Kabul -- We ran along a route that took us past the poppy palaces built with drug money, and down a side street where a young carpenter tapped together wooden door frames. We ran along the trash strewn course of the weak-flowing Kabul River,

We made our way down a slimy tributary that offered whiffs of sewage.

We sprinted past dogs, cats, sheep, goats and an irate donkey.

Steve Morgan, of Boston, Ma., runs along the Kabul River

Somewhere in the middle of the course, there was a stop for beer. Then, at the end of the course, there was more beer, along with plenty of off-color humor and off-key ditties.

This was the 341st run of the Kabul Hash House Harriers. It attracted more than two dozen expats, most of whom opted for a slow-paced walk. Though Kabul may be a somewhat out of-the-way venue, the rituals would be familiar to hashers all over the world, including the Puget Sound area.

Hashing is a mix of running, route finding and beer drinking fellowship that traces it roots back to 1938 in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia when a bunch of bored Brits started a running club. Rather than just jog around the tropical city, they designated one guy as the hare. He would head off early and mark his trail. All the hounds would follow in pursuit. There was always plenty of beer on hand.

Hashing faded away during World War II but has made a big comeback. Today, there are thousands of these clubs all over the world. The Kabul Hash House Harriers started up in 2004. The clubs hosts weekly runs that explore different parts of the city and sometimes climb up into the hills.

I arrived just in time to make the start. I tried to do a quick, rather public courtyard change from my long pants into gym shorts. But by the time I had stripped down to my red boxers, I heard a bunch of hashers yelling at me. In Afghanistan, it's rude to go out in public with your legs showing, and these guys weren't about to be embarrassed by my ignorance.

Most of the people we passed on the run appeared somewhat bemused by the sight of these weird Westerners. Children laughed and a few jogged alongside for a short distance. One lady tending sheep along the river shooed us away. One young man, whom we invited to join us, said he was too stoned.

I liked the run.

After spending so much time in Kabul in the back seat of a car or in my guest house, it felt liberating to lope through the city. I hope in some small way, that by not succumbing to the fear and the blast walls, we offered a visible sign of faith in the future of this place.

A sad update.

Anton of Afghanistan has passed away. He is the German shephard who retired to my guest house here in Kabul after a career helping detect bombs. I wrote about him in an earlier post as a gentle, friendly presence. He was much loved.

Anton took sick quite suddenly and appeared to have been poisoned. It is unclear just how that might have happened. He was buried in the garden here, along with his favorite white plastic toy.

This guest house is still a friendly place but the mood here isn't quite the same since Anton died.