Dar Hash House Harriers

The Hash House Harriers or 'Hash' is a running club with a drinking problem. Started in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, in 1938 by British colonial officers who wanted a modicum of exercise post weekend excess of drinking, it has grown to be a truly worldwide phenomenon.

see www.gthhh.com or
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hash_House_Harriers for the detailed history.

I started hashing at the age of 5 in Khartoum, Sudan, 1983.. In those days Allan McMurdoh (sp.?) was Grand Master and in the years that followed I can remember many a hash ending up at our hash near the white Nile where I learnt many rude songs more often than not with hand gesture to compliment.. My school teachers did not find my renditions of said songs very amusing and had to call in my parents. I suspect their excuse was 'well he is a hasher now.' Not unlike many other social clubs (as I was to find out later) and for that matter religions, the hash opened a whole new vocabulary and social norms.

And so to my first Dar hash (www.darhhh.com). Actually getting there was interesting enough - with traffic jams from the city centre I opted to walk to an area known as the peninsular. An hour into the hike in 32 celcius heat and 15 mins to reach the gathering, I had taken a cut through back streets towards the rough area. Looking around a young man on a motorbike had stopped to chat to friends and so with the promise of plenty of fuel money we bounced around asking mahindi sellers (roasted corn on the cob) there whereabouts of a supermarket name and junction a hasher had furnished me with.

sure enough the pack was milling around and easy to spot. Annie AKA dominatrix was there, a hashing friend from Moshi and in true hash form people were both from vastly varied backgrounds and welcoming.

The on out was called, the sun dropping and the trail well marked in shreded paper. Dar is humid but as everyone tends to sweat at the flick of a finger, we were all soaked from the outset of the run.

half way around there was a drink stop - beer or water or even wine! The final on-in was... gaseous.

Back at the gathering point, as it tradition, we opened the first of a few beers. The were Norwegans, brits, Americans, Kenyans, Tanzanzians and a few other globe trotters besides.

Most people have a 'hash name' - some are obvious and some downright rude - 'little sausage' and 'camp bed' were memorable, 'skid marks' and 'Jingle boobs' were rather unforgetable and my own name, earned at age 15 in Limassol, Cyprus, is obvious to some.

Before an excellent spread of food there was the circle - the crux of the drinking problem part of the slogan, though perhaps I was luckier than some (me holiday, everyone else - monday night). Beer and wine fines were handed out liberally by the GM (Grand Master) and RA (Religious Advisor) - they even had a special song for me as I heralded from Arusha: if you happen to go for a hash in Dar then just say 'Arusha', it ellicits a very specific response.

Beer was inbibed, songs were sung, food was eaten. A great hash and then good friends of Emanuel 'Wailer' insisted on putting me up for the night. It just so happens that a fellow hasher who lives at the same house hashed and lived in Khartoum and the same time as us...