Monday, November 26, 2007

H3 Oct-Nov 07

We’ve been on some bloody fantastic runs the past month, culminating in some pretty tasty hash tucker round the circle. Well done!

Back on October 22, pink ribbon day, Barge Arse marked part of the run with sticks and pink ribbons. And she warned us that when we thought we were at the end of the run, we were in fact not. Which sounded very Freudian at the time, but was in fact reality. After following a well set trail through Cable Beach we ended up on the suburb’s namesake, climbing the tallest dune in Broome in the growing darkness. And blow me down if it just didn’t get darker and sandier. By this stage with calf muscles screaming and one torch between the pack, the energy levels sank into the quicksand and those pink ribbons on sticks seemed to get further and further apart. Even Zorro, with his cape, horse and sword, was about ready to pack in the superhero caper and call for a cab. The pack trawled through the soft sand for an eternity and reached the end, only to find that eternity hadn’t quite finished with them yet. Barge sent us up another dune and so by the time we reached the boardwalk we were screaming for mercy and crying salty tears from the lactic burn. But god we loved it. Bargie hadn’t finished with us then either. By now it was darker than a cat’s bum on a cold night and we had to follow a trial through Minyirr park’s wilder regions. The plaintive cries of ON ON became on on on on. The thought of an ice cold beverage and a spa sustained us all to the end.

Notes to self after October 29 run in the bush at the port; next time pack machete, gumboots, GPS, maps and ration pack. And extra flour. Rainman took us out to the fishing club – surely the best real estate in Broome! Not that we spent much time in it, having being packed off like troopers into the woods. We did make an important ecological discovery though, that crabs don’t live at altitude and on the high dunes the flour markers were intact; it’s just by then our sanity wasn’t. But never mind the grazes and scratches, what a view from the top. Rainman set some particularly devilish trails that every shortcutting bastard tried to circumvent. He got us on the mudflats though. None could get round that trail. The thick red soft sand-mud concoction sucked you right in. Shoes, legs, whole bodies just disappeared in the gloop. By then, Commando had put on her camouflage makeup (Pure Mud Number 5) and called for backup in the form of the 007 hovercraft. The rest of us had grown several inches in height with all that mud caked on our boots and we had to have a hose down back at the fishing club. Rainman had made us a wonderful fish curry. Except we didn’t get to eat it. He’d left it out on the kitchen bench in the mild 40 degree weather, and the fish had gone well and truly off like a bucket of prawns in the sun. So we had snags and spring rolls instead. We welcomed Babs, the pommy marathon runner to our midst and Director educated us on the complexities of E-Bay, which sounds just the place to buy a submarine.

Welcome to Daylight Saving. There was a secret sense of dread and excitement for Cockup’s run on Nov 5 (Guy Fawkes night). He comes with a reputation to uphold. We could only worry about what lay ahead when he said he wasn’t actually coming on the run with us, but would meet us down the track. As it turns out after a bit of shenanigans through the bush behind McDaniel Road, and some more calf strengthening sand tracks, we ended up on Ridell Beach with the setting sun. Marvellous! The trail picked its way along the cliff top and brought the pack out on Gantheume Point where Cockup, bless his smelly socks, had arrived in the Kimberley Wilderness Adventures bus with a picnic. Truly, Broome H3 must be the best in the world.

Double trouble on November 12. Scheduled Hares Blondie and Red mysteriously came down with a bout of Dehli Belly, on the very day that it reached 43 degrees and the whole of Broome felt like it was a bit of burnt cheese and toast caught on the griller. Newcomer Chris, of that illustrious brewing house Matsos, found himself suddenly in the deep end of hashing. He and Kamakazi set a last minute run in the afternoon and still found the energy to run it with us – even the false trails and checkbacks (of which there were many). Now that is dedication. Or, a sign of heatstroke. We were blessed however with a storm building up and that created a wonderful glow of light and molten grey clouds and piercing cicadas. And by the time we startled some basketballers and a fitness freak in the PCYC gym the storm actually decided to flex its own muscle and spit on us. About 50 times. The most beautiful rainbow shone over Roebuck bay and its colours reflected in the low sheen of tide. The pot of gold at the end was Matsos, where there was an absolute feast, including all their finest beers. Hash Heaven? And some of us distinctly recall Chris, bearing a load of scrumptiously cold jugs of beer out to us, saying “People say they love my Jugs.”

We said farewell to Disco Dick in October. He’s gone to Kunners, and is enjoying some sightseeing hash runs there. Disco, we’ll miss your fleet feet and hope to see you back in Broome some time!


H3 News October 07

Let it be noted that couples should not set Hash runs together.

You know what happens when he’s driving and she’s navigating – well, throw in a bag of flour and decisions about which route to take and you’ve got the makings of divorce. You’ll hear phrases such as “Do you want to get out and walk” (that’s rhetorical) or “If you’d just done it the way I told you to” (guess which gender says that?). All too quickly a hot afternoon just got hotter.

Conchi and AlphaBet took the naïve step of setting the September 27 run together. A balmy 20 knot wind was blowing, the day was a delightful 38 degrees and the bushfire ash was delicately sprinkling itself over town like northern snow. Cue the ominous music.

They hadn’t even made the first trail marker before they were disagreeing on where the start should be. It was a testy two hours hence through the bush and back streets. But the trail took shape. A luminous moment occurred when a trailbiker saw AlphaB carrying the bag of flour and stopped to enquire whether she was baking a cake. Finally, as Alpha drew the On Home in the last of the flour, and Conchi revved the engine, they agreed it was going to be a good Hash run.

A small crew gathered in the Minyirr Park carpark and set off, only to be nearly run over by Director in his large 4WD, who was running hellishly late and screamed to a halt in the dust. He triumphantly blew the Horn (the hash horn, not the car horn). The trail took the pack away from Minyirr Park and into the bush opposite the new highway. Barge Arse immediately showed her colours and pushed through to take the lead on the soft dirt track. Red used his superior tracking skills to deduce whether or not false trails were false by the number of footprints leading in and out of a pathway, and as they plunged deeper into the scrub, the Horn started to lag. The Flour trails through suburbia proved useful since many footpaths were covered in graffiti or had smatterings of splashed paint. One such paint trail led Red waaaaay off the trail by about a kilometre and by the time he got back, Director had caught up, just in time to go off-road again. There was the world’s shortest check-onback (blame those Domestic Issues) just before the on home. Awaiting the Hash hordes, under the bright moon, was a plentiful picnic of organic fruits and quiche, which was all devoured.

What a bloody cockup the October 1 run was. It was fantastic!!!! Chards made his debut and was chaperoned up the garden path by none other than Cockup. (Mothers, never let your Hash Hare Virgins go out with Cockup) The run began in the car park of the Cable Beach Caravan Park. And for some Hashers they didn’t get much further than that! The caravan park is a cul-de-sac nightmare, or a town planner’s wet dream. Arrows led everywhere and in the growing dark we were taken down some pretty narrow crannies between grannies’ vans and up some very hairy nooks. It was here that things got sticky. The park residents are a sociable lot and shouted their support of our quest from the comfort of their laz-e boy chairs. Cries of On On could be heard near and far, like a disorientating echo. A nasty set of false trails led Red and AlphB to suspect some double trail crossing, so they set off in a southerly direction. Meanwhile a group of merry footy blokes helped other Hashers by directing them north. And Trailblazer got out her axe to mark her own trail in a westerly direction, with Houndog on her heels. Midway through cutting her own path she was joined by Red and Alpha, thoroughly bamboozled, so they cut across some cul-de-sacs where TB & HG said they’d found some arrows. Emboldened they raced away singing On On to old ladies in their shower caps and men turning snags on the barbie under their awnings. The arrows pointed towards a tiny gate being held open by a child, like an Alice in Wonderland scenario, and the hashers burst to freedom. They waited. And waited. And then feared the grip of the caravan park tentacles had captured the others. They were right.

In a cul de sac far far away, Conchie was running in circles, having his fifth deja-vu moment for the evening as he came back to the same toilet block he thought he’d shaken off. Into the vortex arrived Kamakazi, equally disorientated but not without hope. Another lap round the toilet block. They split up, not to see each other again for an hour. Kama stumbled onto the Hares (those bastards) and was led to safety and re-dehydrated in a secret location.

Conchi followed his nose and found the part of the trail that led towards the gate out of the nightmare. As he jogged along he was joined by a suntanned grey nomad on his bicycle who said urgently,

“Have you found her?”

“What” replied Conchie.

“Have you found her, the missing girl.”

“No. Is one missing?”

“Err,” said the nomad, “I heard shouting and thought one was missing.” He stopped pedalling. The penny dropped. “Bye then.”

The four free hashers tired of waiting and calling set off at a fair clip on the trail. Out in the empty space where a resort will be built, Red indulged in spontaneous paddy melon bowling, and took Trailblazer out like a nine pin. A passing camel train was a distraction from running, and before they knew it they were at the On Home mark. There awaiting their sweaty arrival was a set of fresh, relaxed, grinning Hashers with beers in their hands. Cries of dismay from the poor bastards who’d done all the running! Turns out that back in the “Alice in Wonderland” moment, they’d overlooked a LARGE hash halt symbol that directed them to Cockup’s car, parked near a caravan, which was full of cold ones. That was as far as they got! 15 minutes later Conchi arrived into the carpark, heaving sweat, and the expression on his face was priceless.

Charges were laid against those slackers who didn’t get out of the caravan park, charges were laid against those who did, and charges were laid against the Hares. And after the previous week’s healthy picnic, the boys laid on meat pies, sausage rolls and enough chips to feed the navy.

There’s something wonderful about running at night in Old Broome when the air is filled with the perfume of frangipani, Albizia and Alstonia, along with curry, barbeque and steak.

The October 8 run began outside the Conti and Hares Commando & Hounddog swiftly established the rules of engagement when they led everyone beautifully up one side of the street, around a roundabout and downhill all the way after that. The phrase of the evening was from Hounddog “I’m sure I put a check/arrow/false trail there, and it’s gone.” It’s unlikely that civic authorities reacted that quickly, so we can only assume it was the Hash Leprechaun.

We ran around the prison perimeter, where mango farmer Ranger spotted some nicely ripening fruit on the other side of the barb wire. Then there were some aimless minutes in the hamburger franchise’s carpark searching for the markers (that dratted Leprechaun) before we ended up in familiar dark territory in Old Broome.

Hounddog reckons she got a blister on her finger from all the arrows she put down, but we could find little evidence of that!

Neither Kamakazi or Director could run this shift, but they came down to show off their injuries. Weirdly, they both had swollen limbs; one the hand, one the leg, it was worthy of a Two Ronnies sketch. And Ranger showed up her country life by pointing at a streetlamp through the palm trees and saying, genuinely, “Gee the Moon’s pretty tonight.”


Hash 3 Broome news August-Sept 07

The last run for August was a romp through the bush near the Roebuck Roadhouse, in true Disco fashion.

It was well and truly dark by the time the run began and the bush was lit by a bobby dazzler of a full moon. The late start was because half a dozen hashers have been participating in extra curricular activities – and surreptitiously improving their fitness – by being legs for Sammy the Dragon. (Clearly the extra Monday night rehearsal for the dragon didn’t make much difference come float parade time. Sammy looked more twisted than a middle intestine, several times, during his lap round Chinatown)

The late start also left 12 mile resident Ranger in the dark, literally. Hoping to cadge a lift with a passing hash car the bold lass sat on the side of the road, with the hash box of cups, for a good half an hour without so much as a pickup –not even from a burly truckie or three looking for some company on the long and lonely road to port headland!

Ranger was subsequently charged the following Monday – a run which ended in every hashers idea of heaven; in a brewery.

Blondie enlisted the help/hindrance of Red to set the September 3rd run. It was actually the attraction of Red’s wheels (yes the Suburu has four, despite reports to the contrary!). Early on it was the Hares’ wheels that showed the way, rather than the (very) random flinging of flour in the parks and wildernesses that are Broome’s mangrove cloaked foreshore.

The Suburu has since taken on mystical proportions – a la the flying car in Harry Potter – because the wheel tracks lead over a deep concrete lined ditch, which had short-legged hashers (of which there are many) leaping like they were trying out for Beijing 2008.

An hour later, the foreshore was echoing to the triumphant hash call of Brewery, brewery, brewery…… and the runners powered through the sand towards Matso’s.

Blondie’s employer generously allowed us to sit at the Captain’s Table, surrounded by legitimate diners who cast a few ‘nasturtiums’ as they looked us over. As the jugs of boutique beer were refilled, the hash song was sung in whispered tones and down downs adhered to the ‘responsible serving of alcohol’ policy. Then there was a feast of threadfin salmon, chips and salad.

The entire range of Matso’s beer was sampled and declared lip-smackingly quaffable. Some, it must be said, quaffed quite a lot and paid for it the next morning.

Charges included Ranger’s lack of pulling power for highway pickups, Director’s beret wearing in the circle, and the return of Alphabet (moi) who’s tuneless singing and mucking up of the four line hash song has been absent from the Circle for the duration of the football season. (I know how you’ve all missed that!)

Aquarius must be in Ranger’s moon or something, because she’s copping it from all angles. She was drafted at the last minute as Hare for September 10th run, and used 4 kilos of flour and pink chalk to set a run that the runners couldn’t find. (Admittedly the runners forgot their torches and were relying on night vision, which clearly didn’t work, because it was the walkers with their torches who were doing all the On Backs and directing traffic.)

Setting out from the new broome visitors’ centre, the hashers had an experience most tourists will never have, and that’s slip-sliding through the salubrious ditches and mud around the arse end of the airport. The total darkness of Old Broome’s streets also kept the pack together (were the runners afraid of the dark?).

Blondie later declared that he had saved the life of Cockup, by pulling him from the path of an oncoming 4WD (Cockup claims it was more likely a push into the path). Then the pack was called upon to push a station wagon out of the sand on Kennedy hill. It was beautifully bogged in the biggest dune in Broome, but a bit of sweat and muscle from the hash club set them on their way to the sounds of profuse thanks.

After last week’s amber fluid, the hash splash tasted more like “muddy water” in the words of one hasher, but that didn’t stop Cockup coming back for thirds. Virgin hasher Chris was welcomed, while Norm was transformed in a naming ceremony to become Chardonnay (or is that Kardonnay?) for his dislike of beer and preferring a cheeky glass that resonates with the bouquet of gooseberries, wet grass and whatever other crap wine label designers come up with.

Jokes were told, Red tried to lay charges wildly, and the possibility of a hash club trailer was discussed.

On On.

Friday, November 23, 2007

A brave new world

Wow, H3 Broome goes global. Can we put photos on here too?

Let's make our presence felt on this inter-web thingy

Welcome hashers!

Thought I'd get the ball rolling with a simple blog for Broome Hash. Please feel free to contribute and criticise as you see fit.

If you have any ideas for inclusion on the page, or suggestions for alternatives, fire away!