In a city with few drawcards [bar whimsical foreigners trying to make a buck by teaching English] Hohhot's proximity to the famous, guidebook-proofed Mongolian Grasslands is, quite possibly, its single saving grace.
And nobody lets you forget it.
Ah, the grasslands, they say. Very beautiful. Very green. Lots of green. Lots of trees. Mountains. Horses.
Not like Hohhot, they add. Hohhot; very dry. No green. You must go to grasslands.
Now, a hundred and forty kuai down, I can say I've seen the sodding grasslands. I've also experienced Chinese tourism at its "organised fun" best.
Eight am. Arrive at pickup point ten minutes late. Wait with bored-looking driver. Fellow tourists fail to show. We leave.
Ninety minutes later, scenery drifts from patchwork farmland and various mud-brick villages to open space. Wide open space. Acres of it, stretching over plains and hills and into the distance. Occasionally dotted with a sheep or goat.
And vague brushstrokes of green that could pass for blades of grass.
At this point, tour guide [bored 20-something girl in sneakers and sequinned Micky Mouse t-shirt] eventually swivels around in her seat to toss us the magic word: grasslands.
Right.
Arrive at what appears to be centre of Organised Fun. Van deposits us between tethered horses, motorbikes and rows upon rows of 'traditional' Mongolian yurts. Yurts turn out to be motel rooms [for the serious tourist], complete with key, starched linen and TV.
So it begins.
Turns out our deliciously cheap fee for the Exclusive Grasslands One Day Tour only covers half the fun: getting there. Dumped in the middle of the desert, we are now expected to either get on a gleaming quad bike [200 kuai per rider] or the back of a mangy horse [240-500 kuai per flea-bitten rump].
Or, kick around in the dust.
Deliberations. We choose the bikes. I get a battered two-wheeler and its beer-bellied, cowboy-hatted owner.
Now permitted to undertake our First Real Experience of Traditional Mongolian Life, we are driven to a lonely yurt made of white tarpaulin slapbang in the middle of... well, grasslands. Yurt is conveniently equipped with tables, chairs and sour-faced yurt-dweller-cum-waitress. We are fed traditional Mongolian fare of biscuits and milk sweets [from store-bought plastic packets] and weak tea [poured from thermos].
Back to Yurt City and lunch. Large dining hall peppered with listless Real Mongolians dressed in Real Traditional Costumes [over their jeans and Converse sneakers]. And snap-happy tourists. Tour pamphlet has promised meal of traditional "hand-picked lamb"; assume this to be the platter of grey gristle and bone delivered alongside dishes of vegetables [glistening with monosodium glutamate]. Dining experience is accompanied by soothing traditional music [played on Yamaha keyboard]. The vegetarian eats the celery.
Showtime. Costumed men gather in centre of circus ring for curious wrestling match in which objective seems to be none other than to pull one's opponent to the ground. Crowd cheers politely.
More costumed men. Horses. Men gallop on horses and attempt to pick up something [dunno what] from the ground. Crowd cheers politely.
Show over. Back to bus.
Not, however, end of Organised Fun.
Arrive back in [beloved] Hohhot. Sleepy tourists deposited at doors of ... factory.
March with other tourists past Live Examples of Authentic Workmanship: scores of downtrodden workers hunched over desks sewing/hammering/painting leather canteens, trinkets and wall hangings.
March on. Factory becomes showroom. Endless maze of cured leather canteens/trinkets/wall hangings/handbags interspersed with jade bracelets, carved knives, stuffed animals, rugs, sheepskin slippers.
Piles of packaged dried beef. Packaged dried milk. Packaged dried lizard.
Some twenty minutes later, waiguorens exit factory. Empty-handed. Find van. Wait.
And wait.
Last of fellow tourists emerge a full hour later, happily shopped out and happily laden with bags of dead animal products.
Well. The Grasslands.
Tick.
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