800 Days in Doha
by Penelope Gordon
First published in 2018 by
Chaplin Books
5 Carlton Way
Gosport PO12 1LN
www.chaplinbooks.co.uk
Digital edition converted and distributed in 2018 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2018 Penelope Gordon
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder for which application should be addressed in the first instance to the publishers. No liability shall be attached to the author, the copyright holder or the publishers for loss or damage of any nature suffered as a result of the reliance on the reproduction of any of the contents of this publication or any errors or omissions in the contents.
Dedication
For Lionel. Thank you for sharing the adventures.
“I could tell you my adventures - beginning from this morning,” said Alice a little timidly; “but it’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.”
“Explain all that,” said the Mock Turtle.
“No, no! The adventures first,” said the Gryphon in an impatient tone; “explanations take such a dreadful time.”
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
Lewis Carroll, 1865
Introduction
“Why would anyone want to go and work in Qatar?” asked one of our friends.
“Because we’ve been headhunted,” I said.
“OK” said another, “but why you, Penny? What do you know about the Middle East?”
Of course I knew nothing, but I also knew that it was my husband Lionel who they’d really been after. Retiring Rear Admiral, head of the Naval Medical Service ... the options were out there and they had been keen to recruit him.
“Come and have lunch, Admiral,” said the Savile Row-suited headhunter. From the safety of the oak-panelled dining room in a London club, he had extolled the virtues of life in the small Arab state of Qatar. “You’ll love it. Good weather, your own pool, marble everywhere, very safe. No Arab Spring ’cos they don’t need it.”
Strong persuasion, but Lionel had remained unconvinced.
“Well, I’ll think about it and discuss it with Penny,” he’d said. “But you know she’s also a doctor, a senior player in her hospital.”
“No problem, have her send us her CV. They’ll find her a job too.”
Nothing to lose. I’d sent in my CV and we’d waited. In fact we had almost forgotten about it. We’d begun to talk about sailing the boat to distant lands and having a grown-up gap year or two.
Then the phone call had come.
“Lionel? They want Penny. Don’t worry - they will find something for you as well.”
A couple of visits to the Middle East and we were on: two job offers, both well paid, with a house included. After a summer sailing in home waters, we flew to Doha on 11 September 2012.
The boat was despatched to Turkish waters, so we could easily fly there and go sailing while on holiday, and our eldest son Jonathan and his wife, Anna, moved into our house in Hampshire while we headed off to this small Gulf state on a three-year contract.
Lionel had been there before as part of his military duties; indeed he had a wealth of experience of the region under the umbrella of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces, but this was very different. We were going to be employed by the government of Qatar and the rules had changed. It quickly became evident that today’s rules were opaque, inconsistent and difficult to follow. In spite of the skyscrapers, mobile phones and Land Cruisers speeding along four-lane highways through the desert, we soon felt we had gone back in time to the Middle Ages.
Settling into this new country with its wildly different culture from ours would not be easy and we realised that supporting each other and finding the humour in many situations would be vital. We knew people were literally put on a plane with no notice and we had no desire to end our employment so ignominiously.
This is the story of our time there. Did we cope? Yes - we did more than cope: we succeeded. It wasn’t easy, but then adventures never are.
1. Shwai shwai
Our plane starts its descent and I peer out. Blackness greets me beyond the window. And then scattered dots of light. Not cities, but what are they? Then it dawns on me: the bright spots I’m looking at are a representation of the huge wealth of this part of the world - oil fields. Lionel is the one to pick out the coastline, by more dots of light. We’re flying over the Arabian Gulf - already we’ve been warned not to call it the Persian Gulf because Iran is not admired in these parts. We’ve been advised it’s best not to upset Arab sensitivities, particularly when the Qatari government are now our paymasters. I begin once again to wonder why we have left our beautiful Hampshire farmhouse for the heat and dust of the desert.
And the answer? Easy - for the adventure! Who could resist being headhunted for a job with such a snappy title as Assistant Chief of Medical, Academic and Research Affairs? In truth, despite a series of interviews with Arabs and ex-pats, I have very little idea of exactly what the post entails. When it came to a job description, they have been irritatingly vague.
This is as much as I know. Hamad Medical Corporation (HMC) is the government-sponsored health organisation; it could be loosely described as the Qatari equivalent of the British National Health Service. Named after the Emir himself, whose vision it is to build the best academic health enterprise in the Middle East, HMC employs twenty-two thousand people over eight hospitals and is growing by the day. New hospitals are being built and staff are being recruited from all over the world, particularly from the Arab regions and South East Asia. Within this large workforce there are nearly two thousand physicians. I will have responsibility for their professional development. Medicine is a constantly evolving discipline and training doesn’t end with a degree. Learning continues throughout a doctor’s career and I am the one who has to make this happen in Qatar.
Lionel, on the other hand, is to be Chief Executive and Medical Director of the fabulous new high-profile Heart Hospital, with fifteen hundred staff. He knows the Middle East, but for me it will be a new experience. Will they respect me or will I be brushed aside as a mere woman? How will I cope in this alien, male-dominated environment? I feel like the new girl at school.
The first day after landing in Qatar is a round of photos, form filling, applications for driving licences, medical examination, blood tests and meeting people, all of whom seem to be called Mohamed, Abdulla, Fatima or Amira. It is totally bewildering. We are chaperoned by a well-spoken, very proper English girl, Caroline, who helps us navigate this alien environment. She is charming but unfortunately has developed the Arab habit of only telling us what she perceives we need to know. Hence we become even more frustrated, Lionel in particular (he is very used to being in charge) as we feel we are being herded about with no control of our destiny.
Things come to a head when we are sent off to set up bank accounts. Abdul Aziz, a delightful Arab banker dressed in immaculate traditional robes with a carefully trimmed beard and twinkly eyes, ushers us into his office of the Qatar National Bank where we have been advised to apply for private banking arrangements. In Caroline’s enthusiasm she has included another newly arrived ex-pat called Donald, in the same appointment and we all travel to the bank in a hospital car. Before we know it we are all in the office of the banker being asked about our
personal financial circumstances. This is uncomfortable in the extreme, but our British reticence to make a fuss is trumped by our British discomfort to discuss personal matters publicly. We rebel and firmly tell Abdul that we are not all one family and what’s more, we all want individual bank accounts. I certainly do not want a joint account: much as I trust my husband, I am used to and expect complete independence in financial matters. I subsequently discover this to be a wise decision.
We cannot be officially housed until all paperwork, most importantly, the Residence Permit, is complete, which means we are put up in one of the city’s five-star hotels. We expect this will be for a week or so.
The hotel is built along grand lines. Everything is marble or covered in gold, giving an air of extreme opulence. There is a large central concourse with a domed glass ceiling across which hangs an enormous chandelier, measuring about ten feet across and twenty high. Beyond the chandelier the building rises about two hundred and fifty feet high, with the twenty-three floors positioned around a central void and their rooms arranged around the edge.
Coming out of my room I can lean over the balcony rail and look down eighteen vertiginous floors to the chandelier and concourse below. A pianist plays Palm Court music and Arab men and women sit sipping tea, eating cakes or smoking. There are a few westerners but these are more likely to be found in the bar, which is hidden away and can only be entered on production of identification. The locals are never there (or at least, not in traditional dress).
Outside there are fountains, discreet arbours where shisha pipes are smoked and gardens suffused with the heady smell of frangipani from the trees that grow interspersed with bougainvillea.
The lighting is magical and it is truly a delight to sip a glass of wine while gazing at the calm waters of the Arabian Gulf. We even try the shisha pipe. Our choice is rose flavoured and the hubble bubble is brought with great ceremony. Lighted coals are placed on the top and the waiter draws on the pipe before handing it to the guest. The cool smoke tastes like a mix of pot pourri and compost heap and makes us feel slightly heady. We subsequently discover that it does contain tobacco, but no other drugs. Once is enough.
There are eight public hospitals in Qatar under the auspices of Hamad Medical Corporation. They are a mix of exuberant architecture, state-of-the-art equipment and old-fashioned institutions more redolent of our old Victorian hospitals. The new builds have large central atria with beautiful courtyards and fountains, while the old ones have long corridors with flaky wall paint and chipped tiles. Lionel is fortunate to manage the newest hospital where the construction was personally overseen by the former Minister for Health, while my office in corporate headquarters is based in the old Women’s Hospital. The new Women’s Hospital is being built but we have no idea when it will open. Although I’m based in the Women’s Hospital, my work will take me to the others on campus and to three hospitals situated in different parts of the country.
Lionel’s office sports an enormous highly polished desk trimmed with gold inlay, comfortable chairs and a table for conferences, all protected by an outer office where his secretary sits. Mine is small with rickety filing cabinets and a tiny coffee table that collapses if anyone perches on it. My secretary sits in a cubby-hole along the corridor. However, I am in the hub of the business and plenty of people pop in to see me as they pass by. This is crucial in an Arab society where relationships are so important if anything is to get done.
The working day is from 7am to 3pm and the rush-hour peak is around six-thirty. Ex-pats make a lot of fuss over driving in Qatar and some people simply don’t bother, but use drivers instead. In truth it is not too bad but a thick skin is needed to cope with the constant blasting of horns. There are two basic rules: the driver to the left will cross in front of you and the driver to the right will also cross in front of you, so in essence wherever you are on one of the fast-flowing roundabouts, you can expect to be cut up. There is no lane discipline but for anyone who has ever driven a car in America, this is no great surprise. It is actually quite fun in a fairground dodgems sort of way, though nevertheless exhausting.
I become completely lost on one occasion. There are no meaningful signs, the road is a dual carriageway with nowhere to stop and my map is utterly useless. I feel like bursting into tears but what is the point? There is no one to help. Pull yourself together, I tell myself. So I keep driving randomly until suddenly I spy a familiar landmark. Then one of the hospitals miraculously appears. I am saved. Such a relief and then a feeling of, “Yes I can cope. I can do this.” From then on, my innate curiosity mingled with determination becomes my foremost emotion.
I have my photograph taken so the hospital can send out a press release. It appears in the Arab press: the managing director is flanked by her two Qatari deputy chiefs. Her three western ones, including me, are shown in slightly smaller frames, no doubt denoting our status (same job, but not Qatari). One is an eminent Swedish professor who, among his many achievements, sat on the committee for allocation of Nobel prizes. He is amazingly self-effacing and seems genuinely interested in my prosaic career. We chat and get on well, but no sooner is the press release issued than the Swede gives up and returns home. I never really find out why. The other westerner is moved to the job that he had initially been promised, so I find myself as the only westerner - and the only female - working alongside two Arab men. How is this going to work? I plan to observe and try to keep quiet.
In this traditional society, women’s roles tend to be based around the home and family, yet there are notable exceptions such as our own managing director. She is a relatively young woman who is well educated and has achieved meteoric promotion. I have yet to meet her and am intrigued to see how our relationship might develop. Somewhat naively I suppose that, as the most senior woman in the organisation after her, I might develop a bond with her and share some common understanding of success within a man’s world. The reality turns out to be much less cosy.
I request a meeting with her. In my world this would be a courtesy and I expect to do the running rather than be summoned. Her British secretary responds with a request for an agenda. Fair enough I think, although it seems a bit excessive for a joining meeting. So I duly comply and am given a date. Which is cancelled. A new time is proposed and so it goes on - cancellations and postponements until it becomes clear that I am never going to meet this woman one-to-one.
In truth, I’m not alone. Visiting foreign dignitaries find the same problem. Meetings are cancelled and reinstated at short notice: it is all part of the Arab version of timeliness. It happens at board meetings too. No one turns up on time, then the ones who have arrived drift off and need summoning back. So it goes on that a meeting scheduled for an hour might take ninety minutes, of which only forty are fruitful discussion.
The Arabs love employing external advisors, so there are numerous management consultants from various countries around the world, especially the USA, Canada and the UK. In my first couple of weeks, there is a presentation given by a British-based company. I am invited to attend and assess them.
“Sit here, on the boss’s right hand,” advises one of the chiefs.
“Really?” I say, not wishing to be too pushy.
“Of course - you are the new girl. Sit there, next to her.”
So I do. The MD swans in, abaya flowing, and the presentation began. Questions ensue and I ask a pertinent one, or so I think. She turns to me. At last, I presume, she’s worked me out and we can move on. Wrong!
“And who are you?” is her response to my pithy interrogation. What abject embarrassment for me and intense irritation that no one had seen fit to make introductions properly at the beginning of the meeting. Luckily my response is met with a smile and an apology to cover her own embarrassment. Once she realises who I am she says, “I look forward to meeting you properly.”
It makes me reflect that in spite of the national press coverage, the ann
ouncements in the hospital, and the warm welcome there might be people who are less keen on a Western woman doctor and do not wish me to succeed.
I decide to ask some questions. Calling on the director of finance is not difficult as his office is next to mine (when I am finally given an office).
“You have some very good people working in this organisation,” I say, “so I don’t understand why you employ so many outside agencies.”
That strikes a nerve. “There are too many,” he responds. “They don’t understand us. They cost too much. They should go.”
So there are definite tensions. The finance director is one of the traditionalists who is less keen on outside intervention, although he was educated in the States. He is also highly moral and is dismayed at the number of western agencies trying to make money out of the Qatari wealth. He has a good point.
I realise that if I am to succeed then I must understand the Arab mentality and my plan of learning their ways and proceeding gently is a good one. Shwai shwai as they say in Arabic, slowly, slowly.
The first week in any new job is emotionally draining and this is no exception. I have spent the week at one formal meeting (to which the secretariat irritatingly forgot to invite me, so I had to make a small fuss) and lots of individual meetings with key members of staff. I have gone to meet them on their own territory, which seems to be appreciated, though I wonder how my exuberant personality will be perceived in this collective culture where individualism is less highly respected than in the West.
The first challenge is whether to shake hands. Some Qatari men refuse to shake hands with a woman, but the more culturally aware of these will signify by putting his right hand to his chest and bowing. I quickly learn not to extend my hand until theirs is proffered. Conversation is initially very general with much talk about family, visits to England, and medicine in general as a profession: I have been warned that I might need several meetings before getting onto the business in hand.
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