Public displays of affection are frowned upon here but the rules are not straightforward so holding hands and kissing members of the same sex is absolutely fine. I am touched to see a young Arab man complete with thobe and ghuttra walking along holding hands with his heavily pregnant wife who is completely covered in black abbaya and veil. The sexes are so often completely segregated that this simple human act of affection is noticeable.
The vitamin deficiency here is certainly not dietary related. In spite of the lack of agriculture in this desert country, the supermarket shelves are well stocked. We choose simple food: fresh fruit, tasty small courgettes and cucumbers, delicious tomatoes and excellent fresh fish and meat (beef, veal, lamb and chicken). We never see any chickens so I don’t know where they come from and would rather not think about it too much. The Moroccan fishmonger in the supermarket greets me like an old friend and is happy to shell half a kilo of fresh prawns for me, which I turn into a delicious dish with red chillies, garlic, fresh ginger, limes and coconut milk. Dairy produce in the guise of yoghurt and laban, a sort of yoghurt milk, is good and the eggs are unbelievable tasty.
There is an interesting local cheese, which is very salty and shaped in a coil as if made from a skein of wool. We think it might be from camel milk and due to its shape, Lionel calls it camel bollock cheese (he doesn’t eat it), never mind the biological impossibility.
We are still surprised at the heat that greets us as we open the door to the outside. Leaving hotels and shops where the air-conditioning is set too high, the warm air is welcome and we love being able to eat supper outside under the stars. Weekends are a time to relax, work out in our personal gym, read and write. I play jazz on my saxophone and practise for our band sessions. To call it a band is probably stretching a point: there are five middle-aged men on guitars and drums and me on sax. Nevertheless we have a willing audience of small children who dance along to our scratch tunes while their nannies watch from the sidelines. The parents sensibly keep well away. Lionel enjoys cool showers, which is a problem since the water in the outside tank heats up and is never cold: we are considering installing a water cooler. Swimming pools in hotels have to be artificially cooled or it is like swimming in soup.
If all that sounds too impossibly boring, there are plenty of extra-curricular activities such as jazz in the big hotels, classical music concerts, restaurants, beach and other pursuits such as dune bashing which we still haven’t indulged in. Young Arab men are particularly keen on this dangerous pastime. They set off in their cars across the desert, often at night, up and down the dunes like switchbacks and sadly have been known to crash into each other at the summits since there are no designated roads. Rolling over is also common as they ascend the steep-sided dunes. We are happy to give it a miss.
At work, English is the common language but many people speak Arabic and other languages abound. We have interpreters in Thai, Urdu, Tamil, Hindi, Tagalog and many more. We find the workers from the East and from the Indian sub-continent to be uncomfortably subservient and our clinical colleagues find that difficult when dealing with multi-disciplinary teams. Although meetings with Arabs can become very heated there is also a reluctance to confront people directly and it is important not to lose face. Discussions at meetings tend to drift away from the agenda, but gradually return to the topic although decisions and action points are not always easy to pin down.
Then there is appalling mobile phone etiquette. No one switches off and people answer their phones openly in meetings, then drift in and out of the room. Mobile phone numbers are happily given to patients by their doctors and no one minds being phoned in the middle of a busy clinic.
Emails might be ignored but simply turning up at someone’s office is perfectly acceptable. There is an element of learned helplessness that I first noticed when I arrived: people come and see us with problems then expect us to find the solution. The notion of working on something together is quite alien to many of our staff. Numerous projects start, but finishing is not a strong suit.
Political correctness is just not part of the lexicon and wouldn’t be understood as a concept. Asking a woman about her children, pregnancy plans and childcare arrangements is simply expected as part of the interview process for a new job. It fascinates me that many of our British colleagues fall into local ways almost too easily, but not in a good way. I have noticed - as have several of my female colleagues - that there is an element of misogyny amongst the British males. It is almost as if they think they don’t have to worry about that any more, which is very disappointing. It’s also a contrast to the Arabs who do seem to respect us for the job that we are doing.
But there is life outside the hospital too. Shopping, like many activities, is done after dark. The large shopping malls, of which there are many, are open during the day but the souqs only come to life in the evenings.
Souqs at first glance appear to be chaotic places, but it swiftly becomes apparent that there is an order, which is a group of shops all selling similar wares. We noticed this first in Dubai years ago when we visited the gold souq, which is opulent in the extreme.
Wandering along the less salubrious old souq here, not far from the harbour with its former pearl-diving dhows, we find the fabric souqs, the antique artefacts souq (especially for the foreigners) and hidden in narrow alleyways, useful souqs like the nuts and bolts souq, hardware souq and less useful, caged birds souq. These birds are songbirds or parrots and many of them sport such exotic plumage in such vivid fluorescent colours that I wonder if their feathers are dyed.
However, best not to dwell on such things especially when a toothless old Arab turns to me proffering a large green lizard for sale. I politely decline and hurry on past. Eventually I find the fabric souq that is my destination. This is a maze of shops within a covered area, not unlike a European market. The fabrics are sumptuous silks in rich jewel-like colours, fine cottons, sari fabrics, good quality linens in plain colours, and there is so much choice it is difficult to know where to start. There is a very high bling factor, so it is difficult to find something without gold or silver trim, but with perseverance it can be done.
Bargaining is expected and even while I am browsing, the vendor will be negotiating the price. I buy some silk in emerald green with fuchsia pink spots for a jacket plus a swathe of excellent quality boucle cotton for a Chanel type suit, with a plan to have such a suit made at the tailor, having given him a suit to copy.
Having finally made my purchase I then go along to the tailor with my knowledgeable friend, Moira, cousin of a friend from home, who has been teaching out there for years and who makes the introductions. The tailor’s place is in a scruffy road and he is surrounded by other tailors, many of whom seem to specialise in thobes, which is presumably a limited skill since they all look the same. But doubtless there are numerous variations, even if they are all long and white. As we cross the threshold of our tailor’s front door I am enchanted to find, in true sartorial fashion, a group of tailors sitting cross-legged on the floor working on garments, some of which are being intricately embroidered.
I imagine this is a scene that has remained largely unchanged since the Middle Ages.
The expert cutters, one of whom is recommended by Moira, stand behind long tables and I produce my Paris-purchased suit and ask him if he can copy it in my newly bought fabric. He appraises the fabric and gives his approval, then frowns while we discuss details such as the skirt length (just below mid-calf for work) and the not inconsiderable details on the jacket, then he makes a few scribbled sketches on a notepad and gives me a price, whereupon I leave a deposit in cash, and we fix a date for collection.
The day of reckoning is due and Moira and I eagerly meet at the tailors. She’s completely addicted to this process and has a wardrobe full of beautifully cut linen skirts and jackets. The tailor produces my suit, which is expertly tailored with all original details and it fits me perfectly. Everyone i
n the establishment is impressed including two Arab women who are waiting their turn in the tiny changing cubicle. We presume they are having something made to wear under their black abeyas but they give nothing away. The price is very reasonable and he gets my business for the silk jacket, which I collect the following week.
Specialist souqs - such as the chaotic furniture-making souq - are located in different areas of the city. Our friends Sohaib and Sadhia take us and they have the distinct advantage over us in that although they were both born and bred in Manchester, their parents were originally from Pakistan. We have never been there but assume that this is a microcosm of it. Sohaib and Sadhia are fluent in the appropriate languages and negotiate for wardrobes on our behalf.
The chaos begins when we arrive in the square around which all the souq’s warehouses and workshops are situated. We simply stop the cars at random and alight, whereupon there is much shouting and gesticulation so we get back in, drive another twenty yards or so and stop again. This must be acceptable since no objections ensue. When we try to leave, we are blocked in but this is not a major problem since there is a huge commotion, much shouting and running in and out of buildings and a driver is found who moves the offending vehicle. We have been delayed about two minutes. The system, chaotic as it appears, does seem to work.
The workshop owner proudly tells us that his wardrobes are made of “the finest MDF wood” skilfully painted in two colours to resemble mahogany. We order three in different sizes and all is agreed, while the two wives are made to sit on rickety three-legged stools produced for our benefit. We both mutter that writing something down might be a good idea (but to no avail) and sip our hot, milky, sweet tea. It is revolting but has to be drunk out of politeness.
Again, a price is agreed, deposits in cash are paid and a week later a battered pick-up truck draws up at the house with a pile of filthy mattresses on a trailer.
“We have your wardrobes,” announces the driver proudly. I view the scene with dismay until I realise that the mattresses are protecting the panels of the wardrobes, which are carefully unloaded and taken upstairs on the heads of the workmen.
We have four possible bedrooms upstairs and they clearly think I am eccentric by wanting all the wardrobes constructed in one room. This is all part of our cunning plan to turn a six-bedroomed house into a one-bedroomed one. So five bedrooms become one dressing room, two studies (one each), a gym and a television room leaving us with one spacious minimalist bedroom. The wardrobes are neither solid nor beautiful but they are spacious and functional, make a perfect dressing room, and within forty minutes, the job is done.
Although we are enjoying decorating our spacious house with a mixture of western minimalism and the occasional Arab artefact (the effect is eclectic but seems to work), the paved courtyard enclosed by twelve-foot-high walls is less appealing. It does have marble steps up to the front door and a shady terrace at the back that will accommodate a breakfast table. There is a strip of sandy dirt below a north-east facing wall and although I still have visions of tumbling bougainvillea growing along this wall, that prospect now seems unlikely. Nevertheless we make an attempt at a garden to break up the stark walls and lack of colour.
At the garden centre, Suman - a small wiry Nepalese who speaks good English (he used to be a tourist guide in the Himalayas) - volunteers to come to the house to advise on plants.
“When?” I ask.
“Now,” he says, whereupon he hops into our car and off we go.
I can’t quite believe that I might grow my own lemons but of course in this climate, provided there is water, this poses no problem. With Suman we draw up plans for the judicious placing of pots and planters and the next day an army of Nepalese gardeners appear with trees, shrubs, small plants and masses of compost, which they proceed to assemble into a courtyard garden.
Six weeks later the gardeners are back to trim the topiary shrubs next to the terrace and to fertilise the plants. The bougainvillea is not yet tumbling over the wall but it has produced long tendrils supporting deep pink, purple and creamy white leaves with tiny white flowers amidst them. Technically the colour of this plant comes from the new leaves and the flowers are the least impressive feature. We also have lollipop trees, which have a canopy of different shades of bougainvillea, all of which have been grafted onto a thick trunk.
These specimens, which are quite splendid, are imported from Valencia in Spain, as is the olive tree which we have sited in front of a garden wall light so in the evening the light is filtered through its green canopy. The effect is stunning and with the heady scent from the lemon blossom, the arid, stark courtyard is now transformed into a magical haven beyond the desert scrubland outside.
We are determined not to suffer from vitamin D deficiency, so we gently top up our tans for a couple of hours each weekend, and keep the osteomalacia (a softening of the bones caused by lack of vitamin D) at bay. The sunloungers and sun umbrella blend in with our plants and although there is no pool, we are content in our private space. Pools are difficult to maintain for much of the year, since they need to be artificially cooled or they reach the temperature of a hot bath - hardly refreshing.
Around the city are municipal gardens, beautifully maintained with long avenues of palm trees, frangipani and tropical hedges. Splashes of colour from petunias line the road and at the entrance to the hospital, where gardeners are a continual presence, although weeding is not an onerous task since few weeds grow in the unrelenting heat. As I drive into work in the morning, one particular gardener, who sports an exuberant turban and is dressed in baggy khaki trousers tucked into his wellingtons, always greets me with a cheery grin and wave.
Occasionally he thrusts a bunch of newly picked mint leaves into my hands with the instruction, “Make chai. Very good chai.”
Once, while sitting in the traffic, I observed tree-planting in progress. There were two men down a hole, a supervisor, two apparent under-supervisors, tree-handling people and several observers. In total I counted twelve men to plant one tree. This was not a large tree but a mere sapling and I reflected that it was the sort of tree that the average British Dad would pick up from the garden centre one Saturday afternoon, load onto the roof-rack, head home, dig a hole and have it planted in time for a self-satisfied beer before supper.
Similarly when the exact position of our olive tree was not quite right, it took three of them to move it, plus one giving orders. After they had left it still wasn’t correct, so Lionel just shifted it on his own with no trouble. It is not a case of strength; when our cooker was delivered - a large electric oven and hob all in one - the tiny Nepalese delivery man, who could have been no more than five feet tall, carried it in on his back, effortlessly, up the front door steps and into our kitchen.
Labour is cheap and there are always several people to do a job that at home we would tend to do ourselves. There is also a pecking order, so when Suman, the boss, was assessing one of our plants, he indicated one of his underlings should plunge his hand into the soil whereupon they both looked at the scooped up handful of dirt, scrutinised it, sniffed it, almost tasted it, before declaring it fine. The boss’s hands remained scrupulously clean.
The introduction of flora into the garden has brought an unexpected bonus of fauna. There are very few insects around, presumably because it is so hot and dry, but we see bee-like creatures feasting on our lemon blossom and doubtless facilitating cross-pollination with a neighbour’s tree. Yesterday there was a distressed damsel fly, or similar, flying round the kitchen but we managed to free it and watched as it made its way to the spindly plants surrounding our water butt.
To our amazement, we then realised that there were several of these creatures resting on the plants, cleverly disguised to look like twigs. Our zoological knowledge lets us down but it appears that we have created a haven for stick insects.
6. Pidgin English
There are advantages
to living near the Al Khebra driving school, the main one being that most delivery men seem to know it and therefore can, in theory, find our house. The disadvantages become apparent when they fail to follow the simple instructions from the driving school to our house and Lionel is asked to go and meet them at the school (it really isn’t far or difficult; we can see it from our upstairs windows).
Finding a white van outside a Middle Eastern driving school at changeover time is probably one of the most dangerous tasks on the planet. Given that the learner drivers are being deposited by their families at break-neck speed, it is also a difficult task, while the learners finishing their lessons are gingerly driving back and being collected by different families, who park in the usual random fashion. Most of them also seem to drive white vans.
Driving around the neighbourhood is also fraught with danger as the driving school offers tuition for bus drivers and lorry drivers. Accidents happen. We were waiting for our curtain makers to arrive, with me standing in the road, mobile phone glued to my ear as I tried to guide them in, unsuccessfully, when one of our neighbours came to help. Abandoning his family by their car, he took my phone and proceeded to give the same instructions in Urdu, while disappearing off along the road to the mosque with Lionel, as it appeared that was where the curtain makers were headed.
800 Days in Doha Page 5
