Seatbelts and Subtitles

As we head into summer we find ourselves struggling for daytime activities that won’t involve getting too hot, meaning weekends are mainly spent by the pool (with Mr A trying very hard to not let a single ray of sunshine hit his somewhat pasty skin), at a shopping mall or at home.  Within a mall one can obviously shop, or eat at a café (perhaps eating ‘outside’ in the piazza like thoroughfare of the mall – it’s almost the same as being in Italy), or go to the cinema.  A few weeks ago we went to watch The Reader in one of the thirteen screens of our local mall.  We presume that in the first half of the film, Kate Winslet must take her kit off a fair bit, but it was hard to tell. As a result of the stringent censorship, all we got was half an hour of confusing, disjointed scenes of her and her young lover getting dressed or undressed, out of or into bed, into or out of a bath.  Luckily she then kept her clothes on for a while so we were able to track the story of her history as a guard as Auschwitz, the lover growing up, Germany post-war, trials etc.  As you might expect, a key element of this was more than a few references to Jews and Judaism, which were, Mr A noticed, totally absent from the Arabic and French subtitles; slightly confusing for the non-English speaker. All things considered, a film with nudity and Judaism may not be one of the best film choices in a cinema in this part of the world.

We spent a long weekend in Damascus last week (where, talking of Jews, Israel doesn’t officially exist – but graffiti on a wall said ‘Death to Israel’ so I think it depends on your intent).  It was an opportunity to remember the crazy driving (though since we last were there the taxi-drivers have started making the front seat passengers put their seat belts on before pulling out without looking).  Such safety initiatives were slightly undermined by two fire-engines bringing the 3-lane motorway from the airport to a standstill by u-turning into the oncoming traffic of a sliproad. 

On arrival at the airport, a man in a surgical mask quizzed us on our swine flu symptoms.  While waiting for us to complete a questionnaire, he asked where we were from and then talked excitedly about the ‘six zones’ of London.  We were mystified and told him confidently him that there were far more than six areas in London.  Only as we picked up our bags did we realise that the poor guy must have meant the Underground zones. He was crestfallen – we have clearly been away too long.

Some friends from London were visiting Syria for a couple of days so had the pleasure of being shown around the Old Town by Mr A and me which distracted them a bit from thinking about their luggage languishing somewhere in an airport in Cyprus.  This involved me vaguely pointing out some things that I thought were interesting (ice-cream shops, women’s co-operatives with irresistibly expensive handmade goods, old buildings) while Mr A methodically quoted dates and expounded historical context (‘the oldest arch in Syria’).  We took them to mosques and courtyard houses, up Mount Qasioun for sunset and back to the Old Town for supper.  It was lovely wandering around relatively cool streets (a mere 38 degrees!) with smells of jasmine and abundant bougainvillea.  We restricted ourselves to buying huge amounts of mezze rather than any carpets, lamps, mother-of-pearl furniture or fabrics.

Whilst making our way to Beit Ananias (where Saul/Paul was converted – and where we came across a group of Chinese pilgrims weeping and ululating to the strains of acoustic guitar. Weird) I spied a courtyard house in the process of restoration and invited myself in.  Within minutes a friendly man arrived, whose job it is to keep an eye on the house during the building works that, luckily for him, have so far taken seven years.  Full of original plasterwork and niches, the building is supposedly on the way to becoming a hotel/restaurant and you could see sections of newly carved mashrabiya screens amongst the timber scaffolding and detritus.  The caretaker seems to spend most of his time looking after the cats (‘you must meet Lulu’) and tortoises that live there.  It is traditional for each courtyard house to have at least one tortoise, but Mr Caretaker brought another from his farm and from the two impossibly tiny baby tortoises we were shown it seems they’ve been keeping themselves busy.  We 

spent the next ten minutes trying not to crush them with a misplaced foot and graciously refusing cups of tea. [It seems appropriate to update longstanding readers that the tortoises from our garden in Damascus were last seen in rude health, though not having procreated].

The rest of our time was spent with Damascus friends which was, as always, brilliant.  Mr A smoked more shisha than he should and I ate my weight in cherries.  We pottered around the ‘suburbs’ of Damascus and refused to go to the Embassy bar. I remembered how much Arabic I’ve forgotten while visiting Syrian friends and admired their live prawn in a tank, and then we watched typically Damascene Russell Brand DVDs.

So, all in all delightful.  Now we can spend the coming weekends watching the very expensive TV package that Mr A has procured which appears to show every sporting match in the whole world as well as Holby City.  Ah, a summer of rugby, tennis and cricket.  I couldn’t be more excited.  Nor could the cats – they LOVE tennis so much that we are slightly fearful for our TV screen.

Italians and Ibsen

So June has been keeping us busy-ish.  Not overwhelmingly so since there seems to have been plenty of time to sleep at weekends and watch excessive amounts of State of Play, but busy enough.

An Italian diplomat’s reception proved a mixed blessing.  He had emailed us an invite some time ago, mentioning a ‘dinner’ with some friends, many of whom Mr A knows.  We naively thought this might mean a sit-down supper, so were unprepared to walk in to a room with more people that an average dining table would accommodate, with clear evidence of buffet preparations and apparently no-one else who spoke English or that we knew.  There is only so far ‘arrivederci’ can get you when trying to get to know new people.  Luckily Mr A was wearing his new brown blazer and jeans so at least we were looking suitably Euro.  We stood around for a while smiling enthusiastically at the mother of the host who was entirely uni-lingual.  We chatted to a former Qatar Airways stewardess about the advantages (international shopping) and disadvantages (customers, curfews) of being an air hostess.  Then we noticed that only half an hour had gone past. Luckily salvation arrived in the form of the Dominican Republic Ambassador and his wife who were perched on the same sofa as us wrestling with pasta salad.  A thoroughly dapper man, complete in cravat and hounds-tooth blazer, he entertained us thoroughly for the next hour or so with anecdotes until it was a respectable time for us finally put our Italian to use and bid a fond farewell to the host and his mother.  For the record, there was a bowl of Ferrero Rocher in the corner, which probably tells you all you need to know.

Playing the role of host for the first time in a while we had Mr A’s cousin to stay for the weekend and took him straight from the plane into the glory of the Ritz Carlton brunch where in line with Qatari tradition we showed him how to eat and quaff more than necessary.  I think we managed to divert him from dwelling on the cost of this decadence by arranging for the Emir of Qatar, Sheikh Hamad bin Khalifa al Thani, and his wife Sheika Mozah to walk past our table.  I happened to be looking up at the time and had a split second of thinking ‘wow that woman looks a lot like Sheikha Mozah’, before thinking ‘ wow, and that guy behind her looks a lot like the Emir’ before whispering urgently to Mr A ‘look, LOOK’.  They had one very chilled-out security guy with them, and sat at a table for two looking extremely relaxed surrounded by merry ex-pats celebrating birthdays with requisite singing and drinking.  This is the equivalent of the Queen turning up to tea at the Ritz in London one afternoon, only without the sniffer dogs, armed guard, close-protection officers or other palaver.  Also, he doesn’t look nearly as large (in the waist department) in person as he might appear in photos.  And he was pulling off a pair of Aviator-style sunglasses inside.  Stylish.

We also took our visitor to the restored old bit of Doha where we discovered the Bird Souq i.e. a lot of brightly coloured birds trapped in cages looking less than satisfied, surrounded by a mild stench of canary droppings and a hideous cacophony of noise, ate Haagen Dazs and admired a policeman on his horse.

Later that day we found our way to a nightclub in a new hotel which is VERY exclusive but we were able to walk right in with a well-connected friend, only pausing to hand over our ID (since a new law means you must show your Qatari ID card every time you enter a place that serves alcohol).  And then we were able to walk right out again as soon as we realised that, however exclusive, a dark, smoky club full of slimy Lebanese men groping semi-naked ladies may have lost its appeal some time in our mid-20s.  At least we can say we’ve been.  We just won’t mention that we didn’t even buy a (no doubt obscenely expensive) drink.

Whilst not hanging out at hotels, we have been to the screening of a film outside the Museum of Islamic Art which, incidentally, was cited as Prince Charles as one of his favourite modern buildings in a clear attempt to appease the Qataris since he’s screwed up their planning application for Chelsea Barracks.  Anyway, the screening was a ‘grand cinematic experience’ where a play by Henrik Ibsen and a poem by Mahmoud Darwish (very famous Palestinian poet) were set to images and music, narrated by Vanessa Redgrave.  It truly was as grand a cinematic experience as we have ever been to – utterly beautiful images over five huge screens set to hauntingly apt music, sounds and words with the Museum in the background on a beautiful warm evening.  It reminded me why art exists, and that I don’t see or experience nearly enough of it here. 

Talking of architecture, there has been much coverage here of a new Heart of Doha scheme which is a masterplan for a large swathe of central Doha by a British practice, involving a lot of demolition, a lot of new buildings and a lot of Culture apparently.  There’s an amusing piss-take of such masterplans here.

Meanwhile, Barack Obama has been touring the region giving friendly speeches to Muslims.  I was pleased to see that even (or perhaps especially) the President of the United States has to remove his shoes at the Mosque of Sultan Hassan in Cairo which is one of my favourite mosques in the world.  His security guys in the background kept their shoes on, so had to wear the little booties.  At least Hilary didn’t have to wear the usual ewok cloak.  That really would have been mean.