Flags and Firecrackers

I tried to spend as many days as possible in December not working, and largely succeeded helped by a week in Syria followed by Eid Al Adha, then Qatar National Day, then Christmas with a festive break in Jordan. All this leaves me with a surfeit of mildly diverting things to say and not much enthusiasm on my part (nor probably yours) to write in too much detail. So, I give you some observations on living in Doha during December 2008, and then some do’s and don’ts should you find yourself in Jordan for five nights.

Doha:

- Advantages of living in the Gulf: we went to the beach on 12 December. A bit too chilly for swimming but walked along the sand/rock, ate our picnic and then fell asleep in the boot of our car with the sound of water lapping at the shore. I think one of Mr A’s favourite days in Qatar so far – beer, food and a snooze.

- We spent the second Eid (Eid al Adha = Eid of the Sacrifice, to celebrate the end of the Hajj pilgrimage to Mecca, commemorating Ibrahim’s willingness to sacrifice his son) in Doha because I was too stupid to realise earlier that I should have stayed in Damascus. Lucky our area of town was less steeped in blood than most (our friend went to work past a tethered sheep, came back to a puddle of blood and the skin drying on the doorman’s car).

- We spent a day of Eid wandering around the souq area to look at the buildings in daylight for once and check out the street theatre.

During our perambulations we diverted off the main drag when we realised that policemen were herding all male workers round the back of the shops so as to avoid any contact with the ‘family areas’ i.e. the nice bits, with women, Europeans and Qataris . In 200 metres we went from continental street theatre to being surrounded by perhaps a thousand Indian, Pakistani, Phillipino men with nothing to do (a national holiday), nowhere to go (shops closed), being shouted at by policeman for standing still and presumably a warm feeling inside knowing how valued they were by their host country.

- However familiar the sight of women in full black abayas becomes, I will always have to look twice when I see a women jogging alone along the corniche with not one single bit of skin showing (black fabric covering her head and face, gloves on her hands) but large white trainers.

- Qatar National Day is on the 18 December and this year was a BIG deal. No-one noticed it last year so this came as something of a surprise but heck, if they want to spend a week setting up light shows and a morning watching 1950s British military and police vehicles drive past then who are we to judge.

Our poor friend happened be stopping in for 16 hours on this day. Coming from Pakistan, all he wanted to do was see the Islamic Art Museum but of course it was closed, so he had to do with a walk along the Corniche instead. But this was in fact more entertaining than usual. What’s ancient craft when you could watch 15 year old Qataris standing on the top of moving Landcruisers holding huge flags? Or sprint barefoot towards the same moving Landcruisers, jumping on the bonnet, running over the top and leaping off the other end? We took our friend to an overpriced National Day buffet sitting outside in order to see the fireworks but managed not to see a single burst of gunpowder. Hoards of the aforementioned Qataris in their vehicles (and did I mention firecrackers?) meant we then took a two hour taxi journey to go two miles to a party that he missed because he had to get the airport. We may try and be out of the country next year.

- Much to our surprise (and contrary to many naysayers) it is possible to buy a Christmas tree in this Muslim country, and if you go away for a week your husband will organise it because he can’t think of anything else to do with his time. He’ll get carried away and order one 2.5m high that costs a small fortune but the ceilings are high, the decorations have survived the move and the slightly pre-emptive 8th December delivery will be okay because you douse it in so much hairspray that those needles ain’t going anywhere.

- A visit to the fabric souq mid-December meant I wrapped all my Christmas presents in striped and chequered shirt fabric of various colours….. An eco-friendly choice (apparently, according to an irritating article in the Times) though I did it because fabric is cheap here, paper is expensive and I thought it would look pretty. Which it did - in fact the prettiness was the main reason. What’s Christmas without pointless, time-consuming craft projects? I also made stockings though ran out of time so only made three for the four of us which meant Mr A had to use a welly. That’s the first time one of those has come in useful since we moved here.

- We had Christmas day in Doha which meant a spot of breakfast with King’s carols before a walk along the Corniche in warm sunny weather while Mr A went to pick up the turkey. All the shops were open, lots of people were at work, a British guy was walking along the Corniche in a Santa hat with his son on his new bike and Mr A’s mother (“Um A”) spotted some of the very few birds in Doha with her binoculars. Yes you heard right, Mr A collected our lunch from a hotel, already cooked. All I did was make bread sauce, while Um A roasted potatoes. It was brilliant. Then I cooked Panettone bread pudding despite Panettone being one of the most expensive bread products you can buy.

- Major things can be going on the world, people can be dying in their thousands, and you can be sure that QBS Radio will be right on the action in their 6 o’clock headlines: ‘Sheikh Hamad bin Jassim al Thani presided over the regular weekly Cabinet meeting today. The cabinet considered the matters brought before it and made appropriate decisions’. All said in a rubbish English accent.

- This is cheating a little bit because it actually happened last week but I popped to the loo at a hotel this weekend and who should be loitering en route to the lav but the Emir of Qatar, Sheikh Hamad bin Khalifa al Thani and his lovely (second of three) wife, Sheikha Moza. It’s the Qatari equivalent of standing 6 feet away from the Queen and Price Phillip only with more moustache, more money, and less casual racism.

Jordan:

- Do go to Aqaba if you want to be extremely close to Israel without having to cross the Allenby Bridge - you can see Eilat (the main port) just along the coast which is mildly disturbing when the Israelis have just launched a military campaign in Gaza. About which I am not going to say much as I think more than enough has been said elsewhere. Needless to say with even Sheikha Moza wearing a black and white checked keffiyeh to symbolise her sympathy with the people of Gaza, sales must have soared. I guess lucky for the London protestors that they are so readily available as a fashion statement.

- Should you be spending a night or two in Aqaba, do go snorkelling. I was put off by the low temperatures and stiff winds, but Mr A and his mum saw lots of fish and coral. Do not be tempted by the glass bottomed boats. Through a narrow Perspex window in the bottom of a small motor boat 5 metres off the coast, you will not see a single fish or living piece of coral. You will see a lot of plastic bags, a view back to Amman (including one of the largest flags in the WORLD) and it will cost you a small fortune.

- If you expect a religious experience when visiting the place where Jesus was baptised near the Jordan river, then don’t bother going. It’s beautiful in bits – amazing scenery on the drive, wooded banks to the river, fascinating to realise how narrow the river is and therefore how close Israel is, but the place itself is underwhelming at best.

Granted I’m not religious but there’s a limit to what you can imagine from looking down to a toxic-looking green shallow pool at the base of a pit, surrounded by (Muslim) guys chopping down trees. Apparently some people still go to be baptised in the River itself which is looks brown, stagnant and an invitation to contract a skin infection. There are steps down to the river directly opposite each other on the Jordanian and Israeli sides where the gap between the countries is perhaps 4 metres. Mostly you notice the huge Israeli flags. A new Orthodox church on the Jordanian side has bold gold dome which is also something of a statement.

- Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade was filmed at Petra. This will not escape your notice during time you spend there but it’s still great.

Don’t visit in the middle of Summer - last time we went it was August and I nearly died of heatstroke. This time it was chilly though after a climb up to the High Place of Sacrifice we were in T-shirts.

On the way down I became obsessed with a field of cairns, and we bumped in to a Bedu lady selling necklaces who tried to shake Mr A’s hand. He said he looked at the grime and had an involuntary reaction which meant his body refused even though his mind said yes. She must have thought we were just another pair of unfriendly tourists.

Since we were visiting for the third time, we were rather bored by the walk from the site back to the car so rode overpriced horses that were slower than Mr A’s parents walking. Value for money right there.

- Do accept one of the Bedouin drivers at Wadi Rum (cf Lawrence of Arabia). On our previous visit we were driven around by a young guide in an Embassy Toyota Prado. This time Mr A drove us in a hired Mitsubishi Pajero. I wouldn’t like to comment on whether it was the difference in driver or car or map-reading that meant we almost got stuck in sand, repeatedly, much to Um A’s horror. When we weren’t fretting we enjoyed the beautiful colours, big skies and rock scrambling.

- Do expect to get lost if you are driving around Amman. It is one of the hardest cities to navigate. It’s essentially a series of hills and none of the maps show what level things are at, so when you think two roads are going to meet you will actually find yourself driving under the road you want to be on. It is also orientated around a series of roundabouts which they call circles and don’t mark in any way. So you will drive through the one you want, and find yourself at the amphitheatre when you were hoping to visit the citadel.

And finally, off topic, I think I might have mentioned the almost pornographic underwear for sale in most Arab souqs before. Two ladies have collected those available in the souqs of Syria in to a beautiful book: The Secret Life of Syrian Lingerie. Do have a look. Incredible.

Sunsets, Sunrises and the Sham

Mr A and I parted ways at Larnaca Airport as I headed off for the second part of my early-December sojourn. Boringly, he had to get back to work in Doha whilst I had arranged to meet a good friend in Damascus. We carefully disentangled our possessions, checked we each had our own passports, and bid an emotional farewell for our week apart. I had to change flights in Amman so was just wandering through the airport (full of men in white on their way to Hajj in Saudi – I felt extremely dark and female) when I happened to put my hand in the key pocket of my bag. Ah, that’s rather a lot of keys, I thought as I pulled out not only my house key and car keys but also Mr A’s house and car keys. So that would be all the house and car keys we own. Mr A gave me cheery little call a few minutes later to say hello from Dubai airport. I quickly put a dampener on his mood as he realised he was about to arrive in Doha at 3am homeless, car key-less and due in to work 4 hours later. Luckily a lovely friend had a spare room and was willing let him in. So Mr A hated me a little less (though really was it my fault? Maybe he should have checked whether he had his keys with him? Or maybe I should have checked I didn’t have his keys with me? We haven’t really discussed it as these are the kinds of conversations that could end in divorce).

Meanwhile, by some miracle my friend J and I had arrived at Damascus airport at roughly the same time. Also relying heavily on the kindness of friends, we were staying in Damascus’s old town in a beautiful courtyard house. I managed to remember where it was in the dark, and J and I awoke in the morning to bright sunshine, orange and grapefruit trees outside our bedroom, and an urgent need to find DHL. Luckily, being us, Mr A and I have utilised the services of this company before and so I knew where the Damascus branch was. Leaving no time for J to appreciate the finer things of the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world (I know, others claim it too), we marched off. An hour, £35 and one really ugly complimentary cool bag later, the car keys were allegedly winging their way to Doha and we were free to potter to our hearts’ content.

J had never been able to visit us when we lived in Damascus so I was meeting her there partly to show her around and partly so I could remember all the things I love about the Sham and see all my lovely friends. Which meant that she got almost no choice about what she saw as I took her to the places I liked, ignored the places I didn’t, force-fed her Arabic food and made her hang out with people she didn’t know gossiping about people she didn’t know. Brill.

Some things about Damascus have not changed in the year we’ve been away. At my favourite restaurant, where I was absurdly, childishly pleased that the waiters recognised me, we ordered my usual truckload of falafel and tabbouleh. I loved being able to speak Arabic every day, though got frustrated that my vocabulary seems to have contracted to the point where I can only have a substantial conversation with my Arabic teacher. And I remembered all the reasons why I love the architecture: we visited an incredible V&A Museum ceramics exhibition at Khan Assad Basha, admired the Ummayad Mosque in our ewok outfits while avoiding the freezing stone floors in our bare feet, enjoyed the serenity of the Azem Palace and almost retched at the smell of mothballed stuffed animals on display at the Maristan (medical museum).

But much has changed – a lot of the old town has had a makeover for the ‘2008 Capital of Arab Culture’ celebrations – the ancient Straight Street now has amazing smart shutters and clear pavements rather than piles of rubble for a road and dangerous electric cables hanging at head height. And I baulked at the prices of pretty much everything. This exchange rate business really is a bugger.

When in Damascus one must watch the sun set over the city from the top of Mount Qasioun whilst sipping a cool drink. Unfortunately my planning went awry and we actually got there just after the sun had set, and I had failed to register it was December so we ended up on a hill, in the dark, freezing cold, sipping tea. But our 17 year old waiter (a soldier doing his military service) kept us entertained as he displayed mild shock at his luck in getting not one, but two women at his café. Two girls from London. Who spoke some Arabic. And smiled at him. That should keep him going for a while.

Heading home we chanced upon a parade. Keen for some political action (and in retrospect possibly defying advice from every guidebook in the world), we stationed ourselves on top of a bollard to wait for something to happen. Smart young boys practiced their trumpets as hijabed young girls looked on. Men in black leather jackets strode past with Lebanon flags as residents peered out of their windows. After half an hour of cold, numb extremities, we dived into a shop (there’s nothing like a Palestinian Women’s Co-operative to make you feel like the really expensive bag you like really HAS to be bought) to buy Christmas decorations and so missed the whole thing, though since it was a visiting Lebanese bigwig it wasn’t such a bad thing. Given the frequency with which politicians from Lebanon are blown up, there are safer places to stand than next to them.

It has to be said that courtyard houses are somewhat more romantic in summer when you can sit in the tree-filled courtyard, around the fountain, smoking shisha and having urbane intellectual conversations in the manner of Isabel Burton. In winter, having to go outside to get to the loo in the dark by the light of your mobile phone, when it’s cold and your host has let slip that he killed a rat that was IN HIS BED, is not quite as beguiling. We had also been warned that we might be woken up in the morning by the Syrian security services having a look around, so we weren’t heart-broken to leave the city.

Heading for Palmyra I hastily remembered the rules of Syrian driving (never waste time looking in your rear view mirror, use the horn at all times, if in doubt ignore the traffic signals) as I got us lost on the way there in our hire car. Following the signs to Baghdad, we eventually found our way and joined the road with the magical trucks which look like they’re carrying goods until one, and then two, and then forty women and children stand up in the back and wave. J was suitably impressed by the golden columns surrounded by desert and we rewarded ourselves with a half bottle of Lebanese wine (delicious) and a glass of Syrian wine (disgusting). We set our alarms for sunrise the next morning, which is a must-do at Palmyra. Except that I have never managed to do it. Here at last was my opportunity. J leapt out of bed into ALL her clothes as our alarms went off. I buried deeper into my duvet, grunted at her to feel free to leave without me and, in similar style to my two previous visits, lay in my bed wondering whether it was really worth it. Apparently it was as J came back with idyllic tales of having the ruins to herself as the sun rose behind the mountains, though it then took her about 2 hours to warm up again which I think vindicated my decision since I forgot to pack socks let alone a coat.

Back to Damascus via a Bedouin-run café where J swapped a pen for some spinach pastries and a whistle-stop visit to the Christian villages where at least one woman still speaks Aramaic, we snuggled in to another generous friend’s centrally-heated, all-mod-cons flat and spent the next couple of days seeing old Syrian friends, buying up carpets, knives and nativity scenes, reading Heat magazines, and going to an utterly bizarre Finnish National Day party where we didn’t meet a single Finn. I thought it was important to give her an unforgettable cultural experience.

So after all that it was time for me to return to Doha for the Eid holiday (no danger of going back to work just yet), J to return to the UK, and us both to realise we’d picked up a stomach bug as a memento of our time together. Ah, good times. Better times than a Doha acquaintance who was holidaying in Damascus at the same time as us and was apparently amazed because he’d never travelled to a Communist police-state before where there are food shortages. I have no idea which Syria he went to.

(P.S. For those of you with long memories, I was updated on the progress on the tortoises whilst I was back. They are well. A little too well. Lady has apparently given birth to babies, something I can only say was inevitable and may well be down to our over-zealous care. That probably means she has had children with one of her sons. Disgusting. Or is that acceptable in the animal world?)