Lost on the hash

The running hash usually has three different routes. One is for runners and is the furthest, the middle one is for hashers, who are people like me, who run part of it, but generally walk up the hills and the slowest group is for walkers. A couple of weeks ago the hash run was leaving from a bar in an area of town we often frequent on a Friday night for meals and drinks. This all seemed well and good, as they are often in far-flung and unknown areas of town. So at last we were in an area in which we were familiar. I have been gradually been building up my stamina and am now able to run along the whole of the hash route. I prefer to stick to this group, as I reason that it is better to be at the front of a slower group than at the back of the faster group. The only exception to this rule is that it is not wise to be in the first ten people in the hash group, as if you reach certain points, you have to run to the back of the group and double back on yourself, or wait until the very last hasher passes, therefore forfeiting any advantage of running faster in the first place. Therefore, I usually aim to be about eleventh or twelfth in the group. All was going according to plan for the most part of the run. Then, after the final pit stop I made a fatal error. I accidentally followed the path for the running group. And did I run? For the most part of the run, I had absolutely no idea where I was. Then, we turned a corner and once again I was on familiar ground. I was happy to be on Acacia Road, the street with the Irish pub, the Latino Club and The Surgery. I jogged along fairly well, with people still in sight, then, at some point, I must have missed spotting the chalk marks on the ground that indicate that you should change direction. So I ran and I ran, like Forest Gump. Just as it was starting to go dark, I realized that I could see nobody in front of me. I turned to look behind and realized that I couldn’t see anybody there either. I kept going to the end of the road and noticed a couple of policemen. I asked them if they had seen anybody running past, as surely it would be impossible to miss a group of people, all dressed in the same t-shirts, running past. They said they hadn’t. I started to panic a little, but at least I was fairly familiar with the area and knew that we had to turn right. I ran like I had never run before, even though I was feeling more tired by the minute, the fact that the light was fading quickly and I was all alone drove me forwards. As there is virtually no dusk on the equator, ten minutes later it was pretty much pitch black. I started to run even faster. I was considering taking a boda boda back and giving in, but I refused. Then, I became aware of a glimmer of hope on the horizon. Emerging from the woods by the side of the golf course, was a herd of men dressed in bright yellow MTN (the local mobile phone network) T-shirts and shorts. By this point I was sprinting. I managed to catch up with them and the first person I saw was the man who was very loud and very drunk on the way back from the Fort Portal weekend away. It was, however, a friendly and familiar face. I explained what had happened to me and it turned out that I had missed the chalk marks to tell me to take a short cut across the golf course. I must have added at least another 3km to the run, which was already the longer running route. Clearly, I was devastated and made no bones about it when I eventually got back. When the hash master heard of my plight, it resulted in all the muzungus being dragged into the middle of the circle and all of the Ugandans being told to look after us! Not only that, but the hash was again organized appallingly. There was no water left by the time I made it back and the local feast of matoke (some kind of cooked plantain or banana – but leached of all flavour somewhere in the cooking process) and beans (or often nothing for the vegetarians among us) had not arrived. I was not disappointed to end the evening in the Turksih restaurant instead!