I am scheduled to chair a few sessions so I find the right lecture theatre, make contact with the black-clad audio-visual technicians and greet the American expert who is to speak. But first we have the opening ceremony. As usual, very very important people (VVIPs) have designated seats in the front row, while simple VIPs have to be content with rows two or three. Inevitably the front row is a sea of white thobes and ghutras, with an occasional grey suit. I appear to have been forgotten, so my success with the VIP parking is short-lived.
I bump into a Qatari female consultant colleague who offers me a seat next to her, where we have a good vantage point of the great and good, most of whom she knows anyway. She is much younger than me and very beautiful, with heavily made-up eyes and fingers and wrists dripping with diamonds. I spy a hint of genuine Pucci print beneath her black abaya and the official photographer spends most of his time photographing us both together while ignoring important Arabs and American academics.
My subsequent sessions over the next two days go well, with excellent speakers from the United States who manage to engage the large audiences well in spite of the size of the venues. I control the questions and we keep to time, which is not always easy in this place since Arab questions have a strong tendency towards narrative and hence take ages before finally getting to the point.
The second day I bump into my new best friend again, in one of my sessions. She is wearing a new abaya, which is the customary black but adorned with lines of biker jacket studs along the sleeves and on the veil. She is wearing vertiginous heels and sporting a designer handbag. The effect is rock-chick meets punk meets the Middle East. She looks stunning and she knows it.
We are chatted up by a young man from a neighbouring country as we leave the lecture theatre. He wants to impress me because he thinks I might be important but he is mesmerised by her, especially when he discovers that she is a surgeon. She simply looks down her long aquiline nose at him and he visibly crumbles. He hasn’t a chance.
Sitting on the organising committee for this event, I become painfully aware of the incipient chaos that underpins it. Yet somehow, amazingly it all goes smoothly, unlike an event two weeks earlier held at one of the five-star hotels, where the number of delegates had been severely underestimated and the pricing system for entrance added to the confusion.
There were three types of entrance fee: one that didn’t include refreshments, one that did, and one that also included a free iPad. It was also possible to pay on the day so when, on the morning of the conference, hundreds of people turned up, the organiser decided to dispense with payment (it wasn’t as if the organisation needed the money), vouchers for food were not issued and people were fighting over iPads. The food disappeared within minutes at the coffee break.
In the sessions there were crowds of nurses sitting at the back, eating picnics and taking photos, making a really good day of it but completely ignoring the speaker at the front. I suppose it is one way to earn continuing education points for the portfolio.
There is always an official dinner attached to these events to which we are invited. Such dinners can be turgid affairs, with non-alcoholic sticky drinks being served followed by enormous buffets, where the food is good but formulaic and conversation can be stilted without the lubricant of a couple of glasses of wine. The Americans seem to cope with this better than the Brits but then they think that we are all subclinical alcoholics anyway.
Unlikely though it might seem, there is a hospital here in Qatar, recently built by Emiri decree and staffed almost completely by Cubans. It is situated in the middle of the desert, surrounded by oil fields near the coast. I visited last week to meet the Chief Executive, who is Australian and the Medical Director, who is Cuban. The hospital itself is beautifully designed, with spacious wards containing single rooms, excellently equipped and surrounding a tranquil inner courtyard.
Although very contemporary, it has the peaceful air of the medieval hospital that I once visited in Florence. Apparently the Emir and Castro are good chums, which considering that Cuba is one of the longest and most successful Communist regimes and the Emir’s is capitalist in the extreme, is somewhat incongruous. Still, they are both dictators of sorts so maybe they find something to chat about, even if only their shared love of deep-sea diving.
Visiting the Cuban hospital entailed a trip across country. This turned out to be the usual fraught journey. I had been warned that there were road works so when the diversions appeared I wasn’t unduly worried. After one set of big red arrows, the signage ceased so I trundled on down increasing unlikely roads whereupon the track finally petered out and I was facing desert. The truth quickly dawned: this wasn’t a diversion. It was the wrong way. Turning round, I retraced my route and attempted to get back on track.
There are never any signs and I was forced to determine my direction of travel from the position of the sun. Except I couldn’t see the sun from my car seat, so had to deduce its position from the shadows made by passing vehicles, in order to work out whether I was going in the right direction. All ended well when I found myself back on a decent road going west, so I assumed all was fine. It was worth the trip when I passed a random collection of tents with a corral containing camels and several groups of camels being exercised - a splendid evocative sight.
There was little traffic, a few goats by the side of the road, evidence of civilisation with telegraph poles and the like ... but no buildings. Because I knew there were no other highways going east to west, I couldn’t possibly be lost and it felt like a big yet manageable adventure.
In fact I was so supremely confident that I managed to sail past the Cuban hospital and was forced to drive for several more kilometres before finding a way back on the other side of the dual carriageway.
The return journey was even more interesting. On the drive out, I had been so engrossed looking at shadows and I confess, feeling a bit smug at my navigational skills, that I had completely failed to notice the enormous fort, enclosed by thirty-foot crenelated walls interspersed with imposing gates. This fort covers several acres and houses the Emiri Guard, which is His Highness’s personal guard. I had also managed to miss the various palaces and grand houses being built adjacent to the highway.
Not all palaces are so obvious. Lionel once sensibly stopped to answer his mobile phone by pulling off the road into a driveway. It said Private but there were no gates or guards. It could have been the entrance to one of the numerous compounds. His phone call was abruptly interrupted by an armed uniformed guard who had drawn alongside in his patrol vehicle, and aggressively asked if he had seen the sign.
“No,” replied Lionel somewhat disingenuously.
“Your first fault. Give me your resident’s permit, follow me in your car, then stay in the car,” the uniformed officer commanded.
Some time later, presumably having made a few checks, he returned.
“Do you know where you are?”
“No,” said Lionel.
“Your second fault,” was the steely reply.
At this point, Lionel was estimating the price we might get for flogging the new furniture when he was deported, but the guard sent him away with a stern warning. This might be construed as a fair cop, except Lionel had no idea what the offence might have been. Looking at the map later, it became apparent: he had tried to break in to the Sheikha’s palace i.e. the home of the Emir’s most important wife.
Extraordinary things become commonplace. Yesterday evening, collapsing in front of the television, we found ourselves watching a Bollywood medical soap that had been dubbed into Arabic, when Immigration phoned Lionel to check whether one of his employees at the hospital was allowed to leave the country. Earlier that day, I had signed several memos giving permission for quite senior people to have exit permits.
Because Lionel’s hospital is brand new, with well-appointed private rooms, the local VVIPs prefer it and he has to
scurry around finding extra rooms for bodyguards, special nurses and other staff. The last VIP wanted no one to know that he was ill and Lionel had to carry on while pretending there were no armed guards or fleets of special Land Cruisers surrounding the hospital. It was a relief when the VIP was whisked away to London on the Emir’s special flight.
This aeroplane is an Airbus fully equipped with a Critical Care Unit and inevitably, several of Lionel’s senior consultants simply had to accompany the VIP. One of them was on-call but didn’t see the need to inform anyone. There was some political fallout from that event as the Managing Director was furious that she hadn’t been informed and blamed Lionel (who had been told not to tell anyone!). Astonishing that she didn’t know. One of my Qatari colleagues remarked to me, “We are a small country. Abdulla sneezes in the souq and we all know by lunchtime.”
Sometimes the politics are helpful as when a relative of the Minister was admitted to Lionel’s hospital; the Minister called into Lionel’s office for a chat. The next day the massive extension to Lionel’s hospital was approved as a national priority with no regard to any previous plan or priority. Not all ministers are so obliging: another new hospital was ready to be opened when the Minister visited and didn’t like the colour of the marble. All was delayed while the façade was changed to the Minister’s taste. We are getting used to it and wouldn’t be surprised if a white rabbit rushed past fiddling with his gloves and worrying about being late.
We were on a brief trip to London when my secretary phoned on my mobile and said that I needed to talk to Professor Matt urgently.
“Can you go to Cuba on an official mission?” Matt enquired. “No pressure but we need to know now.”
“Of course,” I replied. “I need to change a few arrangements but that’s fine.”
Three weeks later and we are due to fly to Havana in four days time. The official mission is to recruit staff for the Cuban hospital. There are three Arabs going: my surgeon friend Mustafa, another good friend –Wisam - who is a surgeon originally from Iraq, and Mohammed who is in charge of admin for the mission. Then there’s Donald the Scottish obstetrician and me. The mission still hasn’t been formally approved, the flights aren’t booked and we have no visas for Cuba. We think that we are expected and allegedly we have hotel rooms booked in the Hotel Nacional. There is the usual Arabian chaos over the next two days: all flights seem to be full and the in-house travel office wash their hands of the arrangements, having initially suggested flying via Moscow or possibly Montreal.
I elect to make my own way and at great expense (hopefully remunerated), decide to travel via Paris, stop for a night, then go out on the Air France flight to Havana. I use a UK bank card for this last leg of the journey, which prompts a call from the bank in England. They are suspicious of an individual flying from Paris to Havana, claiming to live in the Middle East and paying for the journey in Saudi riyals (I can’t explain the latter either but that’s how the website handled it). When I also thought about the fact that I had taken out 3,000 euros in cash, given to me in 200 euro notes, I reflected that I might well be suspected of some nefarious activity.
The reason for the cash is simple. Most credit cards won’t work because of long-term US sanctions against Castro’s regime. Eventually all paperwork, visas, remuneration and so on is sorted and I fly into Cuba where I am met by two delightful government officials who whisk me off to the hotel. There, I am met by Mohammed, whom I barely recognise without his traditional dress.
“Come and have a drink,” he says. “What’ll it be, whisky or beer?”
A cold beer is very welcome and the tone is now set for the visit. We are going to enjoy ourselves.
Work starts in the old school, which is light and airy with shaded outdoor walkways surrounding gardens filled with tropical plants. A breeze blows through the open windows and ruffles the bougainvillea in the window boxes. We are treated to a brief history of the humanitarian work of the Cuban mission. It all started with relief work following Hurricane Mitch several years ago and the concept has continued with relief in various Latin American countries, and in Africa and Pakistan.
The Commandant en Jefe, as Fidel Castro is constantly referred to, offered his country’s services to New Orleans following Hurricane Katrina but the offer was declined.
Pictures of Castro are everywhere: Fidel giving blood, Fidel meeting the Venezuelan president, Fidel rallying the troops. Pictures of the ‘imprisoned five’ abound: these are five Cubans who were interred on terrorist charges in United States gaols. Two have now been released but the others are serving concomitant life sentences. Whether they are guilty or not we are never told.
The journey from Havana through the countryside is a delight. Traffic is light and the 1950s cars painted in vibrant colours bash along with windows open and three abreast in the front bench seats. On closer inspection the Buick, Ford, Chevrolet and other marks are falling off, the tyres are worn and wings are missing, yet still the overall impression is of survivors clinging to their rich vibrant culture.
Music is everywhere. Even before the interviews, Mustafa, my surgeon friend, persuades our interpreter and our tea lady to break into song and dance. They need little persuasion and like most Cubans they have natural pitch and rhythm.
As our bus rolls through the countryside, we see people everywhere, walking, waiting at bus-stops, waiting at the level crossing. There is no obvious barrier but we stop as a train trundles past on a narrow-gauge railway track, like something out of a rather scruffy toytown. Havana itself is a mix of imposing statues, stately villas and colonial squares with glorious old Spanish buildings that are literally crumbling away, though thankfully some of the facades are now being restored with splendid results. When I accepted the job in Doha, I had little notion of what to expect but never imagined rubbing shoulders with such diverse regimes and people. Yet in spite of the different cultures and social norms, we all get on well as people. Living in a dictatorship is uncomfortable for those of us used to democratic systems, but people do cope. They have to ... and they learn when to keep quiet.
We have over eighty candidates to interview over several days and we are informed of the numbers of doctors and technicians required, broken down by specialty. Candidates have arrived from all over Cuba and are staying in the school. We have a short-list that turns out to be complete fiction. As, one after the other, the hapless candidates are brought in, we realise that the organisation of the process is such that we have no idea who will walk through the door next.
Our first candidate, before we have got into our stride, says that she is an Immunologist. This doesn’t tally with our list and her experience with x-rays and ultrasound is somewhat incongruous. We then realise that she has been claiming to be an Imaginologist. In my own radiology career, colleagues may have thought that I was imagining lesions on x-rays but at least I wasn’t fraudulent, unlike our poor candidate who proudly boasted on her CV to be an expert in ‘CT SCAM’.
Good English is a pre-requisite and in fact she gets through: others were less lucky. One poor woman is so nervous that she tries to run away and has to be persuaded by government officials to stay and return the next day. She has no English and is clearly unhappy at the prospect of being sent to a small desert country thousands of miles away. We don’t accept her.
We have no notion of who might come next. We interview several Optometrists and Physiotherapists who come in random order. Our credentials, as a Radiologist and Obstetrician, are not ideal for this task but we warm to it. When the next candidate states that he is an English teacher, however, we decide that something is seriously wrong.
“No, it’s fine,” says Mohammed, “We need an English teacher in the hospital.”
So he is appointed.
Although it is a completely random process, Donald, the Scottish professor. and I soon work out a system whereby we can decide on the best candidates. By the end
of three days, we have finished while our Arab colleagues in the next room are still interviewing, inviting candidates to sing and occasionally popping in to see us for a chat - mid interview. They even try to help by inviting the government interpreter to come and work for us, causing much confusion. On the final day we all sit down and discuss the results with the Cubans.
Professor Donald and I produce our list and are done within five minutes. The Arabs and Cubans deliberate for about two hours. It seems rude to leave, so Donald catches up on his emails while I try to engage in the discussion. The lists are pored over, swapped between parties, coffee is fetched, but nothing seems to happen. Certainly there are no decisions being made. Eventually I whisper to Donald:
“What are they doing?”
He looks up and replies laconically: “Don’t know.”
At which point I lose it and collapse in uncontrollable giggles.
Inevitably on a foreign mission there is time for relaxation and bonding with colleagues. The three Arabs have all been to Cuba before and are keen to show us the sights. We are treated to music and dancing with the elderly musicians who performed with the Buena Vista Social Club. The hotel where we are staying was one of the prime locations in pre-revolutionary Cuba and was much frequented by the Mafia.
The nightclub carries on the tradition of exuberant costumes, and excellent singing and dancing in a venue that feels like a speakeasy. The Mojitos are perfect and I am persuaded to smoke a large Havana cigar. I am way outside my comfort zone on the smoking front, what with hooker pipes in Arabia and cigars in Cuba, The first evening I comply, treating it as a bit of a dare, but I admit that the second evening, I rather enjoy it. There is something about the atmosphere in this extraordinary place that allows inhibitions to be shed.
800 Days in Doha Page 11
