The Saipan Hash House Harriers

Warning: if you are offended by the general use of foul language, stop reading now. My apologies to those loyal fans of the Saipan 2008 blog. It’s been a couple of weeks since I last contributed, but I fell into a daily routine consisting of breakfast, work, lunch out, work again, an evening swim, takeout Thai food, a cocktail or two, then bed. Not that I didn’t enjoy the daily grind, it just didn’t provide me with anything to write home about. That was… until the hash.


A coworker from upstate New York, who I can only describe as the coolest nerd I know, kept pestering me about joining him for a Saturday afternoon ritual he religiously attends called the hash. He has lost about 40 pounds since coming to Saipan, and he attributes much of it to this commitment. You may be asking yourself, as was I, what the hell is the hash?

The Saipan Hash House Harriers are a group of people, I’m not sure the how many in number, who show up at 4:30 every Saturday afternoon for a romp through the jungle for three to five miles, and then participate in an hour or two of good clean debauchery afterward. In case you’re wondering, there isn’t actually any hash smoking, it’s just the name of the group. Here’s how it generally works: each week one member is designated “the hare,” as in the rabbit. That member spends time throughout the week setting a trail for the Saturday hash. Much of it goes through the jungle, some along the beach, some along mountain ridges, and usually a little bit on the road when necessary. After arriving at “the box” a.k.a. the staring point (which changes location each week), the hare gets a five-minute head start. He or she carries a bag of flour and randomly drops some to mark where he or she has run. Everyone else then follows that trail, running, in theory, and then ends up at the designated place where religion occurs (more on religion later).

That being said, my hash experience was actually at night. Each quarter there is a full-moon hash, which starts at sunset. We caravanned up a mountain to an isolated cemetery with a westward view of the ocean. As soon as the sun went down the hare, a 28 year-old female schoolteacher, took off into the jungle. Five minutes later the rest of the group was off like a pack of hounds following close behind. I followed my colleague, who is another clerk at the court, and we soon hit the thick jungle as well. I couldn’t help but feel as though I was Sawyer from the television show “Lost.” He’s a Georgia boy who is stuck on an isolated island in the middle of the Pacific and constantly runs through the rainforest looking for someone or being chased by something.

The run was actually very nice. We jogged when we could and slowed to a walk when trail conditions and fading light warranted. As I mentioned, we started up on a cliff, and three and a half miles later we were down at the ocean. There was a campfire, 10 or so bags of chips and cookies, and a truck bed full of icy beer. My friend and I finished close to last, but still within 90 minutes. The hashers ranged in age from mid-twenties to a woman in her sixties. There were an equal number of men and women and most were from the mainland with a couple Russians scattered about. The hashers who have been around for a while have hash names, nicknames that derived from incidents on their hashing adventures. My friend’s hash name is Goat Bitch. Once while stopping to tie his shoe on the trail, a couple of goats wandered up and apparently one tried to get fresh with him. The hare’s name was simply “Ass.” Again, this is a 28 year-old female schoolteacher. I’m not sure how she got her name, but being the hare for the week, there were quite a few “ass hare” jokes. Among others were Yukon Pete, Blowjob, PeeWee, and Dog Leg. My name was FNG, but just for this particular run. It took me a few minutes, but I finally figured out that it stood for F**kin New Guy. Ironically, there were also 3 other Aggies present – myself, an engineer on a merchant marine ship, a radiologist, and a tourist who was here visiting friends. Collectively we made up about 15 or 20 percent of the group.

The most memorable part was Religion: the after-run festivities. It’s a bonding session, wherein a bedpan full of beer is passed around the campfire, dirty jokes and stories are told, and traditional hash songs are sung. Obviously, I was not able to sing along, as I was the FNG, but it was humorous nonetheless.

I sincerely hope that this is not one of those “you had to be there” type stories. I had a blast while I was participating and hope I can do it once more before I leave. If you ever find yourself in Saipan and want to meet some friendly locals, most of whom are not true locals, I recommend hashing. Just remember to bring your earmuffs if you don’t want to hear a barrage of cursing, some of it inevitably in your direction!