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.

Cat hair and Curtains

It was my birthday last week, though the day itself was somewhat low-key.  There were apparently more important events taking place in Doha that day such as Sudanese peace talks and a forums to discuss Democracy (best not to mention that this is a country doesn’t really have any) and we had Mr A’s colleague staying with us, so I was pushed back a day.  This meant some toast and tea in the morning.  That’s it, since the convergence of the British Forces Post Office and a small lack of forward planning by family and friends, meant there was nothing else to open.  So I went to work, returning to find my one true friend in Doha had somehow noticed the date and delivered flowers, sweets and a bracelet to our flat!  Hurrah!  Thereby easily outdoing Mr A who tried to console me with birthday wishes from Sudanese Rebel leaders.  The next day Mr A sprang in to action.  More tea and toast, some presents and a small mortgage spent at a Ritz Carlton restaurant restored marital relations, and postal gifts have been arriving ever since.

 

Otherwise, we have been hawking ourselves around town a little less than usual.  The annual US Independence Day party was restrained this year (tent at Intercontinental Hotel rather than ballroom at Ritz Carlton) and dry to reflect the sober times in the States (boom boom).  This obviously also translated in to the snacks which were extremely hard to come by, and mainly involved greasy lumps of cheese.  The experience wasn’t hugely improved by the American Ambassador giving a rather dry formal speech in English (annual value of trade has increased x percent) and then a blatantly fascinating speech in Arabic (Obama’s statements about US relations with the Arab world and Islam).  At least we got to see good friends, and then we hopped in the car to eat burgers and fries.

 

We visited the Museum of Islamic Art again.  Mr A has been a million times with various visitors over the past couple of months and so has had a million tours around the highlights with the Director and various Curators.  He has vaunted this knowledge of many occasions: ‘my love, we should go to the Museum and I can take you on the tour that I’ve been on. I know loads of stuff about the best exhibits’.  So off we head, and it turns out that he can’t remember all that much about the first gallery we enter.  That one isn’t normally part of the VIP tour, better to head the other side.  Though his memory is a little vague on this one too.  A couple of bowls are definitely important, he just can’t quite remember why.  And a carpet is really significant, it was found in a Mosque where it had been covered by later, newer carpets only he can’t quite remember exactly which carpet it was.  Luckily there are enough beautiful things to distract from his aimless wittering.  I should have just taken the convenient guidebook given to us by the friends who wrote it.  Next time.

The cats continue to horrify and delight.  They are definitely substantially larger, and there are hints of improved behaviour such as not waking us up at 5.30am EVERY day.  They do, however, steal any food you may be really looking forward to eating, sleep on any dark clothing you might have and chairs which you will sit on in black trousers and then go to work with a bum covered in white hair.  We finally got round to replacing the printer that no longer really prints having lived in the cat room for a while, just in time for them to pull a curtain rail out of the ceiling.  Since we aren’t really meant to have cats in the building, this now means a complicated process where the maintenance men come to look at a curtain rail that we have pulled out of the ceiling for no reason, while the cats are relocated to another bedroom that they can slowly destroy.  We love them with all our hearts.  Most of the time.

 

And I am obsessed with mangoes.  The supermarkets have huge mounds of various varieties of them, ranging from the most expensive from Brazil (left of picture, £1.80 each) to the cheapest from India (right of picture, 35p each).  I’m working my way through the taste test.  Next week I’ll move on to melons, or kumquats, or any of the other fruits that I don’t recognise in the Philipino section.

Power steering and Pork dubbing

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….

Sheikh Faisal and Saddam Hussein

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),

Old cars,

Pennyfarthings,

Pictures of Saddam Hussein,

Bowling balls,

Spearheads,

Carpets,

Painted Indian and Pakistani vans,

and a verdant oasis…

… with peacocks.

Well done Mr Faisal.