Hash Run

On Saturday, I participated in a hash run. I had heard rumors of the hash, but I had yet to hear when one was happening. Last week I was told about the upcoming hash run and I agreed to do it with Phil, a Canadian friend with whom I play ultimate frisbee. We were told to meet at the post office around 3 pm on Saturday, but Phil had gone boating earlier in the day and didn't get back to his place until nearly four. We missed the group, but knew where they were starting the run in Airai so we drove up and were able to find them before they left.

The hash run is organized by the local branch of the Hash House Harriers, an informal international running organization that characterizes its members as "Beer drinkers with a running problem." We arrived just in time for the call to "the box" where the procedures ("There are no rules, only procedures," we were told) of the hash were explained. Toshi, the setter of the hash, would play the role of hare on this day. With a 10-minute head start, he would set off on the run, which he had carefully planned earlier that day. Our job was to follow his trail through the roads, creeks and jungle, and hopefully catch him before the run's end. Along the way, he left clues as to the trail. He was supposed to also create false trails that would terminate at some point; our job was to find the right trail and follow it to its end.

The run started out traditionally enough along a dirt road as we followed little clumps of flour. In order to keep the group from getting lost, every so often when you pass a route marker you are supposed to say "on-on." The road quickly ended into a residence and the trail turned into the jungle. The hash was no longer a "run" but became a hike into the jungle following a creek. With recent rainfall, it became impossible to stay dry and we were quickly soaked. Scrapes and bruises are the norm; stings and poison tree are honored extras. The procedures clearly state that "It's not a real hash until someone bleeds," though I am comforted to learn that injuries rarely prove fatal. True to form, our hash quickly turned into a step-by-step fight through a tangle of waist-high ferns and knee deep water.

Eventually we emerged onto an old road running along a ridge that provided beautiful views of the hills of Airai, the ocean beyond, and the nearby airport. Any question of my sanity for trekking through the jungle were alleviated by the view. We began running again and Phil and I moved from the middle of the pack to the front. Out in the open the trail became easier to follow and we were not as worried about getting lost. The road lead to a downhill trail through the jungle, but it was a maintained trail and easy to follow. It opened up to a bridge crossing the reservoir where all the water used by Koror is stored. Next, we had uphill roads until we turned off into a field. A short distance away we saw Toshi standing at the finish line, another box with 512 written in it signifying the 512th hash in Palau. Phil and I crossed into the finish box together as the first to complete the hash.

No hash is complete without post-hash festivities. Hotdogs were thrown on a grill and bags of chips were opened. After the meal, the group gathered around a bonfire for some frothy amber beverages, some storytelling, some jokes, and some post-hash deconstruction. After sunset, the group began its ceremonial rites that they call "religion." Religion consists of, from what I can tell, reliving the day's run and drinking golden liquid ("sacred nectar") from an ancient bedpan ("sacred vessel"). Phil and I were inducted into the group as new members of the hash. Everyone had a grand time. Afterwards I returned home tired and filthy from the jungle, but happy after a fun hash run.