Run 1633, Siu Lam, Wednesday April 30

Double Vision

There are two write-ups for this run in the southwestern NT.

Hare’s Eye View

By Nick Goodyer


Having just recovered from hernia surgery (all I’ll say is, in your underpants two’s company, three’s a crowd) I was unable to take part in the run itself, so instead manfully volunteered my services to mark the wimps’ trail, an endeavour that was to go down in hashing history as being entirely unremarkable in every way.

Setting off from the palatial country seat of Golden Balls and Jelly, we headed towards Siu Lam Psychiatric Centre where Balls recounted a story of how, when he’d previously recced a run, a kindly nurse had let him into the facility. Sadly, but perhaps understandably, she had mistaken him for one of the patients, resulting in the delay of the run by three years: the time it had taken to convince the authorities to release him. In view of this, we hurried past, but a number of the residents gave him a cheery nod and a wave, no doubt fondly remembering happy times in the showers.

Then, off road and up a ridge, topped off with a trig point. There were pig trails everywhere, but the pigs themselves kept at bay, much to my relief – perhaps down to the scouting efforts of redoubtable dog Malu. After Balls had set a few fiendish checks and checkbacks, we headed down the slope to the dam, the scene of the epic rambo/wimp split.

I was on my own now. As Balls and his hound headed off into the shiggy, an eerie silence descended, broken only by the sound of banjos and screams coming from a distant farm. This was the untamed, backwoods New Territories I’d heard the Hong Kong Tourism Board talking about in hushed tones over their wheatgrass frappuccinos. Time to think – and quick. I headed down the side of the dam, chalked an arrow, and headed for the barrier to mark a check. “Ha, they’re buggered now,” I thought, as I marked the next arrow not 10 yards away and in full view of the check. The banjos picked up their pace. I hurried on, past a pack of mean-looking dogs, no doubt destined for some grizzly scene of tourist baiting. There could be trouble ahead.

But further down the road, I emerged blinking into what passes for civilisation in these parts – the Grand Pacific View estate, in all its monumental tackiness. Dozens of people were around, and as I chalked the pavement in front of total strangers and tutt-tutting old ladies I was forced into the exquisite embarrassment of the kind known only to Brits. After all, there are only so many times you can pretend to tie your shoelaces. Then, I was through the underpass and back to Château Balls, where an excellent curry, Dram’s fascinating descriptions of his daily bowel movements, and copious ale, all made for a great evening.

I came, I chalked – and I had conquered.

Harrier’s Eye View

By Harrier-at-Large


The pack, comprising Gail Says No, Gunpowder Plod, Dram, Stingray, Golden Jelly and Velcro Lips, set off on the dark path around the back of Château Balls where the hare split his face open a few years ago. Minutes later a flustered One Eyed Jack arrives on foot, his plans to do the hash sans car – and drink loads of piss – frustrated by the lack of taxis. Five minutes later Eunuch turns up in stalwart style with a vanload of trampjuice, and bounces off into the night to a cheery “You’ll catch ‘em” from GB.

Trail goes up Siu Lam Road, through the government quarters and up the Siu Lam hill where a couple of checkbacks keep everybody within calling distance, before going down a rough, never-before-hashed path through trees and badlands to the long/short split on the reservoir path. Gunpowder Plod, Dram, Velcro Lips and Golden Jelly all elect to do the short trail. Meanwhile One Eyed Jack, short-cutting as usual, second-guesses the trail wrongly, running through a checkback to find himself down by the main dam of Tai Lam Chung Reservoir.

Stingray is first onto the rambos and finds himself on some good running trail. “Hmm, I quite like this,” he opines nasally as he chugs along like Barney McGrew. Then, after cresting a gentle hill and cantering down the other side, to his dismay he finds a checkback. “Sod that for a game of soldiers,” he thinks, “I’m going straight on this nice trail and round the side of the hill.” Only trouble is, round the side of the hill means So Kwun Wat and a doubling of the run distance.

Meanwhile Gail Says No crests the brow of the hill and finds the checkback but, being the uncorrupted, non-cheating hasher that he is, gamely goes back to look for trail. After 10 minutes he pokes his head through some bushes on the brow of the hill and sees trail marked not five metres in, and as he crashes through the overgrowth Eunuch ascends to the brow of the hill and follows him in. It’s a deteriorating trail hard to follow in places, with spider webs, fallen trees and head-high grass, and it eventually leads out to rejoin the wimps at the tunnel under the highway.

At the finish nobody is particularly bothered by the disappearance of Stingray, who eventually trots in halfway through the circle, panting and strangely flushed.


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