Hash

October 19, 2008
TODAY WE PARTICIPATED IN a Hash. For all you Hash virgins, I’ll explain, and for all you products of the sixties, it’s not what you think.
A Hash is a 6-10km (4-6 mi) walk/run organized by a person called the Hash Hare (either a volunteer or local Hash chapter designee). The Hash Hare is an experienced Hasher who, ahead of time, marks a trail through woods, fields or any type of passable terrain in the designated Hashing area. The trail set by the Hash Hare may include several false trails leading to dead ends for Hashers to follow, making them backtrack to find the real trail. Cold beer and water are served at or near a halfway point and also at the end during the post-walk/run BBQ. All Hashes are given names that have some significance, ours was called “Centurion,” which I’ll explain in a moment.
The BBQ is followed by a “down down,” which begins with a little introductory jingle, followed by the fun part: drinking and throwing around beer. The first beer is respectfully poured on the Hash Hare by one of the other chapter members who stands atop a cooler for a more dramatic effect. (The pourer and the recipient of the beer shower later invited me to play rugby with them.)
Next, cups of beer are handed out to the Hash virgins (who just completed their first Hash). There were about twenty of us virgins and this seemed to give great pleasure to the more experienced Hashers. We were gathered in the center of semicircle, surrounded by all the other Hashers. Beer in hand, everyone sings a song, including the phrase “drink it down down” at the end, which they promptly do. However, Hashers also have the option of dowsing the person next to them in their malt beverage if they so choose. I, being a true gentleman, tossed my beer on the nearest girl.
Another individual beer shower was given to a Hash Transvestite, a title given to a person who both walks and runs. This man was also given a silver mug full of beer with an engraving on it congratulating him for completing his one hundredth Hash in Malabo --hence naming our Hash “Centurion”-- and was then promptly forced to empty its contents. To wrap it up, we sang a less-than-tasteful version of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”
Our Hash fell on the perfect day to be outside in the wonderful capital of Equatorial Guinea, Malabo. It was overcast, which is awesome because it blocks out the scorching Equatorial sun, saving us fair-skinned Hashers from painful burns. The ground was surprisingly firm and the mud puddles were more sparse than usual, a rare change in this damp climate.
Our group was eclectic to say the least. We had people from South Africa, Scotland, Australia, America, France, Spain, and several locals. There were parents, kids, single men, single women, grandparents and students. All gathered for the same purpose; to go for a hike and throw beer on each other. (It is funny what can bring people together .) I did think it was odd to bring children along, but I was later informed that these Hashes have been tamed to be more family oriented . I was told by an Australian bloke that he did a Hash in the bush in Australia where they all ran the Hash in the nude. The kids weren’t there for that one.
The Hash Hare spoke only French and a little bit of Spanish for our Hash. This created a little confusion when he was trying to explain how the trail worked and what to do if you get lost or tired. He wore his pants tucked in to muddy knee high boots, and had a military attitude. Most people, when they walk, even with boots on, avoid puddles. Not our Hash Hare -- he walked right through huge puddles like they were not even there, making important-sounding commands in French.
I noticed the Hare was nowhere to be found at either of the two dead ends in the trail we encountered.. As we started to backtrack, we noticed him hanging out by another offshoot of the trail, grinning.
A three foot dead snake was spotted by one of the French ladies’ sons. By the time we got up to him, he had poked his discovery several times with a stick, revealing maggots and the sickening smell of rotting flesh.
Passing this point of the trail with great haste, we nearly missed a photo opportunity with a chopped down tree. However, this was no tree you might see along Kelly Drive -- This tree was as big around as of Volkswagen beetle! We seized the Kodak moment, climbing the tree and saying “cheese!” and the rest of the Hashers quickly followed suit.
After the down down, we trudged back to our house completely muddy, sweaty and smelling like a brewery. I knew the combination well, but couldn’t place it. Taking another whiff of the beer-scented air, I remembered; Of course! Collegiate rugby matches!