I looked into her eyes and waited.
She continued: “Allah answered my prayer. I have learned a lot today so I thank you.”
Now I can smile and reply, “And thank you for being such an engaging participant.”
The workshops are well received, my team is very supportive and well organised, and the hotel does well, with excellent food and facilities.
My personal learning is greatly enhanced by a camel conversation with two Arab doctors who confirm my suspicions that camels are supercilious, stubborn creatures. They can survive for seven days in the desert without food or water but if they don’t like you, they won’t budge an inch. On the other hand, get it right and a camel will be loyal for life.
11. A boost in the booze ration
What a treat! An extra day’s leave because the Emir is handing over to the Heir Apparent. This is a momentous occasion and unusual in these parts where new leaders are often the result of a coup, so a peaceful, planned handover done with wisdom and rejoicing is a joy to behold. In true Arab fashion, however, no one knew about this national day of celebration until 6pm the evening before, when the phone lines started buzzing and the text messages flew.
The stress of cancelling out-patients, elective theatre lists, job interviews and so on the evening before has cancelled out the holiday before it even begins. We did wonder whether we should carry on as usual, since we are a group of hospitals, but the message is clear - we should be seen to be celebrating. Anyway, the patients understand and don’t turn up for their appointments. Lionel challenges the decision to cancel elective cardiac surgery on ethical grounds but the surgeons have no such compunction and lists are cancelled.
We watch proceedings on television and even though the commentary is in Arabic, it is pretty obvious that comparisons are being made between this Royal family and our own.
The new Emir and his father greet a long line of loyal subjects all paying their respects. They either shake hands, kiss the Emir on his shoulder or rub noses. We wonder how they know. What if you expect a nose rub but don’t get one? Would the Emir think you were being too familiar?
One of our colleagues, who received the phone call to attend the ceremony, explains that there is a protocol, which is explained as you stand in line. He proudly shows us pictures of himself, in ceremonial black robe over his thobe, standing next to the new Emir and Father Emir, as the outgoing Emir is now known. It is such a small country that everyone knows everyone and a paediatrician colleague explains that he has often been summoned by the Sheikha (first wife) to see one of their four offspring at a palace in the desert.
There are two wives and the papers describe wife number one as an arranged marriage and wife number two as a love match. How do they know, I wonder? Speculation in the hospital about the changes has been rife for weeks. There were rumours of our managing director becoming Minister for Health, bets were on who might replace her, talk was of who might fall if there was a change of regime. The colloquial term is being put on a plane, which in fact is entirely accurate as that is precisely what happens to people out of favour. We laugh and quietly ensure that our money is sent home regularly, particularly Lionel’s. This is another reason to have my own bank account. If he died suddenly, Sharia law would endow his estate to a male relative, probably to his eldest son, which would be fine, but if it were to be Lionel’s brother in Canada that might be less straightforward. Without my own personal money I could be left temporarily destitute in an Arab country. If I died there would be no problem - everything would be Lionel’s, obviously!
So in spite of the glitz and bling, the talk of a Knowledge Economy, and with education and health at the centre of government policy, there is still the sense of living in a Medieval world where the king is omnipotent and the courtiers fuss and bluster as they curry favour.
The term ‘bank holiday’ is, of course, a misnomer. The banks didn’t close, or at least not the ones in the glossiest shopping malls.
On national days such as this, everyone drives down to the corniche, which is a beautiful road hugging the coast, lined with palm trees and providing spectacular views over the bay with its mixture of fabulous high-rise buildings, mosques, the wonderful Islamic museum and exquisitely lit dhows, gently floating by in the water.
The Royal family, like our own, walk among the crowds, talking and shaking hands with their subjects and there are military displays of soldiers on camels and horses. A traditional sword dance is de rigeur where the choreography never seems quite right, adding a certain frisson that someone might accidentally lose their head.
The patriotism of our new country infects us and we are almost homesick, but rally and decide to celebrate instead. So there is anticipation in our household as we await the arrival of one of Her Majesty’s warships, HMS DRAGON. We know the Captain; in fact Lionel has been in correspondence with him but since they are on an operational mission, somewhat covertly.
I am naïve enough to be worrying about pirates as they pass through the Straits of Hormuse but as Lionel cogently points out, they are in the most advanced warship in the world so any pirates messing with them would definitely come off worse.
There is a certain sense of patriotism which rises to the fore, knowing that one of our ships is in port and as we approach the docks, we can see the distinctive grey radar tower above the assembled cargo ships and rust buckets alongside. Getting near her is more difficult. First we approach the dock gate, announce ourselves and confidently inform the guard that he has our names and that we are expected aboard the warship.
“No,” comes the unambiguous response, accompanied by a desultory wave towards a building advertising itself as Dockyard Passes.
Nice try, except it is closed - so we drive round and find another entrance to the docks. This time we find a guard with a list, but our names are apparently not there. Lionel helpfully offers to look himself and is dismayed to find it all in Arabic. So all the westerners’ names have been translated into Arabic and who knows what Chinese whispers have ensued. Suddenly there is a triumphant shout from the guard who has been quietly perusing his list under the shade of a tree. We have been found and we are in.
The ship is seriously impressive with big guns and missile launchers. The crew are unmistakeably British, particularly the officers in their white shorts and long white socks. On paper this always sounds quite ridiculous but somehow in the flesh, it works. Lionel is completely at home on a warship and I find myself feeling very safe. I am also surprised that I feel an immense pride in our maritime nation, still sailing the seas and if not exactly ruling the waves, pretty close.
We are given a personal tour of the ship and its helicopters and the impressive fast boat that can be lowered into the water within minutes, fully laden with marines and their weapons. The ship’s company are all heading off to the rugby club and after weeks at sea, are ready for some relaxation.
Sadly for the Commonwealth sailors without British passports, this is not to be. Immigration are being tricky and refusing entry into the country because of an erroneous belief that someone with an African or Caribbean background would want to jump ship.
We invite the captain and his officers to a party at our house and are delighted when the whole wardroom accepts. Planning involves a meeting with the caterers but we think it judicious not to have them turn up at the same time as the cockroach exterminators. Large evil-looking cockroaches have occasionally been seen in the courtyard and we discover they enjoy living under the plant pots. The pest men come and spray noxious substances in the drains and under the plants. The vegetation doesn’t suffer but thankfully the bugs do. They would be unwelcome guests at our party.
All is set for the evening and we have a good mix of local guests who have arrived by the time a minibus full of naval officers shows up. The Captain and our good friend Richard, who has flown out for the occasion, are already with us, fuelled up by
Lionel’s very dry martinis.
Our sixty or so guests mingle around the house and courtyard, which look amazing. We have a bar on the terrace while white-jacketed waiters move through the guests, deftly dispensing drinks. Two chefs resplendent in tall hats are ready next to their cooking stations. Red-and-white tablecloths cover the cocktail tables and the Royal Naval theme is intensified by hanging a large white ensign and Lionel’s admiral’s flag from the garage roof.
Scattered candles in Arabian lanterns bathe it all in a soft muted light. There is a chicken schwarma station, which is similar to a donner kebab. It is an Arabic dish, consisting of whole boned chickens that are packed together, skewered, flavoured with garlic, lemon and spices and then slowly spit-roasted. It smells and tastes delicious served in flat bread with salad. For the red meat eaters we have roast beef cut into thick slices and served in crusty baguettes. The wine and beers are flowing and people are keen to sample the food, but first we have very brief speeches and I play Rule Britannia on my saxophone.
Everyone joins in and the call to prayer is completely obliterated by a rousing rendition from the assembled partygoers. We all feel intensely patriotic, while the staff give us that look of utter incredulity which says You British are all completely mad.
Incidentally, another urban myth has been dispelled, namely that one’s allowance for alcohol is related to salary. A new myth has replaced it, that the quota is related to previous consumption. So we are unsurprised that following the visit of HMS DRAGON, our allowance for booze has just risen exponentially.
The warship has sailed and it is the weekend. The day is dull and overcast so everyone in Doha heads to the beach, including us. We arrive early afternoon after a long drive down the deserted four-lane motorway, surrounded by desert, scrubland and a few small oases of verdant trees. As we are near the sea we wonder if there are underground streams irrigating this vegetation. Our first attempt to find the beach fails and we almost head off into a wadi, where we would almost certainly have become stuck ... but when in doubt, phone a friend.
She helpfully directs us back to the track where we encounter a posse of Land Cruisers heading off into nowhere. We follow in the usual random fashion, with everyone overtaking to left and right, until we reach the car park, where everyone alights and starts unpacking.
The sand is white and fine and the turquoise sea would be inviting but the clouds are grey and ominous-looking, so in spite of the high temperature a swim doesn’t appeal. We elect instead to go for a long walk along the deserted beach, past the turtle nests, marked and protected, and watch the wading birds at the water’s edge.
Ahead there is not a person in sight. In the far distance we can just make out the flares from the gas-fields, where all the wealth is created; the monotony of the landscape is punctuated by serried lines of electricity pylons marching across the desert to feed the city.
Energy conservation is not a concern out here. Petrol is dirt cheap and the skyscrapers downtown blaze with splendid light displays, while air-conditioning blasts away at full pelt. In the winter, there are outside heaters. Forget any idea of limiting plastic bag use: our supermarket purchases are packed by a helpful worker who uses three to our one and recycling is non-existent. Sadly some of these non-biodegradable items have found their way to this otherwise unspoilt and beautiful beach.
On our return, the scene on the beach has magnified. It is packed with families and groups of lads all making camp and barbecuing and from a distance the scene is reminiscent of an English beach. However, as we get closer the differences become apparent. A large carpet is de rigeur, with small tents for shade, barbecues in different stages of construction and an enormous amount of paraphernalia in the guise of foldaway chairs, tables and elaborately decorated shisha pipes. There is a strong smell of chargrilled meat mingled with the sweet aroma of the pipe.
Meanwhile the sea is heaving with bodies and one lone power boat, whose driver is cruising through the swimmers at speed while blasting out loud music. Everyone is ignoring him so eventually he gives up and roars away. Some of the picnickers have gone to lengths that would not disgrace the interval at Glyndebourne, although taking one’s hubble-bubble pipe into the Sussex countryside would probably be viewed as eccentric.
There are western women wearing bikinis and many non-gulf Arabs in typical seaside attire. Thobes and abayas are less in evidence. A group of young Indian men are sitting cross-legged on their carpet, digging into large mounds of rice and vegetables which are placed in the middle of the circle. They are using their fingers and bread to scoop up the food and invite me to join them. Naturally I decline and Lionel notices that he didn’t seem to be included in the invitation. There are several such groups. They are likely to be migrant workers from the Industrial City that we have seen from a distance or from the massive number of construction projects in evidence all over the country.
Returning to work after the weekend, everyone remarked on the good weather. Gloomy overcast days are welcomed and when it rains they all take sick days and rush off into the desert, though Lionel and I still can’t fathom the reason.
Winter is upon us and it feels cold. The temperature hasn’t dropped into single figures but we are all wearing wool in order to feel cosy. The men have gone into brown woollen winter thobes with embroidered ghutras in shades of cream-coloured fine wool. They still wear sandals displaying horrible horny feet and toes. There is no doubt that the Arab dress is elegant, but the feet let them down.
The abaya-clad women are wearing beautiful shawls and I now know who buys those extremely expensive cashmere stoles seen in posh Italian shops; rich Arab ladies of course.
The Emergency Department is busy because it is the camping season. It gets bitterly cold at night yet they rush to the desert, erecting their tents then racing over the sand dunes in four-wheel drive vehicles, managing to inflict horrific injuries. The children are the most reckless. We encountered two little boys practising in the supermarket car park. They were riding together on a small quad bike, expertly spinning round the roundabout on two wheels. Yes they were good, but not invincible.
There is a fatalism in the Arab psyche which means that fathers drive cars with their tiny children nestled on their laps, mothers allow little ones to hang out of open windows while the car screeches round the impossible roundabouts, and no one wears a seat belt let alone straps a child into a car seat.
It is all the will of God; in sh’Allah has a lot to answer for.
Winter for me is my birthday and although Muslims do not celebrate such events, they like to celebrate ours, so I am taken out to lunch by my team, who are a multi-cultural bunch of differing nationalities and religions. They all seem to be united by a love of fast food so I am treated to a feast of sizzling prawns, fried chicken and assorted kebabs, all of which are initially presented on menu cards where every dish’s photo looks a particularly unappetising shade of orange.
The seating arrangements are very specific. We have to be in a secluded booth so that the niqab wearer is positioned with her back to the restaurant. She is happy to expose her face to us, the close team, as she eats, but often such attire enforces the wearer to discreetly lift her veil as she pops food into her mouth without exposing her features. Excruciatingly, the restaurant staff sing me “Happy Birthday” and carrot cake is produced with a candle.
Then the most amazing cake, fashioned like a Louis Vuitton handbag, is produced and distributed to the whole corridor on our return to work.
12. Funeral etiquette
The mother of two of our colleagues has died. Funerals in Qatar happen very soon after death, followed by a week of official mourning when people go to pay their respects to the bereaved family. Businesses put huge advertisements in the newspaper extending their condolences to bereaved members of staff. The more important the employee, the more column inches there are. In our case, an email was sent to all staff, commisera
ting with the brothers.
The men organise a majilis, a gathering of the tribal elders and other invited men only, which is held in a large tent near to the house. It would have been inappropriate for me, a woman, to go so I enquire about the correct protocol. Apparently women go to see the female relatives in the deceased’s house, so off I go with several other non-western members of staff. The plan is to go in convoy because only Maryam, one of the secretaries, knows the way, although it turns out that her knowledge is sketchy. Plans are always vague and timing is dreadful. Two of us are being driven by Aliya, my niqab-wearing member of staff, in her large Land Cruiser. That in itself is an experience not to be missed.
First we have to wait for Maryam. We loiter at the front of the main general hospital adjacent to our headquarters: it is the usual melee of cars, taxis and ambulances accompanied by a cacophony of horns honking for no obvious reason.
We drive around a few times until we spy a free parking slot. Aliya’s driving technique is a wonder to behold.
“I can’t park,” she confides and proceeds to lower her window and summon the security man. “Move that bollard for me,” she instructs, whereupon he does so and we simply drive into the slot alongside the curb. Things get tricky when the pristine white Rolls Royce in front starts to manoeuvre backwards, indicating that Aliya should do likewise.
Cars have enormous prestige out here and undoubtedly the young Arab in his roller is not only wealthy but well-connected. Luckily no scrapes happen and we all drive away intact. The journey is frightening. We don’t drive in convoy but communicate by mobile phone, glibly weaving between lanes and cutting up other motorists as we go.
The car’s interior is decorated in true Arab style. The headrests still sport the original plastic factory wrapping, which is a sign of a new car even if it is several years old. It fools no one but they all persist in doing it. Extras include dangling worry beads, frilly and furry cushions on the back seats and a bottle of Oud perfume with which we are liberally sprayed so that we arrive smelling like a dodgy bazaar.
800 Days in Doha Page 9
