After our trip to the Market, we hurried back to the boats, ate lunch, and changed into workout clothes and sneakers.  We took a deep breath of parental worry and left Maggie in charge of watching all the kids on Patronus for several hours.  We were off to our first hash!

 

A hash is a cross between a walk in the woods, a running race, mud wrestling, an obstacle course, fraternity hazing, and happy hour.  If that sounds awful to you, stop reading.  You will find no amusement here.  If you can’t think of a better way to spend a Saturday afternoon, stop reading!  Now go find a hash near you!  It is completely awesome!

As with all Caribbean endeavors, we first had to get there.  And as with all Caribbean endeavors, this was part of the fun.  Despite the internet, the transmission of information in places like Grenada is slightly better than the stagecoaches of the wild west in the 1800’s.  Now factor in that everything is scheduled in GMT: Grenada Maybe Time.  Put it this way.  We knew the hash was in a town called Birch Grove at around 1600 hours.  We had heard that there was a carpool available from “the roundabout by the Botanical Gardens”.  That was where our information gathering ran out.  We headed off in a slight drizzle and miraculously found the Botanical Gardens.  We didn’t see any people milling about, looking like super cool athletic awesome trailblazers (you know, like us).  So we ambushed a Customs Officer as he left the nearby gas station and asked him what he knew.  Well, he had never actually BEEN to the Hash (like pretty much everyone we talked to the whole time we were in Grenada) but he knew someone who did it every week so he called him.  No answer.

We broke ranks.  Chris and Wendy stood in the little grassy circle in the middle of the roundabout.  I seriously doubted that this was the meeting place, but we figured the person driving the carpool couldn’t miss us if we were standing there.  Craig and I stood at what seemed to be a bus stop, on the side of the road that seemed like it was headed towards Birch Grove.  You might say we were a conspicuous bunch.  For starters, we’re white, which pretty much puts us in the “sore thumb” category of stickoutedness.  We had also written cute little messages on the backs of our legs.  Ok, ok, it was my dorky idea.  But I thought it would be fun, like when they write your competition number on your arm in a running race.  We had heard that the Hash organizers called first timers “virgins” and gave these newbies an especially hard time.  So we made it easy for them:

Craig’s Legs: Will Run For Beer

Wendy’s Legs: It’s My First Time

Erica’s Legs: Virgin Hasher

Chris’ Legs: I’m With the Virgin

 

 

The other people at the bus stop weren’t amused.  They all looked like very serious people on their way home from work.  Up roars a tiny little car and a guy rolls down his window and yells, “Get in!”  I look at him and timidly say, “We’re trying to get to the Hash.”  He yells back, “I know.  I know!  Get in!”  Craig yells to Wendy and Chris who now have to play Frogger to get out of the traffic circle and up the hill to the bus stop before our free ride zooms off.  We finally all jump in and take one last look at the Serious Bus Stop People before The Hash Doctor (as we came to understand) sped off.  It is truly amazing how things like that happen down here.  Good thing, too, since we didn’t really have a Plan B.

He explained to us that we didn’t have much time to get there.  He is one of the organizers and has to be there early.  We peppered him with questions, since he was the first Grenadian who seemed to know anything about the hash (even though the one in Grenada is one of the best-known hashes in the world).  We learned that it isn’t really that cool to “win” the race, even though some people insist on trying (Craig).  We also learned that is isn’t really that cool to wear new sneakers.  In fact, if you are caught wearing new sneakers, they make you drink a beer out of one of them.  We also learned that there is a great deal of planning involved in pulling off a hash program of this magnitude.  They have committee members for every aspect, including people to order t-shirts and ones to scout out new locations, since the hash is held in a different place every week.

Other committees are in charge of laying out the course.  The course is marked by placing small piles of shredded newspaper every so often.  The course starts at a local bar and runs along roads, through fields and farms, and over small rivers.  Conveniently, it ends up at the same bar, where food and beer are waiting to reward those who manage to emerge from the bush.  The organizers seek out as much mud as possible.  Getting really dirty, it seems, is SUPER cool.

So here’s the catch.  Every once in a while, they put out a circle of shredded paper in the middle of the road.  From there, two or more paths of shredded paper are laid out in different directions.  One is the real trail.  The others are fake trails that end after taking you far out of the way.  In the spirit of cooperation, a series of calls and responses have been established for runners to help each other determine whether a trail is the correct one or not.  If you yell ahead, “Are you?”, the runners in front will either yell back, “ON! ON!”, which means you should continue, or “ON! BACK!”, which means that they found the end of the trail and it was one of the fake ones.

We arrived at the rainy, dirt parking lot in front of the bar and the Hash Doctor introduced us all around.  We met the Grand Hash Master and we saw some critical eyes on the backs of our legs.  I was thinking they didn’t think our messages were cute at all, but rather some grievous breach of the coolness rules.  When a mid-sized crowd had arrived, many of them med students from St. George’s University, it all got started.  The Hash Master made some announcements and introduced several people who had volunteered to fill committee spots.  Two people had shown up in new sneakers, so they were “asked” to drink a beer out of their shoes.  The feeling in the air was one of excitement, camaraderie, and friendly ribbing.

At last we were off.  The crowd looked for the first pile of shredded newspapers to show the direction of the trail.  But right off the bat, there was only a circle of papers in the parking lot, so half the crowd went up the hill and the other half went down the street the other way.  We chose the wrong path, so when we heard “On! Back!” from up ahead, we turned and went back past the others.  We, being “tools” as well as “hash virgins” were jogging at a good clip.  Most of the others were strolling along with each other, laughing and chatting and drinking (water?) from their Camelbacks.

Once we hit the pack in the front, we found others who were running.  Craig took off without us, since he super really wanted to win.  It’s okay though, because we gave him a hard time about it later, and by coming in second, he failed to fly under the radar and was duly punished.

 

Wendy, Chris, and I had a crazy fun time.  We enjoyed the unbelievable lush scenery.  We were up in the hills of Grenada, surrounded by tall mountains, rain forests, and large plantations.  The air smelled of soil and rain.  The ground beneath us was a red clay mud.  It was fun to run through the mud with everyone.  Like, 8-year-old fun.  When is the last time you did something like that? I highly recommend it.  And that’s coming from someone who feels compelled to spray down the counters if a drop of juice falls on them.  Dirty IS Cool!

We jogged through fields, slid down slippery banks, and used plants and roots to pull us up muddy hills.  We walked past families who were sitting on the porches of their farmhouses to watch the spectacle.  They all grinned and waved to us.  We yelled our hellos and thanked them for letting us run through their beautiful property.

+

 

 

Time seemed to stand still out there in the bush.  Imagine being in what is technically a race and never once thinking about the finish line.  I enjoyed every moment of the experience and wasn’t hoping to “get there”.  I wanted to be exactly where I was at every moment of the hash.  Whether laughing and joking with Chris and Wendy, silently expressing my gratitude to the Universe for the beauty around me, or getting our pictures taken by the Hash Photographer as we slid in the mud, I was content and happy.

It certainly didn’t feel like “work” or “exercise”.  And yet, as we neared the end, we found ourselves out of breath, sweaty, and muddy from head to toe.  You couldn’t even see our sneakers through the caked-on mud.  We “crossed the finish line” together, which meant jogging into the parking lot and being handed a beer by a friendly volunteer.  Craig was lounging on a retaining wall, two beers in already and grinning.  He had a blast and had met some great people along the way.

 

The food was ready, so we ordered up four plates of Oil Down.  Oil Down is the national dish of Grenada, and Wendy had been hankering for it since we got there.  She had been asking every food peddler we met about their way of making it.  We uncovered our plates and dug in to experience what every Grenadian grandmother makes for her family.  It is a stew of dasheen, dumplings, salted meat, breadfruit, and coconut milk.  We all enjoyed it, even though the meat quality was questionable at best.

 

We checked at the booth to verify that we returned.  The organizers are very safety conscious and a sport where “getting lost” is part of it can be dangerous.  So before the Hash, everyone must sign in.  When you finish, you must sign out.  There is a committee of “Sweepers” who run behind the last people to make sure no one gets lost.  There were two people who failed to sign back in.  When they were located (standing in the parking lot, drinking a beer), they were the first to be punished.

The “awards ceremony” was actually a doling out of various and sundry punishments.  No mention was made of the winners.  The people who didn’t sign back in were made to kneel down before the Grand Hash Master.  They were handed a beer and told that they had two choices.  They could drink it in one gulp, or they could wear it.  Whatever they didn’t finish in one gulp was poured over their heads.  We laughed and everyone cheered.  I secretly hoped we would be punished for something.

Luckily, there’s a committee for that.  Several committee members keep track of “violations” before, during, and after the hash.  At this point, people were called up one by one and given the same “Beer” punishment.  Craig was called out for the message on his legs.  Little did we know that his message, “Will Run For Beer” would be taken as a violation.  But he ran.  And he got a beer!  We hadn’t laughed this hard in weeks.

A few minutes later, one of the committee members decided that any message written on the back of the legs is also a violation, so Craig, Wendy, Chris, and I were called up together.  Is anyone keeping track of how many beers Craig has had at this point?  Good.  Add one more.  Being a veteran college Sailing Team beer-chugging contest champion, I easily drank mine in one gulp.  Wendy and Chris had the last bits of theirs poured over their heads.

As darkness settled in, one more violation was announced.  “Can we please see the virgins?”  About 15 of us were first-time hashers.  They gathered us together up front and handed out certificates.  I’m telling you, this is a well-run outfit they’ve got here.  We were ordered to hand our certificates to someone else and gather back together.  At this point, we were sprayed with beers from all angles in a baptism of sorts.  Everyone was laughing as the beer made our muddy bodies even more of a mess.

 

 

After a bit more socializing, we scored a ride home in the Ross University van.  When is the last time you traveled with a bunch of college students?  Wow.  The music was blaring and these kids sounded like they were going to go home, shower off, and START partying.  We slumped in our seats and barely managed to stay conscious enough to tell the bus driver when to let us out.  After the bouncy bus ride and all that beer, we all ran for the bathrooms!  Are you still sitting there reading?  GO DO A HASH!!!

For more information, check out: http://www.grenadahash.com/.  There are Hash House Harriers in New Jersey and all over the world.  Check it out!

Oh, and by the way, for all you fellow parents, the kids were just fine after all that time alone.  They had made dinner, played games, and were hanging out in the cockpit when we returned.