It turns out the Centennial Park Effect is universal. Or at least consistantly detectable internationally.
The second last time my two-up-boss (and therefore someone whose anecdotes I am duty bound to listen to) went to Thailand, he came back with this little gem that I actually enjoyed.
A bit of a fitness fiend, he found a jogging track in Bangkok that was the equivalent of Centennial Park.
It has a two and half kilometre return track complete with distance measurements every hundred metres. He went out for his morning jog before work, and was pleased to see lots of fit people out there, jogging along as well.
He was particularly pleased that the fabled Thai friendliness even extended to exercise.
On his way around the track he was regularly handed a drink and a sponge by a smiling local.
It wasn't until he had accidentally placed quite favourably in the local charity marathon that some smiling official told him he should be wearing a number, and therefore could not be awarded a place until he had attached the number to his shirt properly.
I enjoyed that little story when he told me the first time. He just got back from smiling Thailand again, and it appears that the park has worked its magic one more time.
He was jogging around and getting into his stride (competent long distance runner) when he came up behind a tightly huddled group in matching outfits. They were totally blocking the path, with no way to pass. Trailing them for a few minutes and getting annoyed, he eventually elbowed his way up and 'ran through' the crowd. (This is a polite phrase used by distance runners to make you believe that it is anything other than barging. Akin to shouting "Fore" the third time you drive into the group on the green on a par three.)
When he got to the head of the troop, he could see why they were shuffling rather than raising their rhythm. There was some dickhead with a bull horn, squeezing it made a quack noise in metronomic time, setting the lazy pace. He had heard the sound as he was approaching, but it had blended in with the wildlife ambiance of the park, so didn't think anything of it.
Second lap around, he caught them again and barged through, much less politely than the first time. They were just hogging the park and not making any allowances for people to pass. The normally taciturn boss had the shits.
The third time around, as he approached the slow moving crowd from behind, he decided to go through them like a Wallaby fullback at a four-year-old's birthday party. Just as he was about to drop the shoulder, the man with the duck bull-horn pulled over to the side of track.
The group immediately and obediently followed him, and the boss watched as they all bent down and started their post jog stretching routine, which involved searching around with their hands for their white canes.
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