Why I hate Running in Kyrgyzstan

I live in a city of approximately 60,000 people and I am the only one who runs for exercise. Other people run to catch the bus, or run when someone is throwing free plov out the back of a moving truck, but never for exercise. I am also the only natural blonde in a thirty-mile radius and this makes me an oddity; some might even go so far as to say 'a freak.' I love running, but I hate running in Kyrgyzstan and this is why: women lugging heavy sackfuls of potatoes to the bazaar will stop and stare, cars will honk, buses will pass and all the passengers will press their faces to the windows, just to watch me run. I have had snowballs thrown at me by otherwise peaceful side-of-the-road squatters. One time two drunk Kyrgyz men marched after me yelling "One, TWO. one, TWO!" in heavily accented English. I have had mens quat beside the track to watch me complete lap after lap as if a single person running was a spectator sport. One man showed me his penis. What are these people thinking, I wonder? Does their inner-dialogue sound similar to a sports-commentator? "And she's running, she's starting a little later today than yesterday. She seems to be favoring her right leg - could the old hip-flexor be acting up again? Oh, she's picking up speed . . . she passing us now . . ." Why do people look at me like such a freak? Maybe they should consider their not-so-hopeful average life-expectancy (~54) and think twice about throwing snowballs, yelling marches like a total post-communist, or flashing certain body parts. I'm just an innocent woman trying to protect my health. The diet here consists of potatoes, vodka (also made from a potatoe), and cigarettes (I'm not sure about this one, but could have some potatoe components) and, though my students always claim to have 'done their morning exercises,' they didn't and are only lying to please Stalin, who's dead anyway, so just who are they kidding? I should be more fair, running in Spain was also an adventure, though slightly different. People there never threw things (too lethargic from siesta? too much vino with lunch?), but they did make plenty of comments. Old men on park benches would watch as if you were some kind of free soft-core porn deposited on the streets for their viewing pleasure. "Hola rubia, que piernas!" followed by a hacking smokers cough was common. But at least in Spain there was the comfort of other runners. Usually they were secret runners, such as myself, completing their laps during the two hours siesta so as not to be seen by the normal people who were at home, drinking red wine and watch Corazon, Corazon. There are no secret runners in Kyrgyzstan, so I am resigned to my solitary, freakish runs. Just so long as people don't throw rocks. Snowballs I can handle, but rocks are just too much. I am haunted by the story of the volunteer who had a slab of concrete slammed against his head by a drunk local and later was found to have pieces of skull in his brain. Granted, small rocks are hardly slabs of concrete, but you know how these things escalate. For now I'll take my chances. I'm not kidding, though, one rock and I'm done.