Another Hash run

I almost sprained my ankle running down a steep ravine full of trash with other Hashers yesterday. On the other side we climbed up into a slum world. I managed to hobble through the trash, the open swear, the flies, and the narrow alleys through the slums with little black kids cheering us, giving high five. Somewhere some one was picking through the garbage. The place was filthy, the smell was horrible, and the open swear had black stuff flowing where my running shoes got wet as I tried to jump across it. The scenery was more painful than my sore ankle. Then suddenly our trail took us through a soccer (football) stadium where a game was going on. The spectators were perhaps surprised to see a weird bunch, mostly a white group running through their territory. (We were told later that it was an unsafe area). Then we ran through a big, dirty flea market as the crowd loudly cheered in Portuguese (and we had no clue what they had uttered). Somewhere along the way we did our song and dance (“Father Abraham had seven sons…”), we bowed to our “Cuca” God (a beer bill board), and finally returning to the starting point where the “virgins” (1st time Hashers) were doused with beer. I am a veteran now. I lost count of how many Hash runs I have done now. Obviously, more people recognize my face now and so do I, although I still have difficulty remembering names. I think the sights, sounds, and smell of Luanda are beginning to grow on me. Have I been here too long?