‘Have you ever done a hash?’ my host Anne asks me. The indefinite article in her sentence throws me momentarily off guard before I answer with a cautious negative. ‘No?’ she continues in the same casual manner, ‘you should try it, there’s one at 2pm today.’
Thus it is that I find myself forming a loose human circle with an eclectic group of international expats in a litter-strewn car park at the bottom a hill beneath Erebuni Fortress, 6km outside downtown Yerevan in Armenia. A 50 something German engineer with a zeppelin paunch that hints at a casual fondness for beer and bratwurst takes a bottle of Armenian brandy out of his backpack and passes half-filled cups around the circle. The drink is downed with a short song and ceremony and we set off on our run, following a chalk-marked trail prepared earlier today by the local group’s Grand Master. These are my new friends for the day, proud members of the Hash House Harriers, a self-styled ‘worldwide drinking club with a running problem’.
As would befit a social organisation founded by a group of terminally bored British officers in 1938 colonial Malaysia, the concept is endearingly simple: thirty to sixty minutes of strenuous exercise in the form of a cross-country run followed by a few hours group socialising over a beer or three. Troubled governments of the world could do a lot worse than follow the organisation objectives detailed in the 1950 Constitution of the Hash House Harriers:
- To promote physical fitness among our members
- To get rid of weekend hangovers
- To acquire a good thirst and to satisfy it in beer
- To persuade the older members that they are not as old as they feel
Relating directly to the fourth objective, I survey the mountainous course with a mixture of apprehension and brandy-imbued excitement. Although the terrain seems steep, a touch too steep perhaps for an urban office worker with a recently cancelled gym membership, the pace is gentle as the emphasis is firmly on running as a group. Regular checkpoints and false direction markers ensure that pacesetters and backmarkers are frequently reunited in the relaxed and orderly manner of a school orienteering exercise. As we run through cattle and poultry, alongside long-abandoned factories and over the never-ending trail of litter that is sadly such a frequent sight in all former soviet states, I cannot think of a better way to have started this new trip. A glance at my watch tells me that I have only been in Armenia for seven hours.
The run finished, the hashers regroup at the starting point and several car boots are opened to reveal chilled containers filled with ice-cold beers for the adults and soft drinks for the children. A financial contribution is collected from every participant, except for me: as a hash virgin, the brandy and beers are my welcome to the community.
As the drinks are handed out, the Grand Master summons us all into another circle. After a semi-serious critical appraisal of the quality of today’s trail, a number of hash etiquette violations are punished with an enforced slug of brandy in the middle of the circle. Next to me, Axel the German engineer has made the contents of another half litre bottle of local lager vanish, his third in the space of fifteen minutes. From the smile on his face and the spectacular belch that shatters the peace, I suspect that he favours the socialising over the running.
All of a sudden, all eyes are on me as the Grand Master announces the induction of a virgin into the hash community. With a sheepish smile and feigning horror at being handed a full mug of beer, I take my place in the centre of the circle as my new brethren sing me into their bosom. As the last verse begins, I quickly despatch the contents of the mug and turn it upside down on top of my head before the song is finished. I have made it: I am a hasher.
Mine is not the closing ceremony, however. Today is a special day for the Yerevan hash community and for one person in particular. Nathan, an American student with Armenian roots and a recent hash regular has earned the right to be given a hash name. As he steps into the circle, a bag of flour is passed around from which everyone grabs two handfuls. The Grand Master then blows his whistle to announce the beginning of the naming ceremony and lucky Nathan gets pelted with enough flour to turn him into a human baguette.
As the sun starts to set over the hills of Yerevan, the parents amongst our group take their children home whilst we head back into town, to Hash HQ where more beers and chicken kebabs await. In accordance with my own initiation, I am now being addressed by my virgin name of NoNameMarc, but I get the feeling that this may change in the very near future…
Thus it is that I find myself forming a loose human circle with an eclectic group of international expats in a litter-strewn car park at the bottom a hill beneath Erebuni Fortress, 6km outside downtown Yerevan in Armenia. A 50 something German engineer with a zeppelin paunch that hints at a casual fondness for beer and bratwurst takes a bottle of Armenian brandy out of his backpack and passes half-filled cups around the circle. The drink is downed with a short song and ceremony and we set off on our run, following a chalk-marked trail prepared earlier today by the local group’s Grand Master. These are my new friends for the day, proud members of the Hash House Harriers, a self-styled ‘worldwide drinking club with a running problem’.
As would befit a social organisation founded by a group of terminally bored British officers in 1938 colonial Malaysia, the concept is endearingly simple: thirty to sixty minutes of strenuous exercise in the form of a cross-country run followed by a few hours group socialising over a beer or three. Troubled governments of the world could do a lot worse than follow the organisation objectives detailed in the 1950 Constitution of the Hash House Harriers:
- To promote physical fitness among our members
- To get rid of weekend hangovers
- To acquire a good thirst and to satisfy it in beer
- To persuade the older members that they are not as old as they feel
Relating directly to the fourth objective, I survey the mountainous course with a mixture of apprehension and brandy-imbued excitement. Although the terrain seems steep, a touch too steep perhaps for an urban office worker with a recently cancelled gym membership, the pace is gentle as the emphasis is firmly on running as a group. Regular checkpoints and false direction markers ensure that pacesetters and backmarkers are frequently reunited in the relaxed and orderly manner of a school orienteering exercise. As we run through cattle and poultry, alongside long-abandoned factories and over the never-ending trail of litter that is sadly such a frequent sight in all former soviet states, I cannot think of a better way to have started this new trip. A glance at my watch tells me that I have only been in Armenia for seven hours.
The run finished, the hashers regroup at the starting point and several car boots are opened to reveal chilled containers filled with ice-cold beers for the adults and soft drinks for the children. A financial contribution is collected from every participant, except for me: as a hash virgin, the brandy and beers are my welcome to the community.
As the drinks are handed out, the Grand Master summons us all into another circle. After a semi-serious critical appraisal of the quality of today’s trail, a number of hash etiquette violations are punished with an enforced slug of brandy in the middle of the circle. Next to me, Axel the German engineer has made the contents of another half litre bottle of local lager vanish, his third in the space of fifteen minutes. From the smile on his face and the spectacular belch that shatters the peace, I suspect that he favours the socialising over the running.
All of a sudden, all eyes are on me as the Grand Master announces the induction of a virgin into the hash community. With a sheepish smile and feigning horror at being handed a full mug of beer, I take my place in the centre of the circle as my new brethren sing me into their bosom. As the last verse begins, I quickly despatch the contents of the mug and turn it upside down on top of my head before the song is finished. I have made it: I am a hasher.
Mine is not the closing ceremony, however. Today is a special day for the Yerevan hash community and for one person in particular. Nathan, an American student with Armenian roots and a recent hash regular has earned the right to be given a hash name. As he steps into the circle, a bag of flour is passed around from which everyone grabs two handfuls. The Grand Master then blows his whistle to announce the beginning of the naming ceremony and lucky Nathan gets pelted with enough flour to turn him into a human baguette.
As the sun starts to set over the hills of Yerevan, the parents amongst our group take their children home whilst we head back into town, to Hash HQ where more beers and chicken kebabs await. In accordance with my own initiation, I am now being addressed by my virgin name of NoNameMarc, but I get the feeling that this may change in the very near future…
Real sportsmen drink brandy before a race...
Snapshot of the scenic route
The finishing line is in sight
Etiquette violations are dealt with very harshly
NoNameNathan becomes Spank Me Daddy
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