Spence Green

From 10/3/05

I arrived last evening after a short flight from Abu Dhabi. Qatar is an hour behind the UAE, so I arrived at the same time as I departed. The plane had no vacant seats on it; Pakistani and Indian men were almost sitting on one another. I occupied the aft-most row which, for most of the boarding process, remained otherwise vacant. Just as the steward closed the door, two Pakistanis scambled by and made their way toward the rear. Please let them have taken a bath, I thought, as they motioned towards me. They hadn’t. After piling over me into the two adjacent, one immediately opened his phone and began yammering away. This airline prohibited usage of any electronic devices after entering the plane, so a stewardess came running down the aisle waving her arms. “Sir. Excuse me. Sir. Please. I call the security.” He waved her off, nodding and grinning like bobblehead doll, and continued on. Just down the aisle, several more phones erupted, their owners responding with staccato emissions in Hindi and Farsi. More stewardesses appeared, motioning as if to suppress a fire. Several more rows down, two men engaged in an argument over the location of their leather manpurse/handbag things. A steward tried to arbitrate between them. Meanwhile, the stewardess next to me had finally succeeded in communicating her intent with my travel partner. I was relieved of the gymnastics, but not of the body odor. I looked to my right and discovered an Emirati man, recognizable by his immaculate dish-dasha. He lounged in his chair as a king holding court, chuckling at the scene. I offered a knowing glance and he responded with the semblance of a smile, the corners of his mouth moving slightly from their reposed state. The plane had not departed and I was already depleted.

At the instant the plane landed in Doha, the men were up. We rolled down the runway while they reached for their leather manpurse/handbag things. When the plane reached a nominal speed on the taxiway, the stewardesses came rushing down the aisle again. They would have fared better shouting at the wind. When the plane finally stopped, I exited from the rear quickly and proceeded to immigration.

In the passport line, I observed an Iraqi soccer team. They were well-dressed and immaculately groomed, which surprised me. The only Iraqis that I’ve seen (in the paper and at work) have been rather lorn. These people, though, were quite striking. They had skin that looked as burnished bronze, darker than the Gulf Arabs in the UAE but lighter than the mahogany shade of the Persians. I found them almost regal in appearance. I wanted to speak with them, but didn’t know what to say. A tall, slender guy of about my age slid in just behind me. I looked at him and thought, we know much about each other yet we’ve never met. I should have said something, but I was quite arrested at the time.

A Keralite drove me to the Landmark mall, taking the Corniche Road around crescent-shaped Doha Bay. The skyline was stunning, especially around the diplomatic district. The Qatar government has, like the other Gulf states, embarked on a massive building project. Cranes thus outnumbered the extant buildings. We passed the Shaikh’s residence, a shanty of about five million square feet. Unlike Abu Dhabi, Doha has not pushed the desert back too far. Heading away from downtown, I saw sand after only five minutes. Jay collected me from Landmark and we drove to City Center, the largest mall in the Middle East. We fought the Ramadan crown at Carrefour and bought schwarmas at a Turkish shop. Then we returned to his villa, located in a compound not far from Doha University, his employer.

On Thursday morning I went for a run and found the climate several degrees warmer than the UAE. Qatar takes Friday and Saturday off (the UAE’s weekend falls on Thursday and Friday), so Jay had to work. I rode to the downtown area, Lonely Planet book in hand and stopped at Doha Fort. The book said this was a cool sight, but I found it securely shut amidst a construction area. Awesome. Next, I walked toward the Grand Mosque, then retraced my steps to the Heritage House. The latter is one of the oldest structures in town and now houses a municipal agency. I walked inside and climbed a narrow staircase leading to the Wind Tower. I think everyone was napping during the fast. From there, I walked toward the shoe souq. A Ferrari dealership appeared on my right (such opulence is common in this region) and I immediately made a detour. Inside, I discovered a 925,000 ($300,000) riyal machine. Transfixed, I dropped my guide book. I’m trying to develop my patience here, so when I discovered my error several hours later, I had to calm myself down. Hey, you habitually do absent-minded stuff like that, I told myself. Get over it and go have a sandwich.

During Ramadan, though, one cannot just go have a sandwich. I flagged a Sudanese cab driver, who was flummoxed when I pronounced his country and city in Arabic (I had just done geography that week in class). He dropped me by the dhows and I paid 15 riyals for a trip to Palm Tree Island in the center of Doha Bay. Parched and famished, I quickly sequestered myself on a corner of the island and had my lunch. I felt like an alcoholic or something. After walking for a half hour, I returned to the Corniche, where Jay picked me up.

He had not brought any food, so we drove around looking for something to eat. Finally, we found some Indian street vendors selling samosas (Muslims eat these at Iftar). I asked for ten of the little snacks and to my suprise, the man started filling a sack with them. My “Oks” and “That’s enoughs” and “thanks, my family has a of history cardiac problems” quickly turned to laughter as he proceeded. He then asked for ten riyals. What could I do?

We drove to the “limestone escarpments” at Bir Zekreet extolled by the guide book. Along the way, we saw camels lumbering about in groups of three or four. The desert is quite flat in this part of the country and we saw few dunes. On the horizan, we could see oil fields, recognizable by their flaming masts, in the industrial city of Dukhan on the western coast. It took only an hour to cross the country!

The escarpments were lackluster at best. They were no more than fifteen feet high. We drove down a deteriorated road to an encampment, where Jay offered the remainder of the samosas to a Pakistani man. His face swelled with gratitude. Disappointed with the excursion, we returned to Doha for the evening. As the sun set behind us, the sand glowed a deep hue of red.

On Friday we attended church and then drove south toward Al Wakrah. We drove along the beach there and were amazed by the filth on the shore. Plastic water bottles almost outnumbered the shells at the water’s edge. Further, rotten food, paper refuse, and delightful sundries rolled in on the waves. Despite these conditions, a group of Filipinos dragged fishing nets through the waist-deep water. A jetty lined with dhows extended at an acute angle to our left, creating a small bay. We found the road that ran along the jetty and parked the car. Toward one end we saw the rotting carcasses of several abandoned vessels, while the seaworthy boats were moored farther out. We came upon two Sri Lankans fishing for hammour. Their tackle consisted of balls of twine, hooks, and sinkers; they baited the hooks with wet bread. They could catch nothing, for the hook’s impact with the water consistently dislodged the bread. Several yards down the way we encountered another man who could not haul in the fish fast enough. He had the same tackle, but the fish swam in such a thick school that I could imagine them supporting a rather hefty man. Aside from some small hammour, he caught some reed-then fish that looked like small Barracuda. After removing the hook, he broke their spines and tossed them into a bucket. Jay returned to the two unsuccessful Sri Lankans and indicated in broken English/Arabic/pidgen that they should move further down. They nodded amiably and shrugged, as if to say, we cannot go there. Prosperity sometimes results from circumstance alone, it seems.

In the late afternoon, we drove another 20km south to Messaid and visited the Sealine Resort. The wind deposits sand blown from Saudi Arabia here, attracting hordes of off-road enthusiasts. They roared up and down the dunes on four-wheelers, dune buggies, and jeeps, gainfully employed in the practice known as “dune bashing.” We watched them for a period and then returned to Al Wakrah. On the beach, we lit the grill and prepared steak, chicken, hummus, and mangoes. When the call to prayer sounded, signaling Iftar, we enjoyed the fine meal. Jay left me at the airport around 7PM and prepared for the antics I would surely observe on the ride back to Abu Dhabi.