We chat for a while and they express their regret at my going. They are very polite and would say that. Even so, I reflect on how things had changed from my first few weeks when I was wary of greeting Arabs. Now I am happily conversing in Arabic.
My farewell to the MD is very different to my arrival. This time she makes a point of requesting me to come and say good-bye, which I do.
Interrupting her meeting, she stands up, gives me a big hug and says, “Well Penny, you have certainly made your mark here. We don’t want to lose you but we understand.”
Family always comes first in the Arab world so the birth of our grandchildren plus a sick mother-in-law is justification for leaving, without loss of face on either side.
Arab generosity is renowned. We receive many leaving gifts, often from unexpected sources. A large bouquet appears in my office one day, from a senior female Arab executive. She is known to be tricky but we have established a reasonably good working relationship. Within the mass of flowers is a small box that I assume contains chocolates. “The aides along the corridor will eat those,” I think to myself. “Still I’d better look inside first.”
Where I find a beautiful diamond ring. Small diamonds exquisitely crafted in three types of gold; white, yellow and rose. Pearls and gold bracelets for me, cufflinks for Lionel and a total of seven watches between us follow. We are overwhelmed. One of my best offers ever comes after I sold my car and am renting an inferior model, “Take one of the Porsches,” invites one of my Qatari team members, who comes from a wealthy family. Tempting, but I politely decline.
These episodes make us realise how truly generous the Arabs are. They have nothing to gain: we are going home yet they give us expensive gifts knowing they might never see us again. We know we will miss our Arab friends and even with the frustrations of the last few months we never wish we’d not embarked on this amazing adventure.
Our leaving parties are pure theatre. We hosted one ourselves before we left the house, which was similar to the HMS DRAGON affair. Another balmy evening under the stars and the expat guests are joined by a number of Arab guests who come to enjoy the food and conversation but not the wine.
Not all Arabs are so reticent about alcohol. Dr Abdulfatir wants to take us out to dinner.
“Where would you like to go?” he asks. “There are some good Arab restaurants down on the corniche, or we could go to the Italian restaurant in the Radisson. It’s very good and we can drink wine there,” he adds mischievously.
I take the hint. “The Italian,” I decide.
We meet to find him already ensconced with a pint of beer in front of him. Excellent food and conversation ensue.
“So you don’t bring your wife to dinner with you?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “She wouldn’t come, she’s very religious.”
“What does she think of you drinking beer?”
“She doesn’t know.”
“But can’t she smell it on your breath?”
“That’s no problem,” he says, smiling. “I tell her it’s the salad dressing.”
Lionel’s hospital send-off comes first. The lecture theatre in the Heart Hospital is packed. Presents are given and there are photos and eulogies from one staff member after another.
His Head of Security is a burly, thick-set Arab who sports the swarthy unshaven look. One look at him and potential trouble-makers cringe. Security is necessary as Arab families could be difficult when accompanying sick relatives to hospital, especially at night. He has always greeted Lionel with a cheery, “Hello, boss,” and the day of the party he arrives in Lionel’s office looking completely incongruous with a huge bunch of roses held against his immaculate white thobe.
“For you, boss,” he grunts, embracing him with kisses to each cheek. Nestling among the roses is a new smartphone.
My ‘do’ is similar with the lecture theatre in the Women’s Hospital cordoned off. Again there are presents, eulogies and the whole thing is recorded on DVD.
Of course these affairs are a great excuse for a good lunch. Delicacies such as falafel, moutabel and kebabs are served followed by Arabic sweets such as baklava and umm ali, a delicately spiced bread and cream pudding. No wonder there is such a good turnout for us.
I host a goodbye tea party for my Arab women friends and colleagues, in a private room at the Ritz Carlton. Delicious tiered plates of sandwiches, scones and dainty cakes are served along with a selection of fine teas. We are on the top floor with a splendid view of the city and harbour. Once the waiters have departed the expensive abayas and veils are thrown off and I can see my friends’ colourful attire and glossy long hair for the first time. I ask them about the segregation of the sexes at weddings and parties,
“It is better,” Mona replies. “They have their chat and we have ours. We prefer to be separate.”
I could never pretend that these are close friendships but everyone promises to keep in touch via email. Our abiding memories of our time in Qatar are of the warmth, humour and generosity of our Arab colleagues. Not that they are straightforward. Lionel once said to Noora, his secretary:
“You know what? I think I am gradually gaining their trust.”
“No chance,” she barked, “They don’t even trust each other!”
Suddenly it is all over. I kiss Lionel good-bye then rush up to our hotel room to see his car racing over the causeway towards the airport at the other end of the city. I am alone in Doha. It is November and we had lived here for 800 days. Four weeks later, it is my turn to get into the limo and leave for the last time. Even then there is always a worry that they might not let me go. As I go through passport control, the officer scrutinises me, then my passport ... then stops. My heart misses a beat.
“You have e-gate,” he says. “You could have gone through the electronic system.”
I just smile wanly whereupon he stamps my passport and I am through.
The great adventure is over. I am going home.
Author’s note and acknowledgements
I would like to thank the many people who unwittingly helped shape the narrative of this book. Many of the names have been changed.
I am enormously grateful to my editor and publisher Amanda Field.
The readers of my original blog from Qatar were instrumental in encouraging my writing. I hope no one has been left out and there is an occasional addition of others who became involved once I had returned home. Many thanks to Angela and Jeremy Ames, Angelique Beling, Jane Bell, Clare Bennet, Anthea Bishop, Barbara Buckenham, Gemma Buckenham, Harry Bucknall, Antonia Calogeras, Kate Cameron, Suzanne Coates, Colin Coles, Michelle Coles, Jane and Ernest Crean, Diana and Steve Delia, Rebecca and Will Dobson, Debra Elliot, Ana Estruch, Emily and Peter Fabricius, Tim Fallon, Kathy Feest, John Gordon, Barbara Halliday, Ian and Shane Hamilton, Lynne Hansell, Amanda Havard, Edward Hill, Felicity Hill, Paula Hunt, Anna and Jonathan Jarvis, Marie Johnson, Sian and Richard Jones, Alison Keightley, Charlotte Lampard, Nicola and Fred Latino, Michelle and Chris Lobo, Rosie Lusznat, Susie and Magnus McLaren, Sue and Bob Musselwhite, Jonathan Nash, Vicky Osgood, Finian O’Sullivan, Gora and Kate Pathak, Moira Phillips, Julia Pokora, Charley Ryan, Jane Reasbeck, Sally and Paul Sadler, Aileen Sced, Sarah Stevenson, Sharon and Denis Stubley, Lunar Summers, Ann and John Symes, John Tanzer, Stella and Peter Vaines, Frances and Michael Von Bertele, Sarah Vickers, Octavia Wayne, Abi and Steven Webber, Diana Wellesley, Rachel and Peter Wells, Lizzie and John Wilson, Jane Young and Tim Young.
The cover photograph of the author was taken by Maddie Attenborough of East Street Studio, Alresford, Hampshire.
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800 Days in Doha Page 16
