Hashers: A Running Club with a Drinking Problem

With the foot mended, I can walk, but not run. The area is still tender, so instead I subject myself to de Luna’s physical therapy: strolls to the fridge, and beer walks to the store. Still, my heart remains unfit from sitting on the couch and surfing the only three channels on Zambian TV. To regain a modicum of cardiohealth, I’ve been thinking of the Hash hoping that thoughts of running would, by physiological osmosis, help my heart regain efficiencies of fitness past.

What is the Hash? Well, it was something I used to do before I got injured, and it’s something I hope to do in a few weeks when I can run again.

It was created by a couple of Brits who where stationed in Singapore after WWII and were bored out of their mind since the Japs had already violated all the women on the island and there’s no sense in screwing a country over twice (unless you’re Iraq). They created the Hash because they needed to stay fit, wanted and element of adventure (hence the coded/marked trails), and fun (aka beer). Anyways, leave it to the a fallen Empire to create a form of exercise that rewards all with beer at the end. God save the queen.



Thus the Hash was created and has spread to every country that Brits are stationed. The runs take on their own character from country to country. For example, in Chicago you have a more “urban” Hash while in Lusaka, you run it in the bush were a trail is laid out by a “Hare” prior to the run with codes that direct Hashers. The principle is the same whether you are in the city, jungle, or savannah. The Hashers (runners or walkers) have to find the code markings for it leads to the beer at the end (On! On! Is yelled and echoed by all when the trail is found). On the trail there are shortcuts that the walkers can take so they can get to the beer about the same time as the runners. Total distance covered ranges from 4 to 8 miles depending on how aggressive a Hasher is in searching for the trail. A lot of chaos, shouting, cuts, and sweat ensue –but BEER always follows.

Yes, BEER.



That’s the secret to the Hash –especially this one hosted by the Lusaka Hash House Harriers. At the end of the run there is the beer truck, the Hasher’s proverbial fountain of youth, replacing all electrolytes lost to the bush, and the more one drinks the better those around him look.

But it’s also more than a run. So much more.

There are people from all vocations present and varied social class from the unemployed to the president of a bank and diplomats to corrupt policemen. There are the old ladies who walk the Hash and their young daughters who sprint up the hills hoping to attract attention of the shriveled male libido checking out their sweaty black ass.


The Hashshit (T-shirt that has not been washed for 12 years and is rubbed in cow dung) is the highest honor a Hasher can receive. It is awarded to a Hasher during the ceremony conducted by the RA around the Hash Circle.

It’s an opportunity for old white men to feel young again because pretty Zambian girls run looking for a sugar daddy. It’s about making connections with an immigration officer so I can get my VISA extended without hassle. It’s about old men acting like young boys as they conduct a ceremony where they make the unlucky few chug their beer for stretching after the run or wearing feminine colors, and women sit on a block of ice for talking too loud. It’s about silly jokes that are obscene and degrading, rituals that are pointless and mock-religious, and a few hours on a Saturday that everyone is an asshole and everyone loves you for it.

Finally, it’s an opportunity to do something good for your body (exercise) and then totally negate the wholesome physical act for something pleasurable. It’s a microcosm of life in a three-hour ordeal: we all work hard so we can play…eventually.

On! On!