Hashing

I first heard of 'Hashing' on an aeroplane to Egypt where an exceedingly enthusiastic English chap spent the entire flight trying to convince me of the virtues of running around the historical city of Cairo with a bunch of ex-pats. At the time, being more of an integrationist at heart, I made a mental note to never ever join any form of ex-pat running group!

However, years later, here I am in Trinidad, and a few months ago some of my totally Trinidadian triathlete friends took me along on a Trini hash.  Despite my then lack of fitness having just returned from a 4 month training hiatus, I thoroughly enjoyed the running through the bush, although there was a lot more walking on that occasion as those hills were steep! Afterwards, though, all the ritual started: hash virgins guzzling down beer, people with new shoes drinking from the said new shoes (YUCK!!) various songs and other shenanigans. Rather than join in the folly with the predominantly Trini crowd, (hardly an expat in sight,) I found myself edging back, slightly horrified, and certainly not wanting to be part of this ritualistic mob!

I don't know if it was just my rebellious nature, not liking being told what to do or what to drink; or if it was that I really can't stand beer and was no way going to chug it down.  I suspect though that it was something deeper. It seemed to a combination of a fear of the clannish nature of the group, feeling I was being inducted into a sect or initiated into a masonic lodge...maybe it brought out my insecurities from growing up mixed race in Britain, fitting in and yet not belonging...maybe I was just exhausted as I was so damn unfit...But I found my initial reaction to this group to be the same as when the jolly English passenger had first introduced me to the hashing concept.

Fast forward to today, when I went on another hash, this time with some other triathlete friends, as well as my sixteen year old daughter.  Running the trails felt great.  Despite my slight fatigue from one too many free Daiquiris last night, as well as those pesky hill sprints, I found myself able to push through the random muscle pains and run at a good pace, particularly when my friend and I realised we'd both lost our daughters, hers being a lean, ten year old shadow sticking closely behind her larger chunkier god sister. The trails were marked in a bizarre way and a number of the more experienced hashers complained, but as I'd just come to add variety to my training, and I have a poor sense of direction anyway, that went over my head. My daughter enjoyed the whole theatre of it all: 'Hares' in Christmas hats, singing orientation hints to the tunes of Christmas songs, as well as the different yells signalling different levels of confusion as to the direction we were supposed to be heading. She also enjoyed that fact that she was finally running these familiar trails with no pressure to perform as she's no longer a competing triathlete! But that's an issue for another post.

Sweaty and muddy, but with smiles on our faces we finally reached the end and a cool freshwater pool for instant muscle ache alleviation. A bar was set up and the smell of barbecuing filled the Arboretum: a picturesque and secluded picnicking/camping spot. My daughter seemed to feel she ought to be part of beer drinking, so I mixed her a weak shandy thinking that would suffice, assuming she would hate the taste of beer anyway. But then, as a man with a booming voice jumped up onto a beer crate, suddenly the rituals began, and my daughter got pulled into the 'hash virgins' crew and given a beer to guzzle down, or wear. As my goddaughter's mother looked on in horror, shouting out, "don't drink it!" I turned away.  What part of my natural health inspired tigress uber parenting style allows for a child of sixteen to chug down beer as part of an initiation ritual??  Now she is an exceptionally strong girl, having looked older than her years for well, years, and I have been allowing her champagne and other bubblies on special occasions of late, so I knew this 'lite'  beer wouldn't exactly kill her...but even so, it once again all felt quite wrong and when she sidled back up to me looking vulnerable and bemused, I felt disappointed with myself for allowing her to be put in that position, especially one I'd refused to stand in myself.

Fortunately the rituals didn't last too long, we had that awful shoe drinking thing which once again made me gag, and then for some reason a muscular young man had to put on a large pair of undies over his shorts, but it was soon over and we were left to chat and drink in the rich thick darkness, surrounded by nature. My calm returned, my daughter;s mood levelled and other than a miserable amount of traffic on the way home and Wrapworks being closed causing us to drive even further in order to satiate my growing starvation with Chinese takeaway....we were both glad we'd taken time out for that brief adventure together.

So will I go on another hash? Yes, I most certainly will.  Will I ever become comfortable with the rituals? I'm not sure.  I have become so much more tolerant and less reactive over the years which I suppose is a good thing...although sometimes feels I'm just going soft and losing all my principles... However, that fact that this was an activity I could enjoy with my daughter which involved fresh air and exercise was certainly valuable. 

Now to get my vampiric son back into the sunshine...