People who don't travel miss a lot of very interesting events. The computer was on the fritz and for the life of me I couldn't figure how to get it working correctly. As it happens the very nice hotel we were staying in offered a complimentary breakfast and while talking with another traveler over coffee, I happened to mention that I was having a problem. He gave me that name of an old hand who had been here in Panama for 20 years, and reportedly knew everyone, and was an interesting fellow I should meet anyway.

I gave "Shep" a call and he immediately was able to direct me to a service provider who would work it out for me and my computer, and before I had said another word he asked me, "Are you a sporting man?" I told him that of course I was a bit fat, and old to tell the truth, but still could tie on my skates and play hockey in my home in Eastern Canada. So I guess I'm a "sportsman", after all.

"Well what do you have in mind?" I asked the Dutchman on the phone.

"You will have to come on the "Hash Run" tonight. He chuckled.

"That sounds interesting, but what the heck is a Hash Run? Anything like at University?" I wondered.

"It's a drinking club with a running problem, we have a fox, that's me", he offered, "who lays the trail and then the pack of hounds, that's you guys, chase after, and when it's all over we are usually at some pub somewhere, where we will drink a bunch of beer and socialize, you'll have lots of fun. Have never heard of it?"

"Yes I vaguely remember reading about such a thing, something from the old British Army days maybe, how long will it last and I should ask if there is a short cut for the first timers? I mean how long do you run typically?" I asked cautiously.

"Ah don't worry you will see the shortcut and there are people of all levels of fitness so you will do okay." The old hand reassured me. "See you there at 5:30 we will be off at 6:00, and home again by 8:00."

That is how it began and I can tell you that it was an experience I will not soon forget. We arrived at the launch point early and there were only a couple of people pacing around stretching and warming up, who confirmed that this was the spot. Soon more cars began to turn into the parking lot, the pack of hounds was growing by the minute and soon was up to thirty of more runners of all ages, and levels of fitness. Some looked very fit and young, while thankfully there were some who looked about my age and condition. Believe it of not there were a couple even less fit than I, which gave me the feeling I would manage this first run in the tropics after all.

Finally the hour had arrived and the "pack" had swollen to about fifty people, with more than half a dozen new people joining for the first time, including me, at which point some of the rabbits in the crowd began running off for a few minutes this way and that looking for more "sign" of the fox. Finally we heard a call from over this way and the pack began to move out into the evening, on the trail of the elusive fox. We crossed the road that runs toward the Miraflores Locks, through the former US Military housing area known as Clayton Park, running roughly along the famous canal. The pack stretched out as it made it's way through a few residential neighborhoods, along the tracks of the famous Panama Railroad, and soon along a path into the tropical jungle.

It was exhilarating to be jogging through the rain forest, the canopy was some hundred feet above us and there were vines hanging down and flowers in wild massive clumps along the trail. Bird song was mixed with the hoots of the runners ahead. It was fun to be with all the others in this adventure. Another call came from up ahead in the pack and was repeated by the next runners as they came up to another "sign" of the fox. When I got to the sign there were a few old hands waiting, some had been "hashers" for more then twenty years, to make sure that us newcomers didn't fall for the false trail left by that elusive old fox. Sure enough there was an arrow drawn on the ground in chalk pointing down a path to the left, but the "rabbits" had discovered it was a dead end trail and to be ignored.

"Makes it more fun when the fox will play with the trail," one fellow huffed as we went by the mark. Soon the trail took a turn back towards the road and a bridge over a creek. The pack slowed as we inched our way one by one under the bridge and along the top of a great pipe that ran along the creek, and up the other side, out of the creek bed. There were experienced hashers waiting at each critical point to offer a hand to steady the hashers as they traversed the slippery grade over the pipe or up the steep embankment of the creek. It was terrific fun to be in the chase, part of the pack. Goodness knows I wouldn't be the one the catch the fox, but I had a good sweat going if that counts for anything.

We had gone about 4 km out when I saw that part of the pack was heading off to the right and back down the road towards the start point while the serious runners were headed higher up the hill to the left. I was glad at the chance to start back towards home. A couple of us made our way along the road back towards the jump off point, careful not to be hit by the cars zooming along this winding back country road. It was a fun run, but a serious one, and we were well winded and soaked with preservation when we finally lumbered into the crowded parking area where we had all started. There was a fellow already waiting when we got there. He looked to be about 55 or 60 years old and at least 50 lbs from his fighting trim. Didier laughed as we rolled into the rest area.

"I guess I'm the winner this time, I've been here for ten minutes!" he chuckled. "Of course I had the good sense to turn back some fifteen minutes ago." He laughed roundly. It turns out that Didier was a hasher from way back and brought stories of hash runs in Turkey where he had recently lived.

"In Turkey it is a walking club as much as a running club." He explained, "We would walk along and look at the birds and talk and smoke cigarettes, men and women together often, but this club is very serious. There are actually runners here!" He seemed torn between being shocked and impressed. He went on to tell us that he was a retired KLM pilot who had been born in Congo some 58 years ago, and lived there until he was in his late twenties. Completely impervious to anyone else, he started another cigarette and began to tell us more interesting stories, of his life of travel and adventure, he was careful about where he blew his smoke, but certain that he would enjoy it, and he did.

Soon there were more people coming down the short cut trail and some others coming from the long way back or perhaps it was another short cut. At any rate the call was soon going up to find the beer and get at the real reason for this adventure, the drinking of a cool one after sweltering exercise. The thought was enough to make you salivate, and before long the real runners came in a fast pack around the corner and the truck was unlocked and the coolers unloaded on the ground and bottles of cold "Balboa" were passed around. There was "Shep"; a very lean, gray haired, Dutchman if there ever was one. I had met the fox, but more to the point I now had a number of new friends all of whom made a point of coming over to me to confirm the welcome they had extended at the start.

A number of the organizer fellows, gathered the new comers into a circle and called the pack into a group. Each of the newcomers was given a bottle of beer anew, and the crowd began to sign the traditional song of the hashers worldwide. On the signal, midway through the song, the newcomers were ordered to pour the beer down their throats in one draught, while the pack cheered them on, and poured cool water over their heads. Ah, the advantage of a Canadian background, I won the race after all; finishing my beer before any other.

"You're a hasher now for sure." Shep asserted. "A member of the worldwide fellowship of the Hash!"

Didier, confirmed for me that indeed the Hash Run originated with the British Army in Kuala Lumpur, sometime in the 1800's. Apparently the soldiers were making too much of the time allotted for drinking at the local mess hall, so a young officer offered a solution. A game of fox and hounds, where a different person would be the fox each successive time and the pack of hounds would pursue him over a course of his making. The end of the "hunt" would be back at the pub or mess hall where the drinks would at least be well earned after a vigorous run. It spread with the British army around the world, and in Panama at least was introduced to the area by the US Army types who reportedly brought the "vigor" to the local club.

Jim Sellars,
Moncton's freelance correspondent in Panama