I first started going to Hashes when I was nine years old
and living in Madagascar. Although not
yet part of the “drinking club” I was born with a “running problem”. My family, along with other international and
Malagasy families and individuals got together every Sunday afternoon to follow
a pre-marked route set with checkpoints and false trails. A group of 40+ vazaha’s (foreign people) would
run through rice-paddies and mud flats, allowing a good show for the lucky
local village we were rampaging that week.
More than once was a chicken forcibly purchased due to one of our dogs
who got carried away. When the trail
concluded, the group would collect at the cars and go back to the house of the “hare”
who had set the Hash that week for a bbq and of course, the hash all those who
had made some offense during the hash.
What does it mean to be hashed? You stand in a line along your fellow
hash-ees with a piss-pot filled with your beverage of choice and have to chug
it before a certain Hash tune is completed.
Anything left in the piss-pot at the end of said tune has to be dumped
on your head. This was way grosser when
I was young and my drink was a cold Coka.
Reasons you might be hashed:
- Missing too many hashes.
- Coming to too many hashes. (At certain “number of hashes attended” you will be hashed and rewarded a sweet T-shirt. In Mad I got up to 150 and counting).
- Running on the walking trail
- Setting a trail that was too long
- (Or too short).
- Wearing new shoes. (in this case you likely will be dismissed of using the piss-pot as your Hash Master will suggest that you drink your beverage directly out of those shiny new Tennis shoes).
As I’ve gotten older, I have learned that the Hash House
Harriers is a world-wide club started in the streets of Malaysia. Communities in multiple countries now collect
on a Saturday and Sunday afternoon to run and drink beer together. I’ve had the great fortune (or bad luck) to
attend hashes in a few different countries, but none have been as intense and
silly as the one my father is currently vice-Hash Master of in Rwanda.
Here, after your tenth Hash you are given a “hash name”. These are generally incriminating and
often-times crude but it certainly adds to the chaotic environment that is the
Kigali Hash. This past Sunday, I was given
the honor of receiving a Hash name of my own.
This is quite a process, involving a circle interview with all of that
week’s Hash participants. There you are
asked important questions such as “what is your favorite body part on the other
gender?” (or same gender if you choose, Hashers are pretty open!), “where is the best ganga you’ve ever smoked?”,
and so on. Afterwards you are sent away
while the group discusses and comes up with your name.
When you come back you will be told your name and will then
proceed to be put through a hazing, I mean hashing, session. I think this part is better said with
pictures.
1. Before…
2. Being given our
names…
3. Being initiated…
4. And finally Uwase
(my name) and Ass Lover are born into the Kigali Hash House Harriers community!
I know that this post has gotten long. But I want to end by empathizing how great a
community the Hash can be. Especially in
groups that set both a running and walking trail, it is a great club for
members of all ages and abilities. Sure
it is a group that includes a fair amount of drinking, but before that the
primary goal is to get together and exercise.
Living overseas, it is a way to build communities in spaces that often
feel very isolating. What I love
particularly about the Kigali Hash is that there are just as many Rwandans that
come every week as international folk. The
separation between host country national and ex-pat disappears when you are panting
up one of Kigali’s thousand hills together.
It disappears further after you’ve been forced to chug a beer next to
them because let’s be honest, you were both walking on the Runner's trail.
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