| The trail twists through jungle, up and down steep, muddy slopes, over fallen logs and through boggy streams. I fancy myself a jogger, but I have a hell of a time, and have to slow to a brisk walk as tiny women and old men blaze past shouting encouragement.
It’s the Valentine’s Day Nash Hash in Brunei Darussalam, and what follows is like a wedding crossed with a frat party: food, beer, crass speeches and songs, a makeshift stage featuring an Elvis impersonator and a band that plays Sex Pistols covers, and a dance floor made of a few sheets of plywood. The event might seem bizarre even if it weren’t taking place in a dry country in the middle of a Borneo jungle.
A Hash is an offshoot of the game Hare and Hounds, a paper-chase run in which the leading "hares" lay a trail for the following "hounds." On a Hash, the trail – ideally through challenging terrain – is set well ahead of time, so that everyone can run as one group, the object being to finish as close together as possible. There are checkpoints where the trail is broken, and those leading the pack must recover the path and guide slower runners with the cry "On! On!" On On is also the name for the post-Hash bash, which any Hasher will cheerfully admit is every bit as important – if not more so – than the trail itself.
Hashing originated in Kuala Lumpur in the 1930s, when a trio of British civil servants who met for lunch at The Selangor Club agreed to pursue fitness and pleasure by doing a weekly paper chase through the jungle and then getting completely shit-faced. They named themselves The Hash House Harriers, based on the nickname they’d given their lunch spot on account of its reputedly uninspired food.
The spirit of the original Hashers lives on, although the casual Asian hobby has grown into what can best be described as an international movement. A number of small groups meet weekly in Brunei alone, and a large event like the Nash (short for National) Hash attracts hundreds of people. There are Hash groups all over the world, and trails have led under the ice in Helsinki, through a Singapore kampong, a Falklands mine field, Zimbabwe elephant country and a Macy’s department store in Honolulu.
Sheila Murphy, a Scot who’s been teaching (and Hashing) in Brunei since the mid-’80s, theorizes that the Hash serves an essential social purpose. It is at once a community centre, support group, networking hub, entertainment centre and replacement pub – this last role being particularly dear to expatriates living in Brunei, where the sale of alcohol is forbidden.
"You’ve got to understand that when I first came here, many of us were really isolated," Murphy explains. "Almost no one had a phone at that time, so it was really important to have this reason to meet up."
Solid friendships emerge between Hashers, as do alliances between perfect strangers. Murphy remembers that when she returned to Brunei after a few years’ absence, she attended a Hash and within an hour had been passed around to anyone who could help her settle in. This cheerful generosity is taken for granted among the community, which, despite a delight in crude insults, treasures its members.
While the Hash began as a masculine, upper-class pursuit for expats in Southeast Asia, it is now decidedly egalitarian. The way to become a Hasher is simply to Hash. The only difficulty in joining is in absorbing the endless Hash formalities – drinking rituals, hash " handles," T-shirts, songs and jargon – but experienced Hashers cheerfully share their secrets. For a social group that incorporates elements of frat house ritual, locker-room camaraderie and a borderline geeky collection of in-jokes, Hashers are unimaginably welcoming.
Murphy puts it succinctly: "Well, it’s a laugh, isn’t it?" |
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