegian meatballs! - and jockeyed for position in the queue.
None of the Bush Masters had graced us with their presence. Seeing his opportunity to get in touch with lost glory, Ringworm usurped the Bushmastership. Your Scribe did a poor job of memorizing the antics of the Circle, but it certainly involved more than the usual number of down-downs and lasted for hours. It must have seemed like days for Charlie Manson, who was hardly off the ice. (We have also yet to hear whether the Piss Truck made if home safely given that the Hare was not at his most coherent after the Circle.) After some time, the Hashers in the Circle started looking at their watches wondering when we'd wrap it up - your Scribe had a flight to catch, remember? It was not until then that Ringworm revealed his real motivation for not ending the revelry: his car had not showed up, and he preferred the company of the Circle to that of the horses and flies. See to it that this man is punished for this on the next Bush Hash!] Well done Charlie.
On On
Tom
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