Autumn and Antenatal classes

Apologies for the hiatus in blog posts.  I have no excuse – I do very little these days except eat cake, gestate and get wider – except that I struggle to know what to write since I’m not an Ajnabiya in London.

I tried to predict in August what I would miss about Doha while I was gone.  Some things I was right about – I do miss fresh tropical fruit and find myself buying criminally expensive pre-packaged pots of mango and pineapple from Marks & Spencers to compensate.  I also miss working (not least because my brain appears to have turned to mush in the absence of any meaningful activities in my days) but not that much.  It’s amazing how quickly one can become accustomed to reading the paper, eating a biscuit, meeting friends for lunch, visiting art exhibitions….

In terms of antenatal care, neither Mr A nor I miss sitting in the Doha hospital waiting area for hours.  Here, my brilliant midwife (always the same woman) comes to my house and spends as much time talking to me as she does checking the baby.  She then takes my blood pressure, palpates my bump (feeling to see what position the baby is in) and measures the bump from top to bottom as an indication of how big the baby is, asks me to pee on a stick and finally attaches a small monitor so we can both hear his (very rapid) heart beating away.  This could not be more different to Doha where every appointment was in the hospital, my blood pressure was always taken by a nurse, and every appointment was with the doctor who never touched my tummy but rather checked the baby with an ultrasound monitor.  There must be advantages to both methods (we haven’t seen the baby on a screen since our last appointment in Doha in mid-August – I miss seeing the little thing squirming away or hiccupping) but there is something reassuring about the low-tech approach of British midwives.  The lack of imaging means we also haven’t seen the little one’s willy since August so let’s hope it’s still there.

The other advantage of late pregnancy in the UK is being in the bosom of the NHS that, apart from the wonderful midwives, also provides me with antenatal classes.  ‘Meet the Midwife’ sessions do pretty much what they say on the tin with the added bonus of new mums describing their recent birth experiences.  A mixed bag.  I suppose it’s good to hear women describe being in unbearable pain for hours but it doesn’t necessarily fill one with enthusiasm.  Antenatal classes involve a midwife running through all various permutations of birthing options (including enthusiasm for home births which I’ll be passing up since we don’t really have a home here) and are a brilliant mixture of local women of various classes, races and ages.  Partners are welcome too (though of course I don’t have one here at the moment) and the highlight so far has been the huge Rasta dude who was intent on getting the midwife to answer when he could ‘get back to the loving’ post-birth, much to the embarrassment of his partner.

I also spent over 4 hours in a breastfeeding workshop that involved more information than it would ever be possible to absorb in that period of time, and practising positioning with small dolls from The Shining.  The dolls were, of course, a mixture of black and white but this didn’t seem to necessarily correspond to the race of the mother.

The other huge bonus of being in London is having friends and family close, though I’m engaged in an ongoing battle with my sister to avoid our child being known as ‘stegosaurus’ for the rest of his life.  I also concentrate (pointlessly) on not getting swine flu.  I haven’t been using that much public transport (though when I do, someone always gives me their seat) but afterwards I obsessively apply antibacterial hand-gel and I ring my GP weekly to find out whether they’ve received the vaccine yet.  I’ve also been having Arabic lessons, essentially paying lots of money to a lovely teacher to be reminded just how much I’ve forgotten since I left Syria.  I am finding it hard to remember what I need from the supermarket so I translating a letter about Shakespeare is really a step too far for the neurones.

We are renting a little temporary flat in East Dulwich for us (once Mr A returns from Doha) and the babe to cosy in through December.  The weather is slowly deteriorating – the clocks have gone back so it now gets dark by 5pm and has been raining more than I would like.  And it’s a bit cold which is unfortunate since I refuse to buy a new coat big enough to encase the bump so the little one probably gets a bit chilly when we go out.  It has to be said that the view from my bedroom is of people’s unkempt gardens rather than the Arabian Gulf.

Dulwich is the antithesis of all things Gulf - cafes full of pregnant/mothering women with deliciously tempting cakes, pubs with dogs and fires (and no smoking), parks, and the trees have been slowly turning so there have been beautiful red and orange leaves everywhere.  I have had ample time to appreciate these colours since I have to walk everywhere quite slowly these days.  I’d forgotten about seasons – Doha has cooler and warmer months, with varying degrees of humidity and wind (something we’re sure to appreciate when we leave dark, cold London in January).

Before I became too large to move very far, I took short trips to Dieppe, France (to eat macaroons) and Sussex (southern England) to visit the De la Warr Pavilion, a restored Modernist building on the coast, where I lowered the average visitor age substantially.  

I also went to Charleston farmhouse nearby where various members of the Bloomsbury group bed-swapped for many years with a variety of male and female companions.  Now that is certainly not the kind of museum you get in Doha.  In fact, I’m pretty sure that kind of set-up would be illegal in Qatar.  It’s the first museum I’ve visited where I’ve been the weak woman in the corner sitting on the chair while the guide explains what you’re looking at.

I think we now own everything we are meant to, to keep a baby in the style to which they appear to be hardwired to be accustomed.  We have a car seat, and a buggy, and plentiful nappies.  In fact, our little flat is full of more babycrap than my and Mr A’s possessions put together.  Now I am waiting with my legs crossed for Mr A to get back to the UK, in total denial that the babe could arrive early.  In theory he’s due in under two weeks so we’ll see……

Wish us luck!

[P.S. Since I left Doha I have missed a ladies tennis tournament (Williams sisters final), the Tribeca film festival and (this Saturday) England playing Brazil at football.  Who says there's nothing to do in Qatar?]

Andalucia and Ankles

We had decided some time ago that we were going to be in Europe for just over two weeks in early September.  We were coming back to the UK for a wedding but also wanted to spend a week on holiday somewhere (or at least holiday for Mr A.  Since I have recently retired for the purposes of gestation I was there as relaxation support).  Given the choice of the whole of Western Europe, we chose the area with the strongest Arab and Muslim influence.  Obviously, because we don’t have nearly enough of that in the rest of our lives.  Our other consideration was that we fly a lot and apart from our carbon footprints being large enough to wipe out whole nations, we are beyond bored of airports and airplanes.  So, one week in Andalucia by train was the winner.  Except that we couldn’t afford to get the train both ways so Andalucia half by train (hurrah) and half by plane (boo) was booked.

Leaving London on the Eurostar (from the delightful St Pancras station – so well designed!  So many bricks!  So many overpriced tempting shops!) we were surprised by the size of our seats.  They were definitely larger than the last time we’d gone to Paris.  Then an elegant French woman offered us newspapers, and a drink, and a menu, which is when we remembered that we’d booked posh train tickets because there were no normal tickets left so that was nice.  Arriving in Paris we pottered around some Botanical gardens (Green! Plants! Flowers!  People kissing!), ate crepes, admired buildings and looked for bathrooms (major theme of pregnant tourism = frequent need to find a loo). 

The sleeper train from Paris to Madrid reminded us a lot of the Aleppo-Istanbul train.  Our little compartment was exactly the same (not exactly spacious) only not as clean and had the bonus of an elderly French couple in the adjacent berth playing absurdly loud europop out of some very tinny speakers.  A charming Spanish man appeared at the door shortly after pulling out of Paris to ask what time we wanted supper and we were swiftly accommodated in the dining car with crisp white tablecloths, gazpacho soup and sunset over the speeding French countryside.

Arriving in Madrid early morning after not quite as much sleep as I might have hoped, I wheeled out my incredibly rusty Spanish and we found our hotel in an area described as ‘down at heel’ which resembled a homoerotic boudoir (confirmed by magazines of naked men in the loo). 

Our room wasn’t yet ready so we walked through Madrid in bright sunshine to the Prado to admire art and realise that Madrid has an extraordinary amount of graffiti.  Everywhere.  We also remembered that it’s basically compulsory to engage in Public Displays of Affection in Europe.  That night we went to a heaving local restaurant where our waitress laughed at our Spanish and practiced her sprinting when Mr A attempted to leave his credit card with her.  This was where I realised that my brain can only cope with one language at a time so even if I theoretically know the Spanish words for things I will say sentences half in Arabic and everyone, including myself, will be confused.  Except Mr A who will be laughing.

Our next train was from Madrid to Cordoba.  Atocha station resembles a greenhouse more than a railway terminal with huge tropical plants being constantly humidified by jets of steam and a pond full of turtles with red and green heads. Luckily we had plenty of time to admire these features as I’d made sure we’d arrived way too early.

Cordoba was on the itinerary because I had visited on a school trip years ago and thought the Mezquita so extraordinary that it was one of the reasons I became an architect.   A huge mosque built by the Moors (roughly 8-10^th century), it was converted into a Catholic Cathedral and a gothic chapel inserted in to the middle which was, even the King who sanctioned the work at the time had to admit, a mistake.  

We were staying in a hotel overlooking the ornate external walls which meant one could nap guilt-free with the cultural highlight in view.  Cordoba was where we set in place the two main features of the holiday – daily siestas (primarily as an opportunity for me to try to de-puff my ankles which I seemed to have left somewhere in Madrid) and daily consumption of ham.  Or chorizo. Neither of which pregnant women are really meant to have, and perhaps karma punished me by making me leave my handbag with wallet, phone and both our passports on the back of a chair in an alley.  When Mr A scampered back to get it, it was still there.  Trusty folk these Spaniards.

Also in Cordoba there were men who urinated against buildings when I was trying to take photos of architectural masterpieces, and a museum with the most patronising audioguide ever and a big model of the Mezquita just over the river (in case you can’t be bothered with that bit?) in which Muslim men are praying in shafts of divine light.  Mr A spent most of the museum visit frustrated at the Arabic map which had been hung upside down so hindering his translation efforts.

Next stop was Granada where a taxi driver dropped us off at our hotel, except actually our hotel was 10 minutes away up a very steep hill with lots of stairs and winding alleys.  Mr A obviously felt a little intimidated by the search with large suitcase and pregnant lady in tow so deposited me and the luggage in a shady square returning with a clear sense of direction, a lot of sweat and a keen porter.  Another hotel room with a great view, we immediately bumped in to a friend from University who we hadn’t seen for seven years in a local café, who didn’t notice I was pregnant so must have thought I’d put on A LOT of weight.

Obviously we spent one morning at the Alhambra (huge hilltop complex of forts, Moorish palaces and gardens) which was as stunning as expected.  They really knew how to do a ceiling those Moors.  And a waterpool.  And a spot of wall carving.  And a niche.  We later met a guy whose only comment was that it was hard to get a feel for the place when there was no furniture in any of the rooms.  Just being in one of the most beautiful Arab palaces in the world was enough for us.  It was a teensy bit warm (farewell ankles) and we paid an extraordinary amount of money for a very dry cheese sandwich, but somehow we managed to resist the opportunity to dress up as genuine Arabs.

The rest of our days in Granada were spent climbing up hills (I overtook a teenage girl in the prime of life and felt inordinately proud of myself), going to look at churches which were closed at the exact time that we happened to visit, and noticing yet more graffiti.  We also watched a man down four cans of extra-strong lager in less than an hour and homeless, drunk men dancing with their dogs which was a little bit like being back in South London.

Our last night was spent in Velez-Malaga which is, predictably, close to Malaga and couldn’t be described as one of the highlights of the Andalucia region.  A set meal at a tapas restaurant went on for about twice as long as necessary – it’s hard to enjoy a meal when you have absolutely no idea how many more courses there might be.  And one of them was sweet and sour fish which I’m pretty sure doesn’t originate in Southern Spain.  Our hotel was run by a British couple and, by being the subject of one of those ‘Our life in the sun’ type documentaries, was full of British guests.  We lowered the average age around the plunge pool substantially (once Mr A had been given brand new trunks by the owner of the hotel since he hadn’t thought to bring any on holiday. To Spain. In August) and I think we almost killed off a Northern couple of a certain age when we said we’d got there by train.  By train?  Bill, did you hear this?  They came by train! 

And so to Malaga Airport where the insolent British Airways staff totally ignored my carefully prepared Fit to Fly certificate, I had a totally irrational (hormonal) breakdown midflight, and we wondered whether we regretted the situation we’d got ourselves into when the twentieth child started screaming.  But even these irritations couldn’t dampen the pleasure of our last child-free holiday for a while where, ilhamdulillah, I hadn’t needed the Spanish for ‘I’m in labour, get me to a hospital’.

Horses and Hospitals

As I near the end of my last week in Doha in 2009, I pause to ponder the things I will miss during my time back in London as well as the things that I shan’t be heartbroken to leave behind.

Having resigned from my job, I finished work last week on a high with the Managing Director pronouncing his new office ‘mumtaz’ (excellent).  The very nice people at the gas company where I had been based for the last 8 months or so gave me a special plaque in the shape of their logo which has a gold model of the building I was working on and an inscription referring to my ‘creative fingerprints’ lingering on the building for years to come.  Now that’s something you don’t get when you leave a job in London - there’s nothing a Qatari company likes more than a bit of inscription and something to put on your credenza.  They also presented me with a huge bunch of flowers that our cats spent the next week nibbling on.  Not going to work every day certainly has its advantages, and not having to waddle around building sites avoiding noxious smells whilst 6 months pregnant is welcome, but I bet I’ll miss it soon and will no doubt start to reminisce fondly about my former life as an Architect.  The terminal benefit payment (where your final paycheck includes a lumpsum for every year worked – it’s Qatari law) has softened the blow of it being my last for a while, and Mr A is already dropping substantial hints about getting back in to the swing of things post-baby so this unemployment is unlikely to last long.

This means I’ve joined the Qatari army of stay-at-home wives though to really be part of this club I should get us a maid and spend a lot more time discussing supermarkets.  No doubt the imminent baby chat will more than qualify me for the role.  To get into the swing of things, I went to my last coffee morning for a bit (at which I never drink coffee).

We had our last Doha hospital visit earlier this week.  Sitting in the same waiting area every couple of weeks for up to an hour is not something I’m going to miss.  I am intrigued to see whether every scan I have in the UK will involve close focus on the baby’s willy.  Literally every time we go the hospital here we get a good look – often for much longer than we spend on the heart and we haven’t even glimpsed other organs.  I suspect this is partly because we are, of course, having the much wished for son (something that lots of people can’t help themselves congratulating us for) rather than a daughter.  I don’t think they like it when I start going on about how apparently sons wee in your face when you change their nappy (a rumour that has been substantiated by every mother that I’ve met – the lack of outrage can only be explained by such unconditional love that suddenly you don’t mind a face full of urine).  The doctor was running through what appointments we should make when we return in January with (insh’allah) the babe, and said I should see her to get advice on when we could ‘try again’.  I think I looked utterly horrified because she hastily explained that young Qatari women always want to know how quickly they can get pregnant again.  I guess if you’re going to have 15 children (like the relative of someone I met) then you need to get a move on.

We walked down to the ‘beach’ at the end of our road recently.  The quotation marks acknowledge that this is a vacant lot between two embassies which happen to be on the edge of the sea, and is more some rocks and rubbish on the edge of land, rather than a sandy idyll.  Shockingly, this was the first time we had turned right out of our building by foot in two years.  We see it every day from our windows.  I think waking up to a view of the sea every morning might be missed when compared with a rainy London street.

I will definitely also miss cheap-as-chips mangoes, pomegranates, avocadoes, pineapples… our friends F and Z, who visited from Sudan last weekend, highlighted the fact that we shouldn’t take this for granted. Coming from where they do, the availability of pesto and fresh vegetables seemed to over-excite them a little. Incidentally we have now got quite good at giving tours of Doha, even finding new stuff to see. At the souq we admired the police stables which have been cunningly designed to look very similar to the re-built old buildings nearby. The horses are extremely elegant though I thought the ones sleeping on the floor looked suspiciously dead - I guess that’s what happens if you’re a very hot horse.  A bearded man walking around with his retinue of fully-covered black-clad women took a shine to Z and made jokes about one of the horses hairstyle looking like Michael Jackson which wasn’t exactly what we were expecting.

Mr A also took our chums on a desert trip, driven by an experienced Qatari, and tried to enjoy spending hours in a Landcruiser with 50 Cent videos of writhing scantily-clad women on the three TV screens. Eventually they worked out how to turn off two of the screens and the driver was only a little bit offended.

And finally we all visited the fabric souq and tried to find any fabric that might have cotton content and not spontaneously combust at the first hint of a naked flame.  They sure are fond of brightly-coloured polyester here.  It’s a wonder they don’t all have yeast-infections in this heat.Talking of which, it’s been a little sticky around here. 

 It had been a fairly pleasant summer with the low-50s of July giving way to temperatures in the high 30s/late 40s through August (so cool!).  We’d even been sitting outside in the evenings.  Then the humidity arrived late and the last few days have been absolutely disgusting.  Being outside (or anywhere not fully enclosed) is an extremely damp experience and feels much hotter than it actually is.  For example, it is apparently 36 deg C today but with the 71% humidity it feels like 55 degrees.  That, my friends, is horrible, and leads to condensation dripping everywhere including from your own body.  I think it is these conditions which led to me opening a wardrobe in a spare bedroom and finding a wall full of mould.  Yuck.  That will not be missed.

After a bit of uncertainty about the sighting of the moon, Ramadan will start tomorrow.  The shopping malls have already installed their Ramadan decorations – maquettes of traditional Bedouin scenes in our local mall, as well as huge banners and garlands encouraging all sorts of celebratory consumerism.  I guess they’re desperate to try to educate the transient immigrant populations in the history of local culture, but do they all have to have such big noses?  Any displays of this kind always have people posing in front of them while their friend takes a photo on their phone – I think they send them back to friends and family at home.

In theory I really like the idea of being part of Ramadan in Doha – being given dates while you wait at traffic lights at sunset, going to Iftar and Suhour feasts.  It is the only time of year that you feel like you might be part of something bigger than just your own friendship group.  In practice, I don’t think I’ll miss the crazy driving (due to hunger/dehydration during the day, and then sugar rush/exuberance in the evening), surreptitious drinking and eating (as a pregnant women I would be exempt from the law against eating and drinking outside during the whole period, but in practice I’d feel really uncomfortable), restaurants only offering extremely expensive buffets, all bars being closed for the month and weird opening hours for shops and services.

Ramadan kareem.

 

 

Sultan Qaboos and Sweaty Doha

In my last post I forgot to tell the story of the first person outside immediate family to know I was pregnant. It’s an instructive story in that it reminds ladies in early pregnancy to eat breakfast. Having been lazing around in bed until mid-morning one weekend while Mr A went to the dentist, I went to let the cats out and found one of their eyes was all cloudy. Slightly panicking, I quickly pulled on some clothes over my pajamas, put the cat in its box and drove straight to the vet, who took Nimr out and started poking away at his eye while muttering something about a third eyelid.  It was at this point that I started to feel a little peculiar so excused myself and went to sit outside on the steps of the building – my brain was thinking ‘I need fresh air’.  What I actually got was some warm, humid air and a very dirty backside, none of which made me any less likely to faint. The receptionist said I could use the loo inside but unfortunately I couldn’t make it and was forced to sit down, as if in protest, on the corridor floor, in order to regain my composure. Clearly an experienced lady, she guessed I was pregnant and rather bizarrely became the first person to know the happy news.  She then kindly waited outside the bathroom in case I knocked myself out on the sink and gave me a banana.

The vet had by this point done all she could for the cat, so I sat in the waiting area eating Mrs Receptionist’s banana, stroking the cat, feeling a little self-conscious about baring my shoulders in a vest surrounded by abaya-clad Qatari girls (my jumper really wasn’t an option) and getting covered in cat hair.  I eventually got hold of Mr A who had to abandon the dentist’s chair with his teeth half-cleaned to pick us up. As a punishment for not being there in my hour of need, Mrs Receptionist gave him evil looks for having obviously left his wife and in utero child to deal with the cat while he played golf (or something like that). Needless to say, we all recovered. I am now a big breakfast person. The cat can see again, so he’s happy.

Last weekend we spent 48 hours last weekend in Muscat, Oman for a friend’s 30^th birthday, staying at the same beautiful posh hotel I bored everyone with last year .  It’s still beautiful.

This time we actually made it to the Grand Mosque which was built by Sultan Qaboos, the ruler of Oman, about six years ago.  It’s huge, with separate ladies’ (timber mashrabiya screens, carved stone walls, beautiful) and men’s prayer halls (huge with the largest diamond chandelier I have ever seen and a lot of colourful tiles and carpet patterns).  This marked our first visit inside a Gulfi Mosque, and total failure of documentation since our camera had run out of battery and I’d forgotten to pack the charger.  It turns out we have cameras on our phones, so we have a selection of slightly blurry, oddly-coloured photos.  I fashioned myself a really rather genuine hijab as required by the mosque officials, which didn’t help with extreme heat but did help to soak up sweat. All the Omanis we have met are incredibly friendly and relaxed people, apart from the scary man at the mosque who threw out a German tourist for being in shorts. He then marched off muttering about how “someone will have to bear responsibility for this outrage!”

Otherwise we lay in the pools at the hotel.  A lot.  We had a special GCC residents discount rate and we realised that this is probably because anyone who lived outside the Gulf wouldn’t go outside in late July unless they were bonkers.  A room upgrade with free mini bar (ah, the shame of not being able to take full advantage), free cocktails at sunset and free room service breakfast meant we just about coped, and sucked in all the memories as we realised that such jaunts are unlikely to happen once the babe makes an appearance. I collected shells on the beach and got chatting to an Omani guy who was a little more into the conversation than I was. Upon parting ways, he gave me possibly the most rubbish shell I’d seen on the whole beach.

So now we’re back in sweaty Doha, working our way through Season 4 of The Wire. Mr A’s been doing live radio interviews in Arabic – I think I find it more stressful to listen to this than he does to do them. I hear the cricket starts again today so that means he won’t be leaving the flat this weekend. Great news.  I’ll spend the days trying to squeeze my wedding ring on to my swollen fingers (pregnancy is non stop glamour).  Unlikely, but at least it’s something to distract me from worrying about Flintoff’s knee.  Or we’ll spend the weekend watching Edgbaston in the rain, which to us will be a surprisingly fun.  Believe it or not, I’m actually missing rain.