Hash 469: 24.5.08 : For '69 : Nga Tim's, Coloane

Hare: Cunter Ass Thompson                    Scribe: Nancy Boy

Cunter Ass had been dreaming about ’69 all week, and in his excitement he forgot to tell us where to meet until quitting time on Friday afternoon. The editorial team hastily announced an A2A from Nga Tim’s. Cunter emailed back saying it wasn’t an A2A, and indeed he was right as we started on one side of the road and finished on the other.

He didn’t fool the beermaster though. No hare in his right mind would lay a trail from A to B and not tell him where B is, unless he has given up drinking and is feeling very brave about the upcoming circle. The obvious exception was Hash 423, which will live in infamy as the day when Constant Wanker and Tittyana not only forgot to tell Beer Queer where B was but couldn’t even find A to start their own trail.

Whilst we’re on the subject of people in their right minds, Constant Wanker deserves another mention in dispatches. Having flown in from Singapore, he was at Nga Tim’s at the start with a very potential harriette, but just as we were setting off, they left in the opposite direction and weren’t seen again. Got it right that time then CW? Let’s hope she’s still a virgin hasher next time we meet.

For some there was a delicate start to the ’69, especially for Lost in Space and new dad Betty, with Bouncing Balls bobbing alongside (is that poetry?), after spending the previous night wetting the new baby’s head with a bottle of Tequila. Start them early, I say. Their mood brightened when Cunter announced that more booze would be strategically located along the trail to maintain blood alcohol at a respectable level.

Appropriately enough, first stop was Coloane jail, where a convenient check provided an opportunity to admire the neo-brutalist architecture offset with a filigree of razor wire, before moving on to a check opposite the police academy. “’Ello, ‘ello, ‘ello, wot ‘ave we ‘ere then?”, announced 008, coming across a pinch of flour far away on the road to the gas station. This led us straight to the gas station, well actually a check at the bottom of A Ma Statue Road. ‘This is an ominous sign’, we thought, but soon forgot about that as it coincided with the first shot check, and we gleefully tucked into the Bailey’s.

Feeling suitably fortified, and having concealed the bottle for later in the faint hope that the next hasher wouldn’t find it (no chance, it was Betty seeking the hair of the dog) we got back to the ominous bit and tackled the hill. We panted up the road, past the climbing wall and up the steps to join the main hiking trail. We were then treated to a tour of the Arboretum before being pitched straight back onto the hill.

There was no escape: next stop would be the old builder’s yard for the Temple. I don’t know what it is about these ex-colonials: you’ve got Mugabe who’s reversed the last 200 years of history in the space of 10, and now Cunter Ass who’s got his geography all backwards. Within a few days he’d be off to Kathmandu on a 5000Km tuk-tuk race, and he was obviously getting some practice in. Pity nobody told him that Kathmandu is already at the top of the hill and he’d be racing DOWNHILL. He’s still out there somewhere as we write, and God knows where he’s headed. Cunter, don’t show your face at the Irish Bar quiz until you’ve done your geography homework. Anyway, somebody had to set a trail up the whole bloody hill, and wouldn’t it be him?

We finally reached the top, to find that he had redeemed himself after all with a shot check at the mirador (lookout point for those who don’t speak Swahili), where we could sit back and admire the glorious vista of Hac Sa spread out below. The timeless village life of Coloane, Macau’s green lung, has hardly changed over the weeks, the scrapyards and containers a quaint reminder of an age gone by.

‘Bollocks to that, pass the bottle’, we said before lumbering through shiggy in search of flour. On we went past the radar station, where the lone guard always smiles coyly and says a sheepish ‘Hello’. Well, wouldn’t you try to humour a gang of sweaty hashers following a trail of white powder through the middle of nowhere?

We trooped down Calvary staircase to 5, 6, 7, 8 or 9-Ways, whatever you want to call it, to be confronted by a 5, 6, 7, 8 or 9-way check. The optimists hopefully searched the Coloane Village side, whilst yours truly guessed that Cunter wouldn’t be that kind to us and checked out the other end. He was halfway down the steps to Hac Sa before concluding that that may not be the right way after all. Back on top, true trail was found headed for the Hash Observatory overlooking Cheok Van, and having checked that the Hash Feet had been properly anointed with flour, we descended the steps to the picnic site.

It would have been a straight downhill run into Coloane Village if Lost in Space wasn’t still nursing his Tequila hangover. Overcome with sympathy, and eager to avoid any accusation of competitive hashing, the assembled runners strolled with him to the edge of the village before breaking into a furious trot to impress the hare and muster up a thirst.

Back at B, beer loosened tongues as voices limbered up for the circle. NYPD had re-emerged a couple of weeks earlier and he now introduced us to the appropriately-named Flying Beaver. Things got a bit serious when Pubic Plucker complained about ladies not being invited to Glenfiddich’s stag weekend in Angeles, which had a number of us scratching our heads trying to imagine what she might have got up to if she had been invited. Down-downs were then administered and most of us stayed on for a nosh-up at Nga Tim’s. Ms Beaver did her thing with the menu and we all enjoyed a very nice spread.

After that some of us couldn’t get enough and ended up in the Irish Bar, following which we had had enough and it was time for bed.


Nancy Boy