Ajnabiya: April 2009

Last weekend we went ‘dune bashing’ in the desert. We have been before ('Dolls and Dunes' here) but, sensibly, were driven by an experienced Qatari ex-body builder in his car. This time we drove ourselves (in a Chevrolet) so set off on a sunny Saturday with two friends in convoy – one who had been before and was our guide for this particular jaunt (in a Nissan), and one who was a fellow bashing novice and, importantly, was driving his brand new 4x4 (maybe 6 months old) which is really his wife’s car (a Honda). We drove south towards the end of the tarmac-ed road, stopped to let down our tyres, and then set off for the Inland Sea (or Khor Al Udaid).

It must be mentioned at this point that this is a popular destination for Qatar residents and people drive there all the time. It is, as its name suggests, a body of sea water almost totally surrounded by sandy land, close to the Saudi Arabian border (one can also just peek the United Arab Emirates over the barren landscape). There are two ways of getting there – either to follow the reasonably flat salt flats compacted by the tyres of hundreds of 4x4s, or to ‘bash’ the dunes that surround the flats i.e. driving up and down piles of sand. We, of course, followed the latter strategy and happily drove up and over a couple of dunes. Not very far in we approached a larger, sandier patch and, brought to a slow behind our struggling Honda friend, promptly sank in to deep, very sandy, sand with friend sunk in same sand nearby. Alighting from the vehicle it became obvious that the wheels were sunk up to the underside of the chassis which was firmly banked. Luckily we’d inherited some spades from some friends last year, and had remembered to bring one so the boys took turns to dig the wheels out (note: next time take more than one spade) as I administered sun cream and water in the 40 degree heat and escaped to the air conditioning of the Honda (which had been extracted from the sand by now. By driving.). We tried the tow rope that someone had remembered to bring, which snapped as soon as any force was applied. We tried a rope that we’d inherited from the spade-friends, which snapped too. We tried both broken ropes together, which both snapped again long before there was any danger of our car moving.

At this point a friendly and very bearded Qatari in shell suit trousers cruised past in his Toyota Landcruiser (there is a very valid reason why all Qataris drive Landcruisers) and stopped to consult. Ah, you’ve driven right in to the most notorious sand patch in the whole of Qatar – people always get stuck here, he told us in Arabic, managing not to smile. He pottered off to procure a decent rope (advising that the one we had was meant for towing motorbikes), returning to supervise tying of knots, depth of digging, placement of sunbathing mat beneath tyres, and direction of towing. Within minutes we were off, with our Qatari friend clearly unable to believe we could get anywhere unaided so offering to lead us to the sea and off we went in our convoy of four. He took us to the spot where he was fishing with his friends surrounded by litter, asking whether we needed any water (clearly thinking we were stupid enough to have not thought of bringing any with us), and advising that we might want to stop here rather than carrying on to the more popular spot further around the water’s edge (called the ‘Sheraton’ by Qataris because of the large number of ex-pats that go there). A very nice man – shows that you shouldn’t judge men who look exactly like Osama Bin Laden.

Of course, we didn’t stop there. We had more exploring to do. So off we went further south which, apart from a bit of a jolt as Mr A approached a dune on the speedier side, passed off without hitch and was a lot of fun.

We found ourselves a perfect spot between sand dune and water and rewarded ourselves with some sandwiches, beers and a swim, ignoring the occasional wafts of sulphur (from the sea bed or the nearby gas works?).

All too soon, it was time to head back so we packed up, got in to the cars, and turned on the ignition. Ours came to life with a worryingly loud rattling noise. The kind of noise that, as much as you tell yourselves it’s nothing serious, sounds like your car is about to keel over. Perhaps that earlier jolt had been more significant than we’d hoped. The only member of the group who knew anything about cars got on his back under the engine and fiddled with the various tools and gloves (that it turns out were nestled with our spare wheel) when we heard an almighty crash from behind us.

It turns out that Mr Honda didn’t feel he’d bashed enough dunes on the way so was taking advantage of the break to launch himself and his car, fast, over the picnicking dune. Although he looked impressive, getting clear air between the bottom of his car and the ground (Mr A is the only person to have seen this and laughs every time it is mentioned to him), the landing didn’t go so well and resulted in a bonnet that wouldn’t close, a plastic section hanging off the front, a deployed airbag that filled the car with smoke, and some funny noises, though we were still winning on that front.

So, feeling somewhat chastened by the noises and having tied the front of the other car back on, we headed back to the road minimising the number of dunes though loving the ones we just couldn’t drive round, only delayed briefly by digging Nissan out after an over-keen dune run (hee hee).

Reaching the small garage back at the road in order to pump tyres, Mr A said he was pretty sure the power steering had gone and made a 24 point turn to get in to the space in front of the garage where a disinterested man said we’d broken the power steering fluid hose which, since it was high-pressure, couldn’t be fixed by anyone outside Doha. Meanwhile, the Nissan was producing small clouds of burnt rubber as a result of being driven over dunes with the hand brake on, and the Honda seemed to be leaking whilst its owner contemplated the future of his marriage when he told his wife what he’d done to her car. It was all pretty professional. We ended up eating some shortbread before driving back to Doha with Mr A using all his muscles to steer.

Someone invited us down to the Inland Sea tomorrow. I think we’ll give it a bit of time before we head down there again, and perhaps buy a different car.

Whilst not destroying our car, we went to a quiz at the Marines Bar of the American Embassy. Once past the security (which at one stage involved them dapping your car with a pad to check if there are any traces of explosives - I can’t believe they’d pick up anything through the layers and layers of dirt on our car) we gamely participated in a quiz as the only non-Americans, and with limited knowledge of US College sports mascots or 1980s American hurdlers. In fact I didn’t answer a single question, but our very focussed team-mate did and we continued our tradition of not bothering to turn up to quizzes unless we’re going to win which meant we left with a fishing rod for Mr A and Celine sunglasses for me. Not a bad evening’s work, especially since I hadn’t been to a bar before where an AK47 sits above the bar and you walk past a pistol to get to the loo.

Yesterday I was watching Rachael Ray (America’s girl next door who prepares easy, cheap dishes whilst doing make-overs for podgy housewives) where Tonight’s Dish was fried steak with a tomato sauce. She helpfully said you could make this dish with either chicken, or… well her mouth said ‘pork’ but her voice said ‘steak’ which, apart from not making any sense, shows that someone’s job is to screen television programmes for references to pig foodstuffs and dub accordingly. In the days of swine flu perhaps not such a bad idea. The whole thing was slightly undermined by Rachael adding white wine to the sauce which she was able to pronounce, say and show without disruption.

Doha is now heating up and the sinking feeling of knowing time is limited until it’s too humid to go outside is hard to ignore. This is only helped by thinking about London in the rain (wet feet, no umbrella, buses that smell of swamp) and trying not to remember the lovely wedding and beautiful blossom in the UK when we were there two weeks ago….

I am continually frustrated here that since the exchange rate is currently about 5 riyals to the pound (having been almost 7.5 when we first arrived), 0.5 riyals is about 10p. A significant sum of money me thinks. And yet there only about eight '50 dirham' coins in the whole country, none of which end up in the shops that I frequent. Since all shopkeepers round up, you either pay 10p more than you should or they palm you off with some stale chewing gum as a meagre substitute. I know it's not much money, but just imagine all those 10 pence pieces over three years...... I could buy some shoes for that.

Mr A is meanwhile working out how to do his job without putting on five stone having had two separate meetings/events last week which involved unannounced three course buffets. Ah, they love a good buffet. Especially one hidden behind secret doors that will be opened just as you think it might be safe to leave. One of these events was for the launch of a website where at the critical moment, the screen said 'Internet Explorer cannot connect'. Priceless. Maybe they were hoping to distract with the lamb stew.

I’m recovering from the hilarity of him destroying security barriers. Going to visit some friends for supper, we were driving in to the parking of their apartment building which, like so many others, involves stopping at a security gate where a man takes your ID, writes down your name, and lifts the barrier to let you through (which is of course how they will spot the terrorists when they come, because the terrorists won’t have thought to have their ID with them). As we’d stopped to talk to the security guy he’d lifted the barrier but during the course of the conversation (and unbeknownst to Mr A), he’d lowered it again. So when we’d completed the technicalities Mr A happily drove in to the car park, THROUGH the barrier which conveniently snapped off leaving our car totally unbothered, a rather flustered security guard and a pathetic looking plastic bar at the side of the road. Mr A is in damage limitation mode with regards to his reputation in Doha, not helped by me telling everyone we meet.

I’ve been counting my lucky stars at having a job as my weekly British architecture journal keeps me updated with the increasingly depressing news from the UK. This week I’ve been discussing the intricacies of toilet arrangements with my older, Qatari colleague in the foyer of a 5* hotel - should this toilet have a handspray? and loo roll as well? and should it have a basin IN the toilet cubicle, or is outside acceptable for whatever people will get up to in there?

I spent last week collapsed at home with a bad back, a cat with an eye infection to keep me company and Jane Austen DVDs that I forgot I hadn't watched (much to Mr A's disappointment). This week we’ve been entertaining my sister who has popped by for a week. Having taken her on a tour of hotels – Four Seasons for terrace cocktails in a thunder storm, Ritz Carlton for brunch, Grand Hyatt for sandwiches overlooking furry animals dancing to 90s Europop - we took her to Sheikh Faisal’s Museum yesterday which is one of the very few things that we hadn’t yet done in Qatar. Obviously, this highlights the inaccuracy of my previous statements claiming that the Museum of Islamic Art is the only Museum around but perhaps you will forgive me when I make clear that this is an eccentric collection of an old man’s belongings only able to be seen by appointment. We had a very exclusive private tour with fifty Italian tourists, a Lebanese contingent, and most of Germany.

Sheikh Faisal bin Qassim al Thani is a relative of the Emir who has collected a lot of stuff and has built a big complex to house it all. He has:

Boats, with lots of boxes on them (inside),

Boats on a small pond (outside),