"At times rough, sometimes wet, sometimes dry, sometimes hard, sometimes prone, sometimes supine, sometimes slow... grunting, groaning and shouting... in the mud and sand and rivers... on hillsides and in the bushes and trails of the forests...exhausted, sweaty and smelling like a ram goat... is henceforth NOT to be considered a virgin".

Wow. But what? And just what did we do to earn such a highly acclaimed reward and ensuing beer-drenched piece of body and paper??

One site explains hashing as "an exhilaratingly fun combination of running, orienteering, and partying". And gives its origins as follows:

"Hashing began in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, in 1938, when a group of British colonial officials and expatriates founded a running club called the Hash House Harriers. They named the group after their meeting place, the Selangor Club, nicknamed the "Hash House." Hash House Harrier runs were patterned after the traditional British paper chase. A "hare" was given a head start to blaze a trail, marking his devious way with shreds of paper, all the while pursued by a shouting pack of "harriers." Only the hare knew where he was going . . . the harriers followed his clues to stay on trail. Apart from the excitement of chasing the hare and solving the clues, reaching the end was its own reward . . . for there, thirsty harriers would find a tub of iced-down beer.

The Hash House Harriers banners simply states:



"Drinkers with a Running Problem".

And this we wanted to do?? Yes man !! Having read some blogs while still land locked, notably from Mike and Rebecca we had a vague notion that hashing was a crazy sports event, and secondly, we HAD to try this.

Not to mention it would be a great way to meet other people, and it would whip our sorry-you-know-what's into some sort of shape. Except we forgot the one small rule that one um, perhaps needs to be IN SHAPE, before one attempts to um, HASH.

"Don't worry..." said Mike (easy for him to say !)
"Yeah, you'll be fine..." said Rebecca (easy for her to say!)

and so while waiting in the shade of this amazingly large rooted tree, for Shademan to come take us to the undisclosed location of this week's hash,



Mike said,
"Okay, you're going to die". Well, no, not really, he actually began with,

"Okay, so there's a few things you need to know..." (you're telling us this now? At the point of no return?)

"There's like a walkers trail. And like a runner's trail. This hash will have two trails for the walker's. One is easy. And one is hard(er). So take your pick. All trails, whether you walk or rain, will be about one hour long. All trails are marked by white paper bits scattered by the harriers prior marking the trail. Follow the shredded white paper bits".



And sometimes the white paper bits might try to deceive and confuse you. And so if you take a turn off the path, count at least ten more globs of shredded paper bits and if you come to a shredded bit that looks like an "X" you have to turn around cause you're on the wrong path. And you shout something like "On Back". And so anyone who was deceived and confused like you, or following you, will know to turn around and go back. Or if it's a good trail, you shout ON ON.

It felt like we drove an hour to get to Champ Fleurs (Saint Davids). And while doing so we fulfilled our first wish of meeting other cruisers. Almost the whole bus was Canadian Flagged, and how's this for a side-story:

I had never read the MUST READ BEFORE YOU GO CRUISING book entitled "Embarrassment of Mangoes", written by Ann Vanderhoof. What a thing to admit! And so Rebecca kindly lent it to me the other day. I have just finished it.

So guess WHO is sitting behind us on the bus? Ann and Steve of Receta. How's that for six degrees of Separation non?

Shademan finally gets us to where we're going but I think he's IN on a secret we don't know about, as he drops us off a long walk away from



the start line where seemingly hundreds of people are already gathered and ready to pounce.



After signing in, paying the Hash Cash and receiving our instructions from the HashMaster, we were on our way. Kinda hard to spot globs of shredded paper with so many of us,



but before we knew it, the trails had branched off, the people had spread out,



and the natural scenic beauty of Grenada came into focus, and as we followed the muddy paths into the woods we found we were mostly concentrating on the very Earthy aromatic smells of Grenada that are still too fresh to describe, with yes, countless mangoes rotting on the trails. Agh !



There were people of all ages and sizes, both locals and tourists, and as we walked on, the trails getting less and less visible from the shrubbery,



every now and then a runner would pass us by,



some of them in sweats (in this heat??), knee high socks (smart idea that!!), and flip flops (WTF?)

At one point I had to put my camera away as my hands were needed to hoist myself up over a rock, branch or whatever. I was trying so hard not to get muddy, that fate decided it would intervene and just dropped me on all fours in the biggest wettest mud-puddle I'd ever seen.

Notice something in this photo that could end up causing a problem?



Thankfully he was tied. With a rope to the tree directly across our path. Not smart that.



And then before we knew it, it was over. We'd reached the end, where the sounds of music and the smells of charcoally BBQ'd chicken were waiting for us AFTER



we were properly initiated into the Grenadian Hash Harriers Association, with a dousing of beer,



that even Mike (aka Jane) and Rebecca (aka Tarzan) couldn't avoid. Long time hashers are privileged to earn nick names, and one was handed out today "Girl Guide".



We knew we were going home with some serious scrubbing to have to do!



And that our dear friends is how we lost our virginity. One Hash down.



On the way home, Mike had us stop at some shack in some village along some road along the way, for the BEST EVER Jamaican Jerk Chicken or so he promised.

Thanks to Steve of Receta, who gave up his extra portion for us as the Jerk Man was closing up and serving out his last portions. Steve told us that next time, and you will come again he warned, try some "festivals". Food, he warned, not an event. Hmm?

We had to admit that it was in fact quite THE BEST EVER Jamaican Jerk Chicken we'd had as we scooped out the spicy juice pieces of chicken with our beer-splashed fingers as Shademan roller-coastered us home in the dark. ON ON!