Santiago Hash House Harriers: Hash 141: Treasure Hunt Brewery Camping Hash

Gaaaaaah guys, last hash was pretty much perfect. Kegs of delicious beer, trails of treasure hunts for alcoholic prizes, singing songs in Spanish (póngale!), and campfire guitar strumming all made for a relaxed evening in the greenery surrounding Santiago. For those of you who missed out, here's what you missed:

We arrived a bit before 4pm hash start time to set up tents and eye each other's hasher dashery.

Stroke My Bono and Spank My Schnitzel know to wrap it up, every time.

Approximately fifteen tents were foisted upon the hospitality of Mickey Gin and his brewery of delicious Tubinger beer, nestled in the foothills of the Andes in Pirque.

Behold, the palatial tent of Virgin Marcia! For reals, impressive.

Once we'd set up camp, we circled to welcome the Virgins, called out our adorable hash names, and listened carefully and with great dignity and sobriety as Prune and Home Schooled cautioned us that this run would be more interactive than your normal pavement pound. Mickey Gin then led us in a rousing warm up of Father Abraham, and we readied to run.

Butts, butts, glorious butts

So, in this hasher's ~~humble~~ opinion, it's a rare hash in which the run outpaces the drunken shitshow of the circle that follows the run. But this run, Dear Reader, ooooo this run. THIS run, and its less-sexy-kinda-homely-stepchild walking counterpart, SUCCEEDED.

While some hashers choose to read the clue, Just Mark and Sir Turtle Head elect to dance the cueca around it for greater cosmic understanding. Equally valid options.

Por que, as Prune and Home Schooled had promised, the trail was a treasure hunt, and the treasures were alcoholic.


There once was a man, discontent Whose wanker was so long it bent He found it such trouble He kept it folded double And instead of coming, he went

Poems and other clues were spotted throughout the trail to help the hashers identify and locate precious, precious beer.

I've only ever been in love with a beer bottle and a mirror.

We climbed trees, and then:

WE NEVER SAY NEVER

we found beer!

Well, Stain Pants found two cans of beer under a rock, but they immediately exploded! So he shared the love, generous lover that he is.

Splooging all the glory

Runners remained in high spirits,

Hey guys! Guys! Look! We're TWINS!

because they walked! Later every single runner would be called into the circle for punishment. Each and every one of them chose to traipse through the stones rather than risk a rolled ankle and INFINITE GLORY from running a running trail in its entirety.

And then I said, "Rectum? damn near killed 'em!"

The walkers split into two groups in order to look for a two liter bottle that covered beer, or some other thing, hidden in a cryptic and mysterious way. The ones who turned left eventually returned early, discouraged and a little dirty from picking up every bit of trash for a kilometer, hoping beer would be secreted behind it.

The second, more industrious and slightly cleaner group, actually followed the trail correctly and without incident. They, too also made it back before the runners, and helped out with the onerous job of downing the first keg of beer and then piss pouring.

This is where the magic happens.

Back at the brewery, Mickey Gin led us on a delightful tour through paradise.

And then we circled up for pleasure laced with pain.

Sir Acting Semen acted as Grand Master in Sir Sump Pump's absence. Our virgins this hash were very international, hailing from all over Europe and South America. Is it just me, or do the virgins keep getting more attractive?

Spy Sleeping Beauty approves of Chilean beer and fabulous hats.

We sang songs, downed down-downs, kept our right hands pure and untouched by evil alcohol, and did circle things.

Octopussy maintains order. Last to Cum maintains his mouth-vomit.

No me wueveen, Chilenos: ¿WHERE'D YOU HIDE THE MANJAR?

Hares Prune and Home Schooled keep fluorescent fashion alive.

Muffler Sucker and French Polisher man the beer table.

All the runners, all the shame they have brought upon their families

Then, Dear Reader, then something beautiful happened. Drinking songs were sang in Spanish! Twice! It was gorgeous. True story.

Here are the songs again for appreciation and memorization purposes:

Ese farol no alumbra, no alumbra ese farol

Póngale parafina, que alumbrará mejor

¡Y!; Póngale póngale, póngale, póngale, póngale…. (póngale = drink it down)

Tome tome compañero

Si mi compañero toma, nosotros le cantaremos

Aloeeeee, aloeeeee, aloeeeee, aloe

¡Y!; Póngale póngale, póngale, póngale, póngale….

Thanks, Bi-Weekly Deposits and Sir Turtle Head for the introductions!

Finally, the circle was declared fucked, and then folks broke into groups to cook food, distribute meat, drink more, smoke things, play soccer, sigh methodologically, touch each other intimately, whatever. NOT YOUR BUSINESS.

Action shot!

This is one of the few images that can finally put to rest the false claim that Just Mark and Octopussy are in fact the same person.

Night fell, and we circled a fire because that's what people do in the movies.

Pirque: home to the purplest fires ON EARTH.

We sang plaintively and with vigor, depending. Just Mario busted out some supreme Sublime classics, and then, as a finale, tossed a wine cup into the fire after finishing it, just liked you'd how expect a FUCKIN ROCK STAR to behave.