I ran hash in Balikpapan in 1981-82 with my family and friends. My mother's friend was the organizer of the
Balikpapan Family Hash club and my mother was an assistant organizer.
I learned the hard way that losing the trail can lead to even greater loss. During a run through some jungle in the vicinity of the oil refineries a fatal turn took a few of us hashers through a patch of black tar-like sludge, an unholy and probably toxic gunk that proved impossible to remove from our sneakers. In the photo (that's me on the step above my little brother) and the zoomed-in clip, the black gunk is visible on the soles of my favorite blue Lottos which are placed on our doorstep in the foolish hope that the gunk would be easier to remove once it dried out — it never did. I bought those shoes in Singapore just a few months earlier. I would've been justified in crying, but hashers don't cry, they simply go on-on.
The question arises: Are hash runs organized around drinking, or is drinking organized around hash runs? I recall a couple of runs starting and ending at the renowned private watering hole Batakan Club, a convenient choice that meant nobody had to cart coolers of beer (and soda) into the jungle. Although I was merely 8 years old when I started hashing I honed my essential hash skills to where I could chug a post-run bottle of Fanta like even the thirstiest of the Aussie adults chugged beer. I still remember the ceremonial down-down song:
Here's to [hash name of hasher],
He's true blue,
He's a Hasher through and through,
He's a piss pot so they say,
Tried to go to heaven,
But he went the other way,
Drink it down, down, down...
Except our hash club, being family friendly, replaced the words "piss pot" with "Harrier," if my memory is correct. Fortunately my brother, my friends, and I weren't corrupted by the excessively ribald song repertoire of the adult hash clubs.
Running hash was a great experience. Everyone should give it a try.
Some of them you may not wish to see! 
