Better late than never, although there is a sob story about imprisonment and subsequent torture!!! Here is the snitch report from Sunday 3 March submitted by MNM. For those of you who have bad memories, or weren't there, this was the Hash set by MNM and Goranka in Maksimir Park. A mild spring day and a walk several miles long. There's nothing more I can say, read it for yourselves! Hot Pot

Hash 148 Snitch Report, submitted by MNM:

This, my dear friends, tells the story as I saw it . . . .

Two months ago we enjoyed a challenging hash on a delightful day. Unfortunately, however, the conduct of the hash led to the absurd accusation that I am a member of the Informburo and to subsequent imprisonment, from which I returned just two days ago. My captivity was arranged under some coercion: I was on a supposed tourist excursion to "a delightful and historic island near Rab," and let me tell you, I was more than a little surprised when the handcuffs, leg irons, and genital cuff were slapped on. Though my incarceration was tolerable, I do not recommend traveling to Goli Otok any time soon.

Thus . . . it has taken me some time to report on the aforementioned hash, though now I think I have gained the emotional strength to discuss it in detail. Was it easy? Was it conventional? Was it tolerant and socially acceptable? No, my dear friends: alas I must say NAY, NAY, NAY to all questions and pause a moment before my anger rises.

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Okay, much better! What was it then? Let me tell you, brothers and sisters, it was an ordeal of the most grievous kind: a trail scattered with mud, rocks and tacks; goats and leopards along the way -- even trail marks of the sort used by the Viet Cong. Nasty stuff.

But what was it then? First, the hare(s):

MNM. Now here's a peculiar fellow. About 134 cm tall, of stout build, unwieldy feet, apricot ears, flower-wilting breath, pathetic trail-marking procedures, a general disregard for authority, and terribly foul language.

Squirrelina [now known as French Letter]. My friends, this was the only light we saw that dismal day. A "Sunce" of unparalleled brightness, warmth and delight. Here is a woman of grace and beauty: precise in her markings; fleet and agile on the trail; tireless and gentle and kind. My comrades, I don't hesitate to tell you that on that Sunday afternoon we had not a long-legged, bipedal rabbit leading our way, but rather a "skuarel" of the highest caliber . . . and I can say with grave certainty, it is no coincidence that on this dreary, unforgiving route not one injury was had and not one soul was lost to the wild game that range Maksimir Park.

The Trail? Downright wicked . . . .

The day was Sunday, March the 3rd, but it felt like January of 1863. In addition to the smoke from the nearby wildfires, the cruel bura blew down upon us and on portions of the trail we were up to our nipples in snow. But we were not afraid.

The turnout that day was surprising, to say the least. In addition to the usual diehard crew, several new families unwittingly joined in and then, at the last moment, 16 carnies (having heard our pre-hash merriment from the stadium across the street) appeared out of the tree-line and brought to our gathering a mesmerizing addition of laughter, contortions and tumbling. All told there were 84 personalities present, a number which included a male "Fever Swan" abducted by Spiderman at the nearby Maksimir zoo, two sheep brought by Kingfisher, and a dozen or so children. It was a beautiful assortment: once the race began the pack stretched out over six kilometers, and we were highly impressed that Mr. Kingfisher ("for the first time eva'," according to him) let his sheep run on their own.

Now for the run:

A gaggle of geese displays more order and control. Of course, the start was good, but after a few hundred meters and three false trails the scene disintegrated into bedlam, belying the tranquility of the wildflower-blanketed forest floor. Within minutes, several cardinal Hash rules were broken: front runners bolting forward in gross attention seeking; no waiting at checkpoints in impatient arrogance; and young girls lagging behind talking about . . . about what? . . about boyfriends! At one point the run was so bad that Spiderman was discovered sitting idly on the ground as though a pot o' gold lay within his arm's reach . . . though there was no pot, only dead leaves and branches - yet a mischievous grin stretched across his drool-splattered face.

But he livened up, by god, and by trail's end, our Hibernian Covjek-pauk was neck and neck with Goodie Two Shoes and Girlie Pants: at once in the lead . . . then lagging behind . . . then in the lead . . . then lagging behind again . . . then edging forward just barely and leading by a nose as they crossed under the Swiss Chalet . . . before being overtaken on the downhill by his two comrades!! But the pack stayed close together and they sped on around the pond, arms flailing, breathing furiously, their hooves pounding the well-worn trail in unison like so many elderly camels!!! Three miles back the walkers shuffled on, whining - predictably, pathetically - about the llength of the trail . . . but at the lead, the drama was intensifying. . . .

As the great Mogila [Croatian Earth Mound] came into view, Spiderman made his move: Pulling an arrow out of his handmade Riverdance quiver, he reached forward and shoved the hickory shafted, flint arrowhead into the left buttock of the man in front of him, causing Goodie Two Shoes to collapse violently to the ground with Girlie Pants tripping and falling over him!! Clearly this was not the first time our Celtic friend had employed such a vicious technique, and as he ran on into the lead he squealed with delight, unaware that Bellybutton and Kingfisher were hot on his trail . . .

With a handful of clover she had picked up at a club the night before, Bellybutton dove forward like a rabid lemur, clutching Spiderman's throat with her left hand while stuffing his mouth full of grass ("trava") with her right. They tumbled down together in a whirl of mud and wheezing profanity while Kingfisher lept over them like a drunken buck in mating season . . . and when his delicate feet returned to terra firma, he lurched forward as though the music from Chariots of Fire was sounding from every Carillon in Zagreb. He sped forward like a whippet, and as he vomited across the finish line, he raised his arms in defiance and mocked his naďve comrades whom he had so easily defeated.

Alas, there was no crowd awaiting his sinister finish -- just a few creatures of the forest and two lonely and forlorn sheep which apparently only ran about twenty meters from the beginning of the course before becoming confused and returning to the starting line where their ambitious master now found them. Soon enough the rest of the front pack arrived, and the mood remained somber and somehow covered in shame -- as though we had all just finished a delightful meal of apples only to realize that we stood naked in the Garden. After waiting half an hour, AAA arrived and the down-down proceeded - albeit interrupted several times by arriving and departing ambulances.

From there the group sauntered over to the local gin palace, where the service was slow, the food was delightful, and where the mood softened back to the mirth of Eden. As the last drops of Ozjuško were slurped up and the last drops of Gulaš were sopped up, the light returned to our faces, each one of us appearing to gain a certain brightness - some even smiling - like revelers approaching a midnight bonfire after a long walk down a dark and dusty road.

Signed...MNM

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