Our Man in Hong Kong

[Sweder]

Confessions of a Serial Hasher, Part I

OK, first up this will be a short missive. Why?
1) I am seriously sleep-deprived. This is not a City for the faint hearted. It does however enjoy a plethora of Guinness emporiums, many of which serve their patrons dutifully 24/ 7
2) I can't remember much about the weekend
3) This keyboard is dominated by Chinese Characters and I'm going dizzy trying to pick out the English letters

Hash the First
Saturday 12 March
Distance: 6 Miles (appx)
Duration: 1:10
Conditions: Wet, cold, windy (not what I signed up for)

I arrived in Hong Kong via Qantas at 08:50 Saturday having re-visited the excellent Sideways and a few hours of contorted snoozing in Sardine Class. Slipped easily into the former colony via the fabulous express train to HK Central and on to my hotel. Quick check-in, bags flung into the corner and off to find The Kangaroo DownUnder, the Antipodian hostelry hosting the Hong Kong Nash Hash weekend - The Forbidden Hash.

Hashing, for those not familiar, is a traditional form of gathering for exPats in all corners of the world. Hashers describe themselves, accurately, as dedicated drinkers with a serious running problem. A Hash is a (barely) organised gathering of runners (of all standards) at a pre-designated meeting point in the middle of nowhere. One or several 'Hares' visit previously to lay a trail, marked by flour, chalk or paper signs, that eventually lead to a common finishing point, where a series of derogatory announcements are accompanied by mass consumption of beer.

The Forbidden Hash is a weekend hash - 3 runs, Friday, Saturday and Sunday - so named because when the local committee heard that the 5 Hash Houses (regional running clubs) in HK were merging for this one-off celebration to mark 35 years of the activity in the region, they pronounced the event 'Forbidden'. In the true spirit of Hashing this became the formal title of the meet.

Saturday's Hash involved around 70 runners. I had intended to sign up for Sunday's run only, but when I saw the mixed bag of human flotsam gathering excitedly in the pub, the nostril sting of Ralgex mingling with the soothing balm of the first pints of the day, I signed up for both days & dashed back to my digs to grab my gear. We boarded three ancient coaches and set off for The Peak, the mountain (or at least very large hill) that rises majestically over Wanchai, HK Central and Aberdeen.

The journey may have taken 5 minutes, it may have taken 5 hours, as I briefly left the group of Wanchai Hashers I'd boarded with for the Land of Nod. On arrival I awoke to find the group exiting into a jungle clearing, shrouded in mist and pelted with freezing rain. The 'mist' turned out to be cloud, and the jungle, err, jungle. A couple in their late 40's suggested I go on the intermediate (or Rambo) run, expected to last just over an hour. There were three trails: Wimps (45 minutes), Rambo (60 minutes) and Super Rambo (2 hours). I took the advice, especially when our hare, a charming Australian known as Bog Brush, announced that his trail was 'mostly' downhill.

I must invest in a dictionary for my new friend Bog Brush and point out the definition of 'Mostly' and 'Downhill'.
After a brief descent on a concrete path the trail veered sharply into dense foliage and up a range of back-breaking, moss-covered stone steps. Brushing through giant Banana Palms and dodging serpentine rainforest tree roots, we sped on. I soon realised that each group would sub-divide into the racers and the meanderers. I set off with the former, keen to make an impression on my new found friends. We reached a clearing where sat a large flour circle. This it turns out is one of many 'checking points' on the trail. Hares leave a 100 metre 'gap' in the trail, inviting the breathless chasers to seek the re-start of the markings. This always occurs at a crossroads, and we now faced at least four possible routes.

'Checking!' yelled a large Fijian man to my left, later introduced as 'Spiderman'.
I dashed off down the closest path, eager yet uncertain as to the procedure.
'ARE YOU???' came a yell from behind. Hmm, am I what? I thought, confused and disappointed at the lack of fresh trail.
'ON ON!!!' came a high-pitched yelp to my right, and the few who had (foolishly) followed me immediately doubled back, cheerfully echoing the call.
'ON ON!!' They bellowed, crashing through ferns and brush, sending plumes of rain/mist into the air. OK, now I get it.

On we raced, and finally the trail began a more general descent. I regained the front of the group, picking up the trail.
'ON ON!!' I yelled, my pace increasing to match my enthusiasm despite the narrow, perilous nature of the slippery, rock-strewn paths.
I crashed through leaves and branches, one eye seeking piles of flour coagulating in the persistent rain, the other on alert for potholes, rocks and anything resembling a snake.

After 15 minutes calling 'Trail!' and 'On On!' at regular intervals the baying pack behind me began to sound a little ... distant. I came to a clearing, then a crash barrier and a substantial road. The markings indicated we should cross, and I set off, glancing back to spot my companions, without success. I was just entertaining the first doubts - was this our trail, or perhaps a previous Hash? Where the hell am I? What happens if no-one follows me and I end up lost in the jungle halfway up a mountain in a country I'd known for a total of 5 hours? when a saviour appeared.

Saviours come in all shapes and sizes. This one was rotund, clad in a sweat and rain doused red Tshirt and carried a rusty bugle.
'Hello mate' came the dulcet tones of a fellow Londoner.
'Trail's a bit washed out, so carry on up the hill 'till you reach the village, turn right through the houses and bear right again across the bridge. The big green awning says you're home'.

I grinned my thanks and pushed on up the road. The rain-mist, heavier now without the shelter of the forest, refreshed me and I picked up the pace. My regularly errant hamstring, up to now a happily silent partner, murmured and mumbled. I eased off, focused on not missing the turning.

Finally I was 'on in' under a mottley canopy adjacent to a ramshackle beer pit, cold beer in hand, steam rising from my sodden shirt. Runners from all three trails appeared (the Super Rambos had set off a while before us), and the excited chatter of endorphin junkies filled the air.

[Sweder]

The post hash ceremony is known as the 'Down-Down'.
The reason became apparent as the jabbering throng was called to order by our MC, Acorn, ably assisted by Small Bone.

You will have surmised by now that Hashers receive Hash names. These usually derive from a foolish act, a half-true tale (always Rude and Glorious) a physical attribute or specific phrase associated with that runner. As the circle formed, each Hash Master from the 5 amalgamated Hashes appeared on the edge, small notebook open. First up were the hares; Bog Brush, Any Dick'll Do and Pinkie. They were roundly cheered, and obliged to 'drink one down' to a bellowed countdown from 5 to 1. Any beer remaining in the cup after '1' has to be poured over one's head.

There followed a series of 'crime reports', including misdemeanours from the previous night's revelry, acts of public relief, use of mobile phones for business purposes during the run and myriad others. One by one the guilty were called to account, drinking one down. Aussies, Yanks, Brits and HK Chinese of varying ages and physical prowess good-naturedly paid their dues. I relaxed, safe in the knowledge that a) no-one knew me and b) I had behaved impeccably to date.

'We have some Hong Kong Hash virgins!' exclaimed Small Bone, the crowd responding with a fearsome roar of approval.
Before I could consider escape I was roughly shoved into the circle to join two fellow runners.

'OK, we want your name, where you hail from . . . and when you last had sex!' Demanded Small Bone.
Oh My God.

I was first up. 'Er, Ash . . . from Lewes -'
'Where the fuck's Loowis?' (from the crowd)
'Er, Sussex, England' (some cheers)
'And when d'you last have sex?'
'Er, can't remember?' (more cheers, some hoots of derision)
'What are we going to give this sorry bastard???'
(Crowd): '5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . '

I was tempted to offer a cool-sounding Hash name, such as Motorhead or Ladykiller, but I'd gleaned that any such attempts would be futile, sniffed out and ruthlessly exposed. Once a hash name is ascribed one suffers the ignominy of that name for all time. A young lady, burdened by the moniker 'Shut-the-fuck-up' had requested a formal change of name. This was declined, and several alternatives offered that made the original seem far more appealing.

The evening continued on to a local curry house where comedy and music sketches were performed by the various Hash fraternities (a la It Ain't half Hot Mum), and much heavily spiced food was washed down with buckets of cold lager. Represented were the Hong Kong HHH, Kowloon HHH, Northern New Territories HHH, Free China Hash, Royal Southside Hash and my own adopted group, the Wanchai Hash House Harriers.

And on we went, back into Chintown, a bar/ nightclub festooned with like-minded people serving excellent Guinness and sporting a local band who capably covered a number of popular rock classics. The U2 covers were exceptional. I will end the report here, for the memories are fuzzy at best. Suffice to say it was an ungodly hour that saw me deposited back at my hotel by my new companions (good job, as I had no idea how to find it on my own). I managed a few hours coma - 'sleep' suggests a level of sophistication - and awoke some hours later in a state of confusion.

The pamphlet on my nightstand revealed that I had precisely 1 hour and 15 minutes to shower, dress and return to the Aussie bar to meet today's coaches. We were once more into the breach, dear friends, to hash again, with yet more hours of sporting and drinking endeavour to enjoy.
I could get to like it here.

My grateful thanks to, amongst others, Bof, Page Three, Indie Anus, Acorn, Wet Nurse, Spiderman, Motormouth, Stinky Vaginal Bloodfart (really), Spike, BBBBB, Raincheck and Small Bone.
Back to life, back to reality . . .

_________________________
Sweder, Colonial Hasher

[El Gordo]

Will revisit this one when I get back from Leeds this evening.

Good to have you back, Sweder. It' s been strangely quiet around here...

[Sweder]

Location: The Peak, Hong Kong
Duration: 01:10
Distance: + 5 miles
Conditions: Dry, cool

Sunday’s hash differed from the previous days’ outing on several levels.
My jetlag was laced with a spectacular hangover. I had revealed aspects of myself to my fellow hashers (the term ‘competitors’ is prohibited in these circles) the previous evening, including my propensity to dance like a spider on acid when inebriated. Such a confession may sound the death knell for a prospective member of a new fraternity; in Hash circles such foibles are de rigueur .

We returned to the misty mountains, no longer rain-swept, the cloud having moved on to torment souls elsewhere. The view from the climb up The Peak is astounding, Hong Kong laid out in all it’s urban complexity. The forest of high-rise concrete and glass, the race track at Happy Valley, lush green, nestled amidst the man-made madness of Asia’s most productive city. Beyond the architectural smorgasbord one of the Worlds’ busiest shipping lanes hosted an endless parade of container ships and bulk carriers. Further out still and the haze-blue shapes of countless islands rise from the sea; here Scaramanger's hideout, there Dr No's fortress.

To a tourist stop near the summit, our starting point for the days run. Once again we have three trails, although this time set by a lone hare. Pinkie is a Hong Kong hashing veteran, active in HK Hashing since the ‘70’s. His intimate knowledge of the nooks and corners of the island was put this to excellent use today. We gathered outside a café on the roadside for his briefing: Pink chalk denotes the long run, green chalk the intermediate, yellow for the short. Flour is used on all trails, so if you’re on flower, you are ‘on’.

As we divided into groups by length of run, Bof, Grand Master and veteran of the Wanchai Hash, spotted a newlywed couple posing for a commemorative shot against the dramatic backdrop. ‘Let’s give ‘em a Hash send-off’ he cried. Around 20 of us responded, gathering around the perplexed couple. Hugs and good natured greetings were exchanged, and finally we were off on another mountain trail.

We started down a gradual slope, the district of Aberdeen spread out below as we followed the trail. On the journey up I had conceded to the drummers quartet playing perpetually in my head that I would hang back this time and allow others to break trail and lead the run. I reneged on this agreement as soon as the blood flow had cleared my addled brain, once again joining the runners at the front.

Off the beaten track, staying upright became a challenge as we slalomed through young trees and scrub. The trail became more challenging until at one point we gingerly picked our way down the edges of a red rock waterfall. At the foot of this tricky descent we joined a narrow bridleway. As we set off, pleased to be on surer footing and looking to up the pace, we met six racehorses, 5 with mounts and one being led by a most unhappy looking jockey. There had obviously been a disagreement between rider and steed. The horses spooked at the sight of our motley crew breaking through the brush, and those of us in front stopped to allow the riders past. Just as we started to pass word, gently, back down the line, my mate from the previous day appeared with his rusty bugle. Unsighted and unaware of the equine roadblock he raised the bugle to his lips and blew heartily.

‘Noooo!’ several of us cried in unison. Too late.
The horses, taking far too long to mobilize, responded to the cavalry call and bolted past, riders frantically struggling for control.
‘Oops’ offered the bugler. ‘Didn’t see them – sorry!’
‘On On!!’ we cried in reply, and on, on we ran.

On through more dense woodland, on down steep embankments, on through a concrete drainage silo, on through the back-yards and kitchens of a tiny hillside village. On and on, along a precipitous stoney riverbank until we rounded a corner, down three flights of stairs – and there, guarded by Camel and Wet Nurse, the beer stash! home.

The down-down followed, and this time I was called to account in my own right.
‘Ash to the circle!’ cried Bof in his best Regimental Sergeant Major style. I shuffled forward, fully conscious of the charge against me.
‘Not ONLY did this miserable bastard use his mobile ‘phone on a run,’
Bof, pacing around me, playing to the gleeful crowd
‘which as you know warrants a down in itself’
(acknowledgement from the crowd)
‘Ee was bleating on about meeting some bird at half three tomorrow morning!’
Baying from the mob.
‘No doubt he’s actually lining up a shag!’ – joyful screams and applause.
‘Whadarewe gonna give ‘im?’
5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . .

I downed my beer. In mitigation, my client had called me, to confirm our 3:30 am start the next day at the exhibition centre. There was, for the record, no chance of a shag. Still, it felt good to be singled out, and I was far from alone. In the spirit of repeat down-downs, Acorn took three on the bounce for various misdemeanors on the dance floor the previous night.

In deference to my unearthly start next day I stayed low key at the après Hash function, a private affair at a hotel nightclub. The entertainment was provided by the Mister Wanchai Pacific International Pagent, featuring six of the Super Rambo male runners fully dragged up for swimwear, evening wear and of course their star turns, including the most dreadful 'singing' imaginable. I kid you not.

Not yet 48 hours in the country and it felt like I’d been here a month.
I’m looking forward to the Marathon next month – it’ll seem rather tame after this lot, not to mention less painful.

[Nigel]

Great stuff, Sweder ! Aberdeen has never ever been like that in all the times I've been here..... and this morning's rain in the ol' grae toon couldn't be more removed from your version of the same.....

[Bierzo Baggie]

Bostin' account Hong Kong hash-man.
I'd always wondered what a hash-run was like....

[El Gordo]

Enthralling stuff, Ash. Very funny and really very interesting to know what goes on in these mysterious circles. I feel like I've just read an exposé. I can see the appeal, but I'm not quite sure I'm the hashing type. But you never know....

Oh, and did I miss it? What is your hash name......??

[Sweder]

Happily no name designated as yet. I have yet to commit a serious crime (other than the work call on the run thing), although if they ever read this lot 'Snitch' or similar (worse) may be on the cards.

I think we're all the Hashing type to be honest, based on the mix of people I met. Apparently there are vast differences from Hash to Hash in terms of ferocity of run and/ or apres hash partying. I suspect I have stumbled on exponents of the latter.

Hashing is great fun, but it could never be misconstrued as 'training'.
Acorn is a serious runner though - he does the 35 mile mega marathons in Asia, plus the 100 K Hong Kong run across the islands. His hash (the Free China Hash) only meet once per month, so I suspect he's out hitting the hard yards in between. The other hashes are pretty much social events, providing exPats with a common 'home' of sorts. All the sponsors of last weeekends' event were pubs, which sort of gives the game away.

No running in the past 48 hours as serious work abounds. Hoping to hit the local park tonight for 45 minutes or so, but there are a lot of pubs to get past on the way.

[Sweder]

One or two people expressed interested in hashing and its history. I've picked up some bits and bobs from hashers here in HK, plus plundered the HHH website for the following.

The Hash began in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia in 1938 when a bunch of mostly expatriates led by Albert Ignatius Gispert - or "G" as he was known - began a hare and hounds paper chase on a Monday evening, following which they would enjoy a few beers around the "bucket" before retiring to a local establishment for a meal. This regular event was interrupted by World War Two and "G" was unfortunately killed in Singapore with all trace of his family connections lost.

The Hash was restarted after the war by stalwarts "Horse" Thompson, "Torch" Bennet and Cecil "Curly" Lee plus a few others. Nicknames were already de rigueur. A small splinter group rose and fell in Italy. It wasn't until 1969 that a second substantial Hash was established in Singapore. Thereafter, with bankers, accountants, engineers and others being posted around the region, they set up other chapters. By the mid Seventies there were around fifty groups worldwide.

The first Hong Kong chapter, the "Hong Kong Hash House Harriers", or "H4" as it's known, was launched, in February 1970, with a run on the peak. The second chapter, Kowloon, or "KH3", was started later that year by people who, in the pre-cross-harbour tunnel days, could not make the start on the Hong Kong side. There are now ten active Hashes in Hong Kong, with the odd peripheral group rising and falling from time to time. In Hong Kong, men can hash any day except Friday. The Saturday "Free China" H3 runs monthly. H4 and KH3, which both run on Mondays, are still men only, as is the South Side which runs on Thursday.

The Wanchai Hash was founded in 1988 by Bruce "Shirley Temple" Fletcher and Howard "Dances with Dogs" McKay who, over a cold beer in "The Wanch" pub, mused over how Hong Kong had very few Asian girls in the Hash, whereas in Malaysia, Indonesia and other Asian countries, there were many. They thought that a Sunday hash could redress this anomaly and thus WH3 was formed.

The Wanchai Hash is probably the most vibrant in terms of numbers turning out, with an average of 60 runners/joggers/walkers each week. Although they don't advertise it as a dating club, there have been over 30 marriages between people who met on WH3 since it began. One might surmise that there is more to this than exercise and beer drinking.

"Am I fit enough?" some ask. Well, like most hashes, WH3 has its share of Garmin junkies who like to talk about their 10K times, but there are also the rotund and the walkers so you can take your time. The age group ranges from kids up to septuagenarians and the sexes are usually even in numbers. Generally the trails are set so that the fast runners get back in about 40 minutes with the last walker being back in about 1 hour 15 minutes - there are the occasional "disasters" however when an inexperienced hare gets carried away. The trick is to finish before sunset.

The Wanchai Hash and its birthplace "The Wanch" pub in Wanchai were instrumental in regaining contact with the lost Gispert family when pub owner Howard McKay employed a barman by that name. As it was a fairly uncommon name, Howard made further inquiries and determined that his barman, Charles Gispert, was in fact the Grandson of "G" who, until that time, had had no knowledge of the hash or his late Grandfather's role as the founder. "G's" son, Simon Gispert was also contacted and was sponsored by "The Wanch" to attend as a guest at "Interhash" in Phuket in 1994.

That sums up what hashing means to the people I've met this week out here.
Long may they continue to enjoy their sport. On On!

[Nigel]

If anyone is interested in trying this out, then I am organising a Hash Run this year from a scenic countryside pub at Ifield, near Crawley in July. More details to follow. A potentially strategic meeting opportunity for the Sussex / Surrey RC contingent, no doubt. We might even persuade Andy to attend, if we're not careful, that is....

Meanwhile, here is the link to my old report from last year's event: http://www.runningcommentary.co.uk/forum....php?t=385

[El Gordo]

Good to read your report again, Nigel, and with references to virgins, down-downs and flour, apparent confirmation that Sweder hadn't invented absolutely all of it.

The sound of a July meeting is good. Keep us informed of date and instructions.

And while I'm at it, good luck for Bath on Sunday. Let's hope you've got the right city.

[Sweder]

Location: Wanchai, Hong Kong
Terrain: City Streets/ Park
Conditions: Warm, 98% humidity
Distance: Appx 5 miles
Duration: 59:30

I need to 'get one in' before flying home. Thursday will be dawn 'till dusk at the exhibition centre, so, as Rod would say, tonight's the night. The weather is on the turn here, gently warming up, the mists replaced by smog and a perpetual dampness that hangs in the air like a gossamer veil.

I set off from the hotel at 8 pm, heading East towards Victoria Park. The concierge tells me this is the closest place for joggers, and though it will be less visually inspiring than the wilds of the Peak, it'll do. I'm looking for a 45 minute slog to turn the legs over, get the blood pumping.

I abandon the pavements after 5 minutes. All human life is here; 5.5 million people in 2 square miles of concrete spires, and Mr World and his missus are out shopping in the muggy night air. My best option is to take to the roads. The frequent clusters of construction machinery keep the traffic in the outer lane, providing my own private half-lane. I run easily, enjoying the occasional quizzical glance from pedestrians, baffled by this chunky human traffic plodding through their city, clad in All Blacks swat top and surf shorts.

Victoria Park proves to be a runners paradise. Except that the well laid-out, beautifully lit running circuit, woven carefully between tress and shrubs, up hill and down dale, is this evening bisected by a temporary chainlink fence. Que Passe? Ah, the Hong Kong Flower Show! Blissful in my ignorance I head for the entrance. A portly, well attired guard steps forward. I wave (Shearer!), grin and duck in through the entrance, increasing my pace on an impromptu tour of the exhibits. Fabulous wicker sculptures dressed in exotic floral gowns float by; a rock exhibit, a collection of bamboo displays. On I speed, spying a side exit. I duck the barrier and re-join the dismembered jogging track.

This part of the circuit proves more popular, inhabited with a dozen or so locals moving at varying pace back and forth it's newly formed 700 metre length. We run like lab rats, following the channels to the man-made barriers, turning to retrace our tracks to what we already know to be another fence.

I check out my companions. A large, wobbly gentleman, probably younger than I and without doubt displaying a more eccentric running/ wobbling style. A lithe woman, hard body glistening with a light runners' sheen, moving easily at good pace, eyes fixed ahead. A couple of lads, hair spiked in a Gavin Henson stylee, chatting excitedly in local dialect.

Occasionally I dodge one of the smaller occupants of the track; cats. Lean, mean mini-tigers, possibly ferral, stalking small mammals in the shrubs and tree roots.

40 minutes after leaving the hotel I feel myself slowing. What's this? Fatigue? The past few nights' indulgences taking their toll? Surely I've accrued more beer vouchers than this over the past few months? I look down. My shirt clings heavily to my chest, my shorts have darkened by several shades: I'm drenched. 98% hummidity means just that - the air is actually water, masquerading as air. I'm amazed. I vow to head home, but not without a final circumnavigation of the park perimeter.

15 minutes later I'm regretting that last decision. My breathing is ragged, skin slick with sweat, legs heavy. Bloody hell! 45 minutes of gentle plod and I'm melting! Back to the streets, but my approach is too casual; I've mistaken one set of lights for another and I'm in a pedestrian zone teeming with shoppers. Which way? I know the causeway is to my right so I head for the water, darting through a thickening mass of indigenous and visiting humanity, mild panic rising slowly.

A scene from Blade Runner pops into my head.
Deckered is running, clad in heavy raincoat and dripping hat, gun raised, in pursuit of a Replicant. The neon signs, the moist air, the packed city streets, the etherial glow of pollution illuminated by giant neon advertisements; I'm in Ridley Scott's LA of the future, San Angeles. I shake my head. Get a grip, matey; you need a shower.

Two minutes later and I'm through the throng, standing, chest heaving, at the side of the main causeway. I turn left along the deserted walkway and back into Wanchai. Famliar shops, bars and hotels appear, and I'm back in my Swederlane. Finally the Novotel appears, a beacon of light in the sweaty neon street.

I ride the elevator with a new arrival. He glances nervously at this pink, glistening apparition dripping salt water onto the lift carpet. I check my stopwatch: 59:30. Probably the hardest 5 miles I've ever done in my life, but I feel OK. And I can hear the Guinness calling.

[Sweder]

A quick note this Sunday morning. I'm typing up my last run report, back in the UK at my home office desk. I'm ready to head out the door - it's 8:30 and I'm going to rejoin my regular Sunday group. I have no idea what distance is set for today - it could be 18 it could be 22 miles. I have even less idea how I'll perform, but I'm excited and energised to be heading back to the downs.

It may last an hour, maybe 3, or more.
It could be a morning for triumph or disaster.

I have no way of telling, but I can't wait.

[El Gordo]

Good luck with the the long run. Hope it's better than mine yesterday.

Thanks for the HK stuff. An excellent read.