The runners congregated at the pub of the Mad Irishman at more or less the appointed time, and flagged down several taxis to ferry the beer out to the circle near the glistening, newly almost constructed Almaty International Airport, where we were duly warned that the running and walking hashes had been set by none other than hares Pumpkin Eateri and Pornographeri, respectively. Your faithless scribe immediately knew he would be wanting the extra pair of dry socks he had not brought.

With Horny Hasheri otherwise occupied by something called "work" (who is he kidding?) and Jackmasteri at home nursing the tiniest of coughs with shotglass after shotglass of NyQuil and Tequila, Spankus Erectusi rose to the occasion to play the roles of both Grandmaster and religious adviseri. He immediately appeased the unruly mob by standing inside the circle (of which he was jealously protective) but not on ceremony (which hashers have a great love of, but little patience for) and ordered up a fractured note from the aforementioned hares.

The walkers then traipsed off in the general direction of what was later described to be a wonderful, bucolic stroll through the best natural landscape that Almaty has to offer. The runners scampered off in the opposite direction, driven there by the imported Beata Uhse cat o' nine tails imported (for personal use, not resale) by Pumpkin Eateri.

The first five minutes set the tone for the run, as the abbreviated pack of four dogs and one harei slogged through a few hundred yards of slick, greenish brown paste that bore a startlingly close resemblance to a material that is definitely NOT earth, before stopping at an early three way checkpoint. Given knowledge of a few facts, such as the inability of hashers to walk (or run) on water, and the sadism of our appointed trailsetter, the possible trails through the lake and onward to the road were eliminated, leaving us with a downward trek into a sewer pipe. Yours truly, the last of the dogs to make the kennel run, with the harei following close behind in an interesting role reversal, was duly warned to keep his gastrointestinal functions under tight control or suffer the consequences, to which I replied that any contribution I might be able to make to the surrounding atmosphere would be so trivial as to go unnoticed.

A less clever gang of runners might have thought that the harei (having set the trail while apparently under the influence of certain legal, but still intoxicating, chemicals) might have shot his trailsetting wad with the Trick At Toilet's End Trail, but we had more faith in Pumpkin Eateri's ingenuity than that, not to mention a strong belief in the creative powers of alcohol. The trail wound along a muddy canal, straight away from the road, with no fewer (although possibly more) than 8 water crossings, some accomplished through sheer leaps of faith, others by balancing-beam acts along wet water pipes. At least once (that I remember) we had to throw Make Me Comei to the opposite shore and hope the harei could catch her (apologies MMC).

The trail continued on through the swamp, where the runners encountered the following obstacles: waist-deep marshland, cows, farmers, barbed wire fences, bulls, dogs, rabid cats, and young conservatives. Did I mention I'm a congenital liar 25% of the time?

As night began to fall the runners saw a car on the horizon and praised God they had been safely returned to civilization (of sorts). The harei then broke the bad news that this was the halfway point in the run. The path back followed a far less interesting venue (namely, a paved road) back towards the waiting circle, where the walkers had already congregated.

Nearly an hour later, Pumpkin Eateri and Spankus Erectusi were forced to take out their Lada to look for stragglers. Then they got in the car and went out to the road to find Digital Dildoi and Make Me Comei huddled in the dark by the side of the road trying to tell the difference between birdshit and flour. (For the curious, taste testing is an effective method, but is not reccommended.) The wayward pair were lured shamelessly by Spankus into the back of the car and driven a grand total of about 200 meters to the circle, which now sported a nicely roaring bonfire. The first order of business (after ordering the hares into the fire) was to give DD and MMC down-downs for riding in a car during the run.

Due to the extreme cold, the list of violations was short (although distinguished) and when the fire was of no further use it was extinguished. Everyone then piled into taxis for the long trek back to the city and a combination On-Ini and farewell party at Anara for Ukrainian Bitchi and Drunken Dick Headi, whose besotted visage is soon to grace the New Jersey shore.