we are not amused.

Despite my lifelong ambition to avoid creating a spectacle of myself, it seems my morning stomp around the local city park has become something of a cheap thrill for the people of Hohhot.

Having previously dragged my blonde, pale-skinned ass around India, I am fairly accustomed to drawing blatant stares from genuinely curious locals.

Yet, nothing quite compares to the delighted laughter that rings out behind me as I jog, nonchalantly, between my fellow park-users every morning.

Most days it's tolerable, sometimes even amusing, trying to figure out whether it's my powerwalk-slash-jog, my three-quarter-length pants or just my freakishly round eyes that cause such a stir. It may well be that baring three inches of leg is a sure way to draw gasps and pointed fingers [skin is rarely flaunted here].

Some days, however, it really gets my back up.

Yesterday, having woken to no power, no water and a fermenting stink from blocked toilet, I was feeling less than humorous when a middle-aged female jogger took one look at my head-down, minding-my-own-business self and burst into peals of merry laughter. Right in front of me. As I passed, she continued chortling and guffawing and clutching at her friends and pointing and carrying on.
Snap. I wheeled around [mid-arm-swinging, butt-shaking stride] and bellowed "What?"

And added fuel to the fire. The poor woman [and about twenty other equally bemused locals] were fairly helpless with joy. It was pure theatre.

Needless to say, I motored on. Fuming.

Fortunately, I'm not usually such a grouch [yeah, right, I hear all the way from New Zealand].

Ironically, it was I who was one suppressing giggles the first time I ventured to this public place of leisure and exercise.
To Westerners, a 'park' is usually a grassy area equipped with swings and slides and dog-poop stations. Not so in China. Here, the park near my apartment is a huge complex laid out with transplanted trees [I saw a heap brought in a truck last week], temples, cobbled paths, filthy pond and a hodge-podge of dilapidated fairground rides.

But it's the people that bring the park to life. From dawn, the place is alive -not with kiddies and yummy mummies pushing strollers - but with white-haired, bespectacled retirees. In one corner, crowds of them gather before giant tinny loudspeakers blasting Chinese pop music to practise what appears to be the standard hobby of ballroom dancing. Clad in boots, heels, sneakers and flats, they dance alone, in groups, or couples; men and women, women with women and men with men. All utterly expressionless and utterly devoted to the music and the movement.

Scattered around the rest of the park are oldies doing tai chi, oldies dancing with fans, and groups of oldies clapping or massaging their knees together. Younger ones, if around, walk or jog - forwards AND backwards. I've seen them pounding pavement in every possible kind of attire from sleek tracksuits and fur-lined jackets to the guy today wearing jeans and what appeared to be a lab coat.
There's men splitting the air with huge whips, men playing trumpets, women singing opera, choirs singing anything.

My favourites, though, are the ones who simply walk around and yell. Wrinkled little old women, casually sauntering by with a bag of veges under one arm, will suddenly and inexplicably shriek out some unintelligible syllable. The more practised ones will let loose with a long, mournful trill that lasts a good ten seconds or so.
On good days, someone will answer back with an equally impressive holler from across the pond.
Perhaps there's some deep and meaningful message in whatever my fellow park users are calling; perhaps some cathartic release from their heart/soul/lungs/gastronomic reflexes. I haven't figured it out yet. For now, I am content with being ignorant.

At least, however, I can suppress my giggles.