I wish I weren't here

I can't believe it's almost a month since I last posted on here. A lot has happened in that time. A lot.

I'm back in Qatar, but for how long is anyone's guess. I'm not working for the same client any more because two days before I was due to return to Qatar, I received a phone call from my company boss telling me the client didn't want me and one other chap to go back to the job. I had been half- expecting this, to be honest, but it was still a bit of an unwelcome surprise. I was actually ready and psyched up to go back; maybe not looking forward to it as such, but ready.

The good people at my company didn't unceremoniously dump me, however. They understood that the client had been a difficult person to work with and to please. That's the diplomatic way of saying he is a spineless, back-stabbing little turd with all the integrity of a dead rat.

So the company looked around for other work, and there were a couple of possibilities in the pipeline, just waiting for the right valves to turn on, but I would have to spend another week in the UK. As it turned out, an opportunity arose at another job in Ras Laffan (oh, joy), but this time with a European company, and I travelled down to Somerset to spend a bit of time with one of the company's big cheeses to learn about the job I was going to work on. The upside of all this was that I got to spend more time at home, and was there for my daughter's birthday. Every cloud and all that.

I spent three days down in Somerset, getting the train for a very long ride down to the West Country - almost as long as the flight to Qatar, actually. It went well, and I returned to Yorkshire for one more day before I flew back here.

On the flight back, I was in a strangely nervous mood. I turned the whole situation over and over in my mind, but the general tone of my thinking was that I was completely insane to be leaving the family again. I put it down to the usual feelings that we all get just after saying goodbye again. I should be used to it, but as I've mentioned before, it doesn't get any easier. If anything, it gets harder and harder, especially when you know you are missing out on the best years of your children's lives.

I don't think my nerves were helped by the constant turbulence early in the flight, and despite different distraction methods being tried out, I couldn't relax. Also in the back of my mind was the fear about the new job I would be working on. I was going to work on a job all on my own. That would be fine if I knew what I was doing, but this contract side of things is all shiny and new to me. I was told I would get what support I needed from various senior people who would be at my beck and call, but that didn't convince me. I am eternally afraid of being put on the spot in a meeting or other similar situation and being found wanting.

Arrival in Doha was reasonably smooth, at least. I was near the front of Cattle Class (nice good legroom on the A340-600, actually) and managed to disembark swiftly, get a prime position on the shuttle bus, and then get right to the front of the queue for immigration. I was stamped in, and strolled right through (no checked baggage - nice) out into the muggy Arabian air, forgetting that I hadn't had time to change my Pounds to Riyals, so I had to stroll back into the terminal to draw some money from an ATM, otherwise the taxi driver was going to get upset with me. Luckily the ATM was in compliant mood.

Then before I knew it I was back in the apartment in down town Doha, and felt like I'd never been away. Another five weeks was waiting for me to get stuck into. I barely slept a wink that night.

The first day on the new job was pretty good and I was happy to be dealing with people I could relate to and shared cultural values with, i.e. Europeans. Of course it's nice to integrate with and learn from new cultures, but it isn't always comfortable, if I'm being honest. There is less chance of being misinterpreted with people you are accustomed to, and less chance of you missing the gist of what they want from you.

After a couple of days of the good old Doha to Ras Laffan wacky race, I plucked up the courage to ask the Project Manager if I could stay on the site camp, saving me from the Most Boring Commute In The World (TM), not to mention the Most Annoying Last Half Mile Of Any Journey I've Ever Had To Tolerate (On The Way Home). To my delight, the PM offered me a place there and then, and I moved in a couple of days later.

The room that I now call home is in a wooden cabin, and is about the size of a small hotel room, with an en-suite bathroom, TV, fridge and - best of all - a working internet connection. The camp features a canteen with free food, a bar with free beer (limited to 3 a night, mind), recreational facilities, and a barber shop. I'm yet to establish if there is a quartet of singers there.

Now prepare yourself for the whinge, because here are the bad bits: Firstly, the air conditioning unit is right over the bed and is not very quiet at all. In fact, it would give Concorde a run for its money in the noise stakes. Thankfully, I have ear plugs. Secondly, the food is of variable quality, varying between passable and vomit-inducing, grease-laden slop. But it's free, so I am spending very little money.

I moved in on a Thursday evening, which is hindsight was probably a bit silly. I could have spent another Friday in Doha, but I had an idea that the Martians were going to be pumping concrete that Thursday night, and really couldn't be bothered with that.

As it turns out, I got bored on Friday and ended up driving to City Centre in Doha for a bite to eat and to catch a movie. The drive isn't half as bad when it isn't a commute, and isn't as far as the mall is at the right end of town, but there was a nasty old sand storm when I was driving there and visibility was reduced drastically at some points.

In fact, since my return, I don't think I've seen the sky or the sun. You can feel the sun, but the dust being blown into the air by the Shamal winds has been rendering the sky almost the same colour as the ground: a featureless, inscrutable wall of sand. It really buggers up the sinuses as well.

So I should be happy, right? Wrong. I'm not. I'm feeling more miserable and more sick by the day. The camp food is playing hell with my guts, meaning I had last Sunday (Father's Day) off on the sick, and I sat in my room feeling extremely sorry for myself and intolerably lonely. A text message wishing me a Happy Father's Day did little to improve my mood.

Then, at a company dinner in Doha a few days later, I let all my bad vibes spill out across the table at the two boss men (local and UK), telling them I was terribly unhappy at life in Qatar without my family. I was considerate enough to let them finish their steaks first, and they listened intently to my self-pitying soliloquy for a while, then did the old patting on the head routine, telling me I would be fine, and that I just had to get back to where I was before I left for my fist leave cycle, in that comfort zone and that routine of work, gym, sleep, work, gym, sleep.

I knew they were right, of course, but the damage had been done. I was like a model train that had been trundling along at a nice steady pace, until I had been derailed by some spoilt (Lebanese) brat and was now lying on my side beside the track, wheels spinning uselessly. At this point, the analogy stops, because trains don't have wives and kids that they are missing 3,000 miles away.

But the pep-talk worked, if only for a few hours. I spent the night at a colleague's flat in Doha, even though I hadn't been drinking, and resolved to sleep on the issue. The next day, as I drove back to Ras Laffan, my mind swung like a pendulum on fast forward between wanting to turn round and get on the first plane back to the UK and wanting to force myself back onto the tracks and get on with it.

Once again, the fear of failure niggled at me. I had come here with a plan and a goal, and had deluded myself that I could do it. I can't even absorb myself in the work to take my mind off it. It's just too patchy and sporadic. What I can't get out of my mind is the fact that I could earn just as much money at home, even if it was working away from home between Monday and Friday. That had to be better than this, right?

So, what am I doing here? Punishing myself, is the conclusion I have come to. I am serving penance for my many failures. The money and debt thing is a big part of it - I feel that I have to correct the situation that I've brought about as quickly as possible, but I could have done that at home if I'd knuckled down. No, there had to be this extra facet to it - the self-flagellation's, somehow making myself more worthy in other people's eyes, but it's only making me unwell.

This is self-analysis gone bad. The funny thing is, I bumped into my old Gestalt therapist at York station on the first leg of my journey back here. I made out to her that all was rosy in the garden, and hid the bit about being up to my neck in shit and turmoil.

A few days after the meal, the local boss phoned me to ask me if I was feeling any better. I decided to be honest and told him that I wasn't, and wanted to go home. I said that I still wanted to work for the company if at all possible. After all, the work is more interesting than plain old QSing in the main. The boss, a man with unerring spirit and of a permanently-chipper nature, suddenly sounded deflated, and probably not a little annoyed at me.

I understand that, but then I remembered the dinner and what he had said when I asked him directly if he could do what I'm doing, i.e. live away from the family for sustained periods. He has a wife and two young kids himself, but they are with him here in Qatar. In his position, he couldn't answer me honestly in that situation, but acknowledged that it was "difficult". The only other obvious solution - mooted by some - of the family coming here is, of course, not an option. My family are settled and happy in Yorkshire, and have had their fill of the Middle East.

So have I, to be honest. So have I.

What happens now? We shall wait and see. I'll probably bumble along somehow.

It's Oh So Quiet

I've been busy, and there is still no internet connection in my apartment. I am ridiculously excited at the prospect of getting home. Only 52 hours to go.

That Was The Week That Was...

Pretty atrocious, really.

On top of the Martian activity I have had a really interesting week. A veritable roller-coaster of emotional turmoil and Jekyll and Hyde behaviour. Thankfully, I think we're through the worst now, and I can concentrate on the last week of this first five and look forward to getting home. I've been looking forward to that since I got here, to be frank.

So, after the night of torrid, horrid sleep deprivation, I didn't think it could get worse, but it did. On Tuesday, the Boss Man (#2) who was in town from the UK outlined a strategy for us all to keep the client boss (who is a schizophrenic, frankly) happy. I was at last going to get some real work to do instead of scratching around feeding off scraps. In a meeting with the client, it was apparent he didn't have much time for me, and didn't seem bothered at the prospect of me leaving the job - whereas he specifically named everyone else and said he wanted them to stay. Fair enough. I couldn't fault him for that, but then in my defence, I haven't been given any guidance, and the chances to use any initiative were zilch.

After the meeting, I found out that a particular person, who obviously feels threatened by our (specifically my) presence, had been bad-mouthing and poisoning my reputation to the client boss. That was nice of him. It was also established that this same person had no qualms about listening in on our conversations and running straight to his boss to tell him. We've basically decided that he can't be trusted from here on in, the weasily little turd that he is. The hair-style and moustache should have been a give-away.

Anyway, the Big Boss #2 got into a bit of a panic and told me I had to get stuck in and show my worth to the client, etc. Fine, I want to work. Twiddling thumbs is very boring and makes a 10-hour day seem like at least 15 and a half. Now that we have a local co-ordinator / team leader man who joined this week, there would be more guidance. I'm kind new to this line of work anyway, and that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

So BB#2 buggered off back to the UK, and then yesterday he sent me an e-mail saying it would be a good idea for me to delay my first week's leave for a couple of weeks to avoid over-lap with Mishter Bond, who is on leave the week after, which would appease the client. The fact is that there isn't actually any overlap: I come back the day he leaves. I took it up with the local team leader and put my case forward, and luckily he agreed that BB#2 was panicking for nought. He said I would be able to take my week off as planned. Hallelujah. I didn't want to have to let my kids down (any more than I already have) and I was also worried about making the right impression with the big bosses. It wasn't going to be an easy decision to make, but I think if it had come down to choosing, I would have chosen to go home. If it costed me my job here, that's fine. I can find another one with someone who isn't going to move the goalposts every two minutes.

In their defence, the client is volatile, and tends to blow the goalposts up rather than just move them. Even the new team leader man said as much. On Thursday, it was touch and go as to whether we would all get kicked off the job after the client had a mad half-hour and demanded the impossible. Luckily, he was placated by our people after a long meeting in the afternoon, and we are flavour of the month again. Knowing him, this will change again next week. It's nothing if not interesting.

Last night I needed beer, so I headed to the nearby hotel and treated myself to a couple of pints in the company of the new team leader. We've already established a healthy rapport and banter, and have had a couple of lively discussions about religion and politics. He is going to keep me on my toes, and that is definitely a good thing.

Roll on Thursday...

On a brighter note...

Something amused me and my smutty little mind the other day.

I bought a box of tissues - a must for any bloke living away from home - and printed on the bottom of the box are the words: CONTENTS: 200 PULLS

That's alright, but I'm usually too tired after the gym.

The War Of The Welds

No-one would have believed that in the early hours of a Monday morning, sleeping expatriates would be kept awake by CONRETE PUMPING TOSSERS.

I apologise now for the tone of this post, but I have had the worst night's sleep since I landed here. The Martians were back with a vengeance last night, banging and clanging, hooting and whistling away. I hoped that they would finish their evil doings by 10.30 or 11.00pm, but I was wrong. I was lulled into a false sense of sleepy security, only to be woken aat 12.30am by the sound of the Concrete Pumping Machine splattering its sloppy load all over the waiting re-bar.

AAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHH!!!!

This went on till around 5am. I managed to sleep in small bursts, but didn't get any refreshment for it. When I'm faced with the Ras Laffan expedition every day, I really don't appreciate this kind of thing. I mean, for crying out loud, they are trying to build this place, but WHY do they have to ignore common decency and consideration when they do it? It's like the bubble syndrome I wrote about in my Dubai blog. You can see it in the way these people drive and behave in shops. They withdraw into the bubble, put on the blinkers, and don't think or seemingly even care about the effects of their actions on others. Unbelievable.

So I slept in for an extra hour. Fuck it. I'm not risking my life (any more than I have to) by driving to RL half asleep. If they dock my pay by an hour, I don't care.

Of course, the driving was to its usual standard this morning. I was cut across by some nutcase at a roundabout. He decided to switch from being inside me on the roundabout to the outside of me when he exited. A few choice words were uttered, I can tell you, before I noticed that the driver was a Westerner. If you can't beat them, shoot them, I suppose. I'm going to explode some time soon if I don't get my anger under control. I rolled my window down last night to shout, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" at some woman who pulled out of a parking space without looking and then pulled over again within 20 yards without indicating. She just looked at me with a blank expression; no acknowledgement; no reaction whatsoever.

Every journey by car is interspersed with dozens of examples of people seemingly intent on crashing into you. I am turning into a foul-mouthed racist idiot, because on most occasions I can guess which nationality is doing which particular bit of reckless or just plain crap driving, and I end up making comments I would be ashamed to hear from others. Always in the safety and anonymity of my car, I must add.

Phew.

That's it off my chest. Back to the grindstone. Back to counting the days, hours, minutes and seconds.

Until next time.

Unchained Malady

It's official: Time is a twat. It's slowed right down.......to..........a............trickle. It was going quickly, and the end of my first five week stint was in sight, but now....

I'm losing patience with the lack of any decent work and the lack of any kind of certainty as to where I'm going to work and what I'm actually going to do. If they want me to work here full time, I might just move into the camp. The driving back and forth to Ras Laffan is seriously ball-aching, especially on top of a ten hour day, and on Thursday night I was so tired I went to bed at 9.30pm and slept for ten or eleven hours.

Friday was very hot. High 30s, I'm guessing. I spent it doing some food shopping, drinking coffee in Costa (they have wi-fi!), napping and vegging out in front of the TV watching some really, really bad films. If you're ever tempted to watch Epic Move - don't. It is shite; truly awful.

For a break from the apartment I went for a walk towards the souk with the express purpose of having a small ice-cream at the parlour there, which someone recommended to me. I even thought about getting a haircut while I was out. But even at 3.30pm, most places were closed. The haircut idea fell by the wayside, but I carried on, and when I got to the souk, it looked like everything was closed there as well. Fortunately, one or two places were open, if deserted. It was like Ramadan at the Madinat Jumeirah all over again. I settled for a juice cocktail cafe place, ordered a medium mixed fruit cocktail, and sat watching the world go by. The world; that is if there had been a plague that wiped out 99.99% of the population. The cafe had a radio playing loudly, broadcasting Friday prayers. They go on for a bit, it would seem. Those mullahs have some stamina.

The drink was fucking enormous, coming in a large beer-style glass, and was bloody delicious. It was more like a milkshake, but made with fresh fruit. I'm glad I didn't order the large one, because it would have been either wasted or regurgitated. As I drank, I watched the waiters of the Iraqi restaurant across the path arguing about something. I don't know what it was about, but their passionate, exaggerated gesticulations provided some entertainment.

With the cocktail consumed, I walked back to the apartment block, buying some bottled water on the way. A moment of madness consumed me, and I decided to see how many flights of stairs I could climb in the block. I had walked a fair distance in the baking afternoon heat, and was sweating quite copiously already (hold that image), but I still did it. It would count as my optional cardio workout of the day. I managed 3 flights before giving up. I felt faintly pathetic, but at the end of a walk, it was probably OK. I'll give it a try now and again to see how my fitness is progressing.

So Friday night had to be an early-ish one. Work the next day, and that bloody drive again. As I settled into bed, my eyes were irritating me. They can get a bit irritated with allergies and the like, and it felt as if I was developing an infection. I thought about leaving it till tomorrow and getting some eye drops when I got home from work, but imagined myself waking up with glued-together eyes and decided to get up again and walk round the corner to the Pharmacy. The very genial man behind the counter gave me 3 types of eye drops to use, and I wasn't in the mood to argue. For a moment I thought he was going to try and sell me some Durex for my eyes as well.

It was a wise decision. The drops did their work and I woke up able to see. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? Still in this apartment. Still alone. I keep waking up and expecting to turn over and see the bulge under the covers that is my wife, but it's just the pillows; silent, inanimate and unlovable.

Melon. Collie.

My doctor wrote a letter to my heart specialist describing me as a "melancholic, introspective man". Cheeky twat. I was hoping he would have called me a flawed genius.

Anyway, at least there is SOME good news. They've booked me in for my ablation procedure on 4th September. I will hopefully get rid of this blasted arrhythmia. I'm also hopeful that the very disciplined way I'm eating and exercising will help to cure it as well. Even at my low moments I am still able to resist bingeing on donuts and chocolate. The gym work is already paying dividends, and I hope that when I get home in 11 days' time, there will be a noticeable difference.

Toodle-pip!

What a Wasta-ful World

So there I was, minding my own business, approaching the West Bay area of Doha on my way home from work, and the armed police started blocking the roundabouts by parking their cars across the lanes. There was something afoot, that was certain. It was quite disconcerting to see the police with assualt rifles strapped to their backs. Fortunately for me, I wasn't in the flow of traffic subject to blockage, and kept going all the way into Doha and up to the traffic lights near the tennis stadium.

My luck suddenly changed. The lights turned green and I waited for the traffic to set off. And waited. And waited. I wondered what the problem was and thought about beeping my horn in that impatient style that I've picked up again, but remembered the road blocks and spotted another gun-toting police officer stopping the traffic up ahead. Traffic from other directions was still moving, but then everything stopped and an erie quiet fell upon the waiting cars, as if they were holding their collective breaths.

Moments later, a convoy of police cars and black government vehicles flew past, coming from the direction of the Corniche, and swung round the junction towards the Emir's palace. It was obviously the boss himself, or someone very close to him, heading to the palace or Diawan or something like that. Seconds later, the policemen disappeared and the traffic started moving again. The whole of Doha had been brought to a momentary standstill.

What a strange life it must be to live like that. No traffic jams - ever. All lights green, or just no lights. Do these dignitaries even know what those coloured lights that hang from gantries over the road mean? It must be great to go where you like, when you like, and not worry about getting stuck in the rush hour. To be fair, it was all very slick and well-drilled. It's obviously a well-rehearsed scenario. I'm just surprised I didn't hear about it on QBS radio.

Oh yes: QBS radio. What an enigma it is. It is torn between providing a very traditional public service to the populace and trying to be a cutting-edge source of entertainment. They have the cheesy, nasal, mid-Atlantic DJs with laboured banter who harbour ambitions of international fame but who wouldn't trouble hospital radio, and then they have complete amatuers who seem to have been plucked from the street and shoved in front a microphone. They play a bewildering mix of classic and new music from every genre imagineable, and there are sometimes some quite passable passages of music, and you forget what you're listening to, until the music suddenly cuts out in the middle of a song (not quite the needle scratching off, but close enough) and the station theme starts up. The station theme is a catchy Arabic warble played on strange stringed instruments, and it goes on for a minute or so before we are told that it's time for the news.

I always know what the first headline is going to be. Always. A meteor may have wiped out the entire Southern hemisphere or George Bush may have been assassinated through the application of a particularly vicious wedgie, but the first story is always about something His Highness the Emir has done that particular day, whether it's meeting a delegation from Timbuctoo to talk about the price of toothpaste or reading the latest copy of The Beano. In most cases, the entire entourage of Heir Apparents (unless they're otherwise engaged) and Ministers are named, which takes about 20 minutes to get through, such is the length of their names. The poor newscaster must get a sore throat. THEN, they mention the international news: "And finally, amphibious aliens from the Sirius star system have landed on the White House Lawn and want to buy some peanut butter. Crunchy, if possible." And then they play some more music before interrupting that after three minutes for the Call to Prayer.

But, who am I to complain? It's not my country, and that's the way they do things here. It's just different, I suppose. It's markedly different from the place about 250 miles East of here as well. In Dubai they have about half a dozen or so radio stations catering for expats, with professional(ish) DJs and news that might be of interest to expats and no sudden interruptions, unless something major happens to one of the Sheiks. The difference here is that they are obviously trying to maintain some sembleance of tradition in their one and only English-speaking (French-speaking for some of the day) station, and at the same time trying to cater for Western tastes, but the resultant mix is awkward and unweildy. I've been bewildered by some of the stuff I've heard, not least when they played an Eminem track without any censoring and the motherf*cking air turned blue. What was that about? I risk sounding disrespectful, but the interest level in the news must be low amongst the expat population, and the standards of production are sometimes appalling, so it's no wonder I resort to the mp3 player to keep me entertained on my long drives to and from Ras Laffan. I'm sure I'm not alone in thinking this way.

On the other hand that's part of the charm of the place. It's trying to emulate some of what is happening in the UAE, but not selling its soul in the process, so these transitions are going to be longer and more difficult. I'm sure that in time there will be concessions to Western tastes and properly-run, commercial radio stations will surface and thrive. The country is developing quickly, with a lot of large projects in the pipeline, and there are going to be increasing numbers of expats coming here, so the demand is going to grow for it. Time will tell.

Moving on, and I am now at the end of my third week here. The time is flying by, and that's a good thing. I also know that my week at home will fly by, so I have to make the most of it, which I intend to. I'm in the zone now - a routine of rising early, driving, working, driving, gym, food, sleep. It's very tiring working such long hours, but having little time to dwell is the best bit thing about it. I'm not a good dweller.

Tomorrow is Friday, and a chance to recharge the batteries. No firm plans, apart from sleeping. If the Martians let me, that is. Then back here on Saturday and into week four.

Livin' On A Prayer

Oooooooh, we're half-way there....

Half-way to my first five weeks being completed and getting back home to the family. Seventeen more days of driving back and forth to Ras Laffan. I might just have listened to every single track on my mp3 player by then, although it has a nasty habit of playing the same ones over and over again. I'm getting sick of U2's "The Fly". Buzz off, say I, as I jab the skip button.


Saturday night saw a nightmarish journey back to Doha. For some reason beyond the comprehension of sane people, the security personnel of Ras Laffan Industrial City thought it would be a good idea to set up a check-point on one of the main arterial routes towards the exit. Not AT the exit: TOWARDS the exit. This caused a long queue at the beginning of my journey. By the time I got to the outskirts of Doha it was dark, and my mind was approaching a somewhat stressed-out condition. The roads are bad enough in daylight, but in darkness you have to allow for all the usual perils plus the fact that it is harder to see cars coming out of hyperspace in your rear-view mirror, and if they haven't got their lights on - which is often the case - it makes it even more difficult.


Thankfully, with some extremely defensive driving, I made it to Doha. Then I had the traffic to contend with. It's not usually too bad on my route, but there is excitement added to by the seemingly random scattering of barriers and cones in the West Bay area where they seem to be resurfacing the road in segments. These barriers aren't very well lit anyway, which makes for interesting, last-minute manoeuvres by everyone. At the roundabouts, I generally try and stick to my chosen lane, which nobody else seems to want to do. In a bewildering blur, cars cut across from both sides as you try to negotiate your way around and off the roundabout. I think I must hold my breath every time I negotiate one.


Then I made another mistake of judgement, deciding to try a little short-cut towards the apartment. I will never learn, because I ended up getting stuck in a traffic jam down a narrow street, at the end of which were some traffic lights which stayed on green for around three seconds. I finally arrived, with a headache starting to develop, at 7.30pm. I am essentially doing a thirteen-hour day, with the long drive each way and the ten-hour working day sandwiched in the middle. It wouldn't be so bad if I was busy, but I'm not.


Still, I knew I had a gym session to go through, and it was a great stress-buster. My flames of my dark mood and evil thoughts had died down to smoking embers. I didn't want to go postal tonight, and I didn't want to jump on the first plane out of Dodge. Until the next day, at least.

With my mood lightened, I ate some reasonably decent, unprocessed food and settled in front of the goggle box for an hour. My noble aspirations of writing a book or something whilst I'm here have yet to take any tangible form. I'm just too beat by the time I've got home, exercised, eaten and then collapsed. Boo-fucking-hoo, eh?


What makes it slightly less tolerable is not having phone or internet in the apartment yet. They still haven't sorted it, and it's starting to seriously annoy me. All this driving and lack of facilities has made me think about asking to move to the on-site accommodation, but when I consider the even worse lack of facilities out here, I think I'm doing the right thing. If only they (my superiors) would sort out something so I could work in Doha half the week, which they keep saying they will, it would be so much more pleasant.


One has to be stoical though. I know what has to be done, and I'm sure things will smooth out along the way. The eyes have to remain on the goal, and knowing that I only have another seventeen days to tolerate until I go home is a big help. If it was a longer rotation, I'm not sure if I could put up with it. I should - SHOULD - also get my first pay within a week or two, which will make things seem better.


And finally, a pic I found. It made me laugh.

How The Other Half Live

Here we go with week three of five. I used to think starting the week on Sunday was strange, but starting it on Saturday is even stranger. There is no weekend cross-over with the UK, and more importantly, no chance to watch the English football. Ah well, it's not a matter of life and death. Most of the time.

But back to Thursday night. I was invited to a barbecue at a colleague's apartment block, and with nothing better to do - not so much a window in my diary as an entire wall missing - I went along. I drove round, intending to have maybe a shandy at the most, and took a bottle of mango juice as my offering. Going without a bottle of plonk felt a tad awkward, but the host had insisted that this would be fine as he understood the booze acquisition situation. After a torturous half-hour drive in the treacle-like evening traffic, I arrived at the complex of apartments and found my way up onto the roof of the four-storey building. The space not taken up by lift machinery and air conditioning gubbins had been converted into a roof-top terrance, with a stone barbecue, a bar and some tables and chair. A water feature occupied one corner and little blue lights in the floor provided a chic ambience. Luckily, the haziness of the day was starting to disperse, and we were able to enjoy the slight breeze that tickled our faces without having to spit dust out every two minutes.

Being the weak-willed fool that I am, especially after a long week, I was soon plied with a few bottles of Corona beer, a fantastic beverage in this particular climate, and decided I would get a taxi home. I ate a good amount of food, including home-made burgers, coleslaw, chicken kebabs and prawn skewers. The prawns were accompanied by chunks of haloumi, a regional cheese, and I was somewhat surprised how nice it is. It's not very cheesy cheese at all, being creamy and salty, and works well on the grill as it chars more than it melts. By the time the desserts came out I was struggling. My stomach must have shrunk because I was only able to half-finish a small slice of cheesecake and just couldn't even entertain a piece of the splendid-looking, plump apple pie that was offered. I managed to force another beer down my neck, though.

So, with my calorie allowance for the weekend blown out of the water, I relaxed in the cool evening air and talked about politics, kids and the price of camel dung till well after midnight. I met a few more people who were all very pleasant. I managed to sneak a peak in the host's apartment during a beer-run and was immediately struck with shameful envy. The complex is owned and managed by the same company who run my block, but since it is brand new, the spec is much more modern, and much more pleasant. The apartments here are mainly two bedroomed affairs, however, aimed at families rather than singletons. At 12.30 people were starting to drift away or drift off to sleep so we lugged all the paraphenalia and left-over food down to the host's apartment and the party broke up. I shared a car back to the apartment block with another work mate who lives there and went straight to bed. The Martians were thankfully quiet that night.

Friday morning and I had a lovely long lie-in to recharge the batteries and sleep off the beer. I rose at 11am or so, and ordered a cab to take me back to the complex to pick my car up. Friday morning traffic is as light as it ever gets, so the drive took only five minutes. From there I went straight round to the Mega Mart supermarket, which my colleague had pointed out to me the night before, and marched purposefully towards the shop going over the shopping list in my head. I was determined to do it properly this time, and buy some real food to cook. My purposeful stride became a weak limp when I saw the security gaurds at the doors shooing people away as if they were annoying cats. The shop was closing at 11.30am for an hour. Something to do with Friday lunchtime prayers.

Fortunately there is a Costapacket (Starbucks' evil twin) coffee shop next door, so I went in there and had myself a capuccino and a croissant, reading the local English-language paper to pass the time. There were locals and expats sitting side-by-side, enjoying a Friday coffee. There is quite a clever segragation for smokers in there, with a glass partition closing off one side for those who want to add nicotine to the caffeine. On the non-smoking side, the Western expat families stuck out like a sore thumb, and I was minded of the posey expat crew of places like the Lime Tree Cafe in Dubai, with the sunglass-on-head yummy mummies and the flip-flop-adorned dummy daddies ignoring their krazy kiddies as they tore around the place with their gobs emitting a constant, high-pitched screech. I tuned out and read the paper front to back.

That ate the hour up quite nicely, and when I returned, the shooing gaurds had gone and I started my expedition. There was a good mix of local, American and British produce, but it was a constant challenge to monitor the prices of things, especially imported items. There were cereal bars for over five quid a box, for example. This balances out with the cheapness of the fresh produce, so it's fair enough. I went in with the intention of spending 300 Riyals, and left having paid 350. I had enough reasonably-healthy and not-too-processed food for the week, probably more, so I was happy; a real Happy Shopper. It's so much easier and less of a ball-aching chore when you do it for yourself.

Back home, the goods were unloaded. I fancied a bit of gym-time to burn off some excess calories, but found the place was closed. The sign told me it was open again at 4pm, so I returned to the flat and had some lunch/dinner/afternoon sustenance of scrambled eggs. I'd forgotten to buy salt, but it was passable. I spent the next hour or two playing stupid solitaire games on the laptop and watching the Jeremy Kyle show on UKTV, then at 4pm on the dot I headed back up to the gym. It was still empty and officially closed. The doors were all closed but not locked, so I was able to get in, turn on the lights and AC and have a quick blast on the exercise bike. I was half-expecting someone to come and admonish me for daring to exercise unsupervised, but they didn't, and I made sure I turned everything off as I left.

Then it was time to decide what to do for the rest of the day. I toyed with going to see a football match again, but fancied a change and decided a trip to Villagio mall was on the agenda. A bite to eat and a movie was what I hoped to achieve, and I thought this new mall would still be relatively quiet. How wrong I was, and the traffic on the way there should have been a warning. It was mayhem, and I ended up parking a good distance from the entrance. I thought City Centre mall was bad, and had avoided that, but this was the same. I'm slowly learning that Friday evening is the time everyone in Doha gets out and about and hits the malls. Still, a bit of food and a movie would do me good, but I couldn't find a cinema there, even though I had gained the notion of its existence from somewhere. A dream, perhaps. The lack of melting clocks should have been a give-away.

As it was getting on, and it was too late to change my mind and head back for the football game, I had a plate of lukewarm spaghetti in an almost-empty Pizza Express and headed back to the quiet, empty apartment. I texted the wife to see if she would ring me for a chat, but she was out at the end-of-season rugby club thing with the kids (the boy plays rugby), and she couldn't. She reminded me that she was going to a friend's 40th birthday fancy dress party on the following evening, so she couldn't talk to me then, either. One sarcastic reply later and she promised to call me in the afternoon. Thank God these weekends aren't two days, especially with no internet access provided yet. As it turned out, I did watch a movie. Little Miss Sunshine was on one of the movie channels, and even though I probably missed the first half-hour, it passed the time till bedtime.

Do The Desert Shuffle.

It's Thursday again, and nearly two whole weeks have slipped into oblivion forever , joining the other two thousand weeks that went before it, never to be seen again. That's nearly fourteen thousand days; 328,000 hours; twenty million minutes; 1.2 billion seconds. And the clock never stops ticking over and over. Strange how we are so obsessed with time. We record it and monitor it and agonise over it, but we never know the exact time that it's going to end.

Too heavy. I'll move away from the psuedo-philosophical ramblings for now.

I'm getting used to it now: the routine, that is. I am getting up at 6am without feeling too tired, showering and dressing in 15 minutes, grabbing a banana and a cereal bar and heading out to Ras Laffan for the hour and however long it might take me, depending on traffic and camel deployments. (See what I mean about time? It rules our lives.) My mp3 player is keeping me sane on these long drives. I put it on shuffle -> all tracks and it works well most of the time, only impelling me to hit skip when it chooses to play a section of an audio book I downloaded or some test music loaded by some whizz at the factory. My music tastes are eclectic, so I can listen to a real variety of stuff, from Abba to Radiohead via AC/DC and The Smiths.

My going "home" routine is becoming familiar, and I've learned to time it just right to avoid the worst traffic leaving Ras Laffan and still drive in daylight for most of the journey, as the night can fall so quickly in this part of the world. The average temperature is rising every day, but it is still reasonably comfortable. That said, the weather has been very hazy and dusty for the last few days. The sky has adopted a milky quality, and objects appear gradually from the haze as you approach them. The flames atop the large flare-stacks appear to float in mid air, like torches on an invisible dungeon wall, until you get close.

When I get "home", I either head for the gym or try in vain to connect to the internet. I've been in the apartment for a week now, and they still haven't connected me. It is a minor irritation, but on bad days it seems just another annoyance on top of the others, accumulating to make me lose perspective and send me over the edge. So far, I've been able to keep the negative thoughts to a minimum, and keep reminding myself of what the mission here is, and that I will be home in three short weeks for my first break.

Last night was a big test of my resolve. I decided that I would find a supermarket and buy some proper food to cook instead of eating out or concocting more batchelor/student meals out of tins and packets, but I ended up caught in a horrible traffic jam on C Ring Road, and gave up the search. I found a way out of the jam eventually and got back to the flat at 7.30pm, hitting the gym straight away, before cooking myself some noodles and chicken sausages. Processed foods are generally the work of the devil; tempting yet evil. The worst thing is that I can cook quite well when I want to. I'm just using the excuses of time (again) and lack of proper cooking facilities (half the kitchen implements are either missing or broken). It's not like I need to do Heston Blummenthal-style laboratory gourmet with liquid nitrogen and a JCB, I just need to make something quick but fresh. I will definitely go to Carrefour or somewhere like that tomorrow and address the situation. This latest health kick I'm trying will only work if I do it with full commitment. I need some variety, because the daily offering at work of cold rice and chicken can wear one down after a bit. It's free, so I can't really complain. OK, I will a bit.

After eating my food I had a hot bath to soothe my aching muscles. The three sessions I've done this week have been hard work but rewarding. I was planning on an early night, maybe turning in at 9.30 or 10.00pm to get a good night's sleep and early start, but I'd forgotten about the Martians in the pit below my window. They were hammering away at whatever dreadful creation (most likely formwork) until gone 10pm, and I was convinced they were going to go indefatigably through the night, keeping me awake with the constant metallic pounding. I watched a bit of TV, then went to bed, and listened to my mp3 player for half an hour to drown it out, and when I pulled my earphones out, the hammering had stopped. Phew. So at least I got a decent sleep.

Back to today, then, and I'm looking forward to a barbeque tonight. A colleague has invited a few of us round to his apartment complex after work tonight for a little soiree. They have an area on the roof that can be used for parties and the like, so it could be quite pleasant. I'm going to be good and maybe have one or two beers and limit the troughing as much as possible; I don't want to undo my good work this week.

Then tomorrow is Friday: the day off. I might go to another football match. I think there's cup semi-finals at the same stadium I went to last week, and the final is the following weekend at the Khalifa stadium, which I think is the big new one they used for the Asian games. If I get to go to one, I'll write about it on here.

TTFN.

Things To Do In Doha When You're Desperate

That was a quick weekend. An eventful one, mind you; but still quick, owing to the fact that it consisted of only one day: Friday.

It's not a problem, though. I'm not complaining. Long weekends are the mother of boredom and depression and eating and drinking too much. As it is, I got away with eating a big juicy hamburger at Fuddruckers, but we'll come to that in a bit.

The weekend started on Thursday afternoon. I had driven myself to Ras Laffan and back with the aid of an mp3 player on shuffle, and hadn't got lost. When I got back to Doha I checked out of the hotel and lugged all my gear round the corner to the apartment block. I spent an infuriating ten minutes trying to park the car (which is a big saloon) in a very small space in a very tight basement garage. They have a habit here of squeezing spaces between columns, and it makes for a good test of one's driving skills, even more so when there are no parking sensors. After parking, I collected the keys to my apartment and took the lift to the 9th floor. I had a pleasant surprise in store: the flat itself was fine, reasonably furnished and spacious, but the view from living room was of another apartment block about ten metres away. In the bedroom, however, one window gives a view to the rear of the block, and offers a very nice vista of Doha bay, across to the cluster of glittering skyscrapers that seems to grow by the day.

It wasn't all perfect, though. The distant, straight-ahead view as all very pleasant, but dropping my gaze, I noticed that the buildings around this block were a little on the rustic side. Every single scruffy roof had a dusty satellite dish perched atop it, and I noticed that there seemed to be beds and other furniture strewn over quite a number of them. That's right: people live on the roofs of these buildings. Furthermore, between my apartment block and the next, there is another building being crowbarred in, and they are up to about second floor level or so. I can look from my window down onto the men working below, and I could hear them rattling and hammering and sawing away at the reinforcement bars waiting for the concrete for the next floor slab. I wondered to myself when they were going to pour that, and I could only guess as to how high the building was going to be.

My answer to the concrete pouring question soon presented itself when I made a little sortie to search out nourishment. A large, white concrete pumping truck was now parked in front of the new plot, blocking the road completely. I stood for a few seconds trying to figure out a way past, and noticed people were just walking and ducking under the hydraulic stabilisation legs that sprouted from each corner of the truck, giving it the appearance of a giant scorpion with its tail being the piping mechanism. Going against all my Health and Safety sensibilities, I decided to go for it and also walked under the machine's legs, hoping it wouldn't decide to make a sudden movement whilst I was passing under it. It hadn't started pumping yet, so I was fine.

I found the hotel I had been to on a couple of previous occasions. It is even closer now, which is useful. They have a reasonably homely bar on the twelfth floor and they serve decent food like steaks and pies, so off I popped and enjoyed a couple of pints and a bite to eat. I was joined for bit by Mr. Next In Command, and we talked bollocks for an hour or so. He, along with a few of the others from my company, lives in the same apartment block as me. We touched on a subject that has come up with a few of us working out at Ras Laffan. It was discovered that our client has accommodation blocks at the site, and they are supposed to be of a reasonable standard. Mishter Bond has expressed an interest in staying there, as it would save him the three-hour round-trip every day. As he comes to the site every day, it would make sense for him. For me, I might still be working in Doha for half of the week, so it's not as clear cut, and besides, the apartment is good and there are things to do in Doha when you're desperate, and if anyone visits me, as they are threatening to do, the apartment could cater for it.

I digress, as I do. After my couple of pints I returned to the apartment and ducked under the giant scorpion's legs once more and went up to my apartment. About half an hour after I'd settled down to watch a movie on the very nice LCD TV (shame about the reception), the pumping started. It was fairly noisy, consisting of a loud mechanical whirring and humming along with the rattle of reinforcement bars being hit by concrete. I checked my watch and it was 10.30pm. Are they having a laugh? They're having a laugh! I decided I would just watch TV until they stopped. They did after 30 minutes, but then started again another 30 minutes later, obviously pouring the concrete in batches. I wondered if they'd pour the whole floor slab that night, which seemed optimistic as the floor area was quite large. As it was, they were still pumping and pouring and power-floating until God knows what hour. I gave in to tiredness at 12.30am and found it remarkably easy to get to sleep. The noise assumed a rhythmic, soothing quality after a while.

When I woke up, I heard nothing from below. I looked out of the window to see that the Martians had left the pit, and the fighting machines were nowhere to be seen. I looked down on a completed floor slab, covered in circular marks from the power-floater and drying in the sun. Incredible. I wondered if they would be back, but Friday is, of course, the day off for everyone, well almost everyone, and there was no further activity.

So, refreshed and raring to go, I drove out to Villagio Mall near the new stadium (I've been there before - it's the one with the gondolas and fake canals), and did a quick spot of supply procurement in the cavernous Carrefour. Every other shop was closed, even at noon. Starbucks, or the Evil Caffeine Empire as it may be called by some, was open when I left, but I'd already had a coffee and sandwich at the Carrefour coffee shop, which had probably saved me a good 20 Riyals.

After dropping my shopping back at the flat, I sat around for a bit and decided I should get out and about while I still could, bearing in mind the approach of summer. I drove down to the Corniche, parked up just near the Emir's vast, palatial palace (funny that) and had a little wander on the path running along the bay. The Corniche has to be Doha's best feature, with grass and trees and an ever-changing view as you move along. Little dhows run cruises around the bay from jetties dotted along the length of it, and it is really quite a popular destination for residents, especially towards late afternoon and early evening when the temperature drops. Many just walk along it, taking in the air; some maniacs jog; kids frolic on the grass. It's very pleasant.

Hunger seduced me away from the Corniche and I ended up at Fuddruckers, an American burger restaurant, but not a fast food joint by any means. Their burgers are pretty good, and you have the choice of a large range of toppings, which you help yourself to from a salad bar and large vats of sauces. I opted for a half-pound plain burger, which was more than ample. I couldn't even finish the fries that came with it, and I'm glad I didn't let greed get the better of me. I could have chosen the pound burger. A pound! That's a big packet of minced beef that you would use to feed a family of four with. It must be huge.

With my belly full, I left Fuddruckers and sauntered back to the car, wondering how I'd spend the rest of my evening. It was only early; about 5.30pm, and I didn't really want to go to a bar. As it was, I spotted the bright floodlights of the nearby stadium, just past the tennis complex, and wondered if a football game was on. I drove closer to it as I made my way onto the main road and saw the large electronic scoreboard lit up with two club crests and 0-0. It might have already kicked off, but chances were that it was only early in the game, so I drove round to the stadium itself. There were a few cars there, but it wasn't packed by any means, so I parked close to a set of stairs leading up to the stands and ambled up them. A man was selling tickets at the first landing, and he told me it was the princely sum of 10 Riyals. I asked who was playing and he smiled at me as if I was a simpleton and should automatically know. Still, I decided it would be worth a watch. I like to see football games in different countries, as much to sample the different atmospheres as anything. It was good decision.

From the scoreboard and the flags everywhere I established was between Qatar Sporting Club and Al Khor, and there was a crowd of about 1,500 to 2,000 in a stadium that could hold maybe 10,000. Many of the people watching were local men, dressed in their familiar, squint-inducingly brilliant white dish-dashes. Some had football scarves on, some carried drums of different shapes and sizes. There wasn't a single woman that I could see in the ground apart from one Western woman who walked past with her partner as I entered. Seating was a help-yourself, first-come-first-served affair, and I parked myself near the top row, just about level with the penalty area. I soon realised that this a big game by how professional everything looked. There were cameras everywhere and electronic advertising boards lined every side of the luscious, green pitch. They even had one of those little electric buggies to carry injured players off the pitch. It was driven in the style of a white Land Cruiser.

When the game kicked off at 6.30 or so, with Qatar SC in yellow and Al Khor in blue, the drumming and chanting started, all conducted by a large man in a yellow T-shirt. I couldn't help but smile. The throbbing rhythms and enthusiastic chanting won me over straight away. The noise ebbed and flowed with the game, which was played at a good pace considering the climate. Within 2 minutes there was a goal for the home side as a hapless defender glanced a long, raking cross past his 'keeper. The drums and chants became louder and confetti fluttered down from the stands. Then, after another minute, Al Khor had equalised after a free-kick from the left edge of the penalty area was smashed into the opposite corner. I laughed and shook my head. Utter madness. The video at the bottom gives a little taster of the atmosphere.

Sadly, the action died down a bit, but there were still moments of excitement. Some of the attacking play was quite impressive, but then some of the defending was of the slapstick variety. I couldn't see it finishing 1-1. Qatar Sports Club's defence looked particularly shaky, especially with a very short goalkeeper who was good at shouting, but not so good at coming for high balls. The first half ended with Qatar SC earning a penalty and taking the lead.

Half time's arrival means only one thing wherever you watch a game: refreshment. I'd seen people coming down the steps with packets of pumpkin seeds, shwarmas and little cartons of juice or water. I left my seat to find the source of the food and drink and saw a man at the top of the stand with boxes of the stuff I wanted, so I bought a drink and a packet of seeds (2 Riyals), and returned to my seat for the second half.

The second period was a story of missed chances. Al Khor pressed for an equaliser and Qatar played on the break, splitting the defence time and again, but missing every time. The local supporters became more and more frustrated, shouting, "YALLAH!" whenever they broke, then tutting and stamping frustrated sandals onto the concrete when they again failed to score. The odd English term could be heard, such as "shoot" or "offside", but sadly I never heard an, "Abdullah, you're shite!" I don't know what the Arabic is for that.

As it was the home team held on for the win, as far as I know. I left the game with a minute or two of injury time to go, mainly to beat the rush. As I left, a local teenager held his scarf over his head and grinned at me. "Winners!" he said as I passed him. I smiled and nodded. This is what makes the game of football what it is. Cultural divides just melt away when it comes to willing your team to stick the ball in the onion bag. Or it could be goatskin sack.

EDIT: Just having had a look on the net about Qatar Sporting Club, I've found out that they have some bloody big names on their books, like Christophe Dugarry, Claudio Cannigia and Marcel Desailly. I don't think any of the big names played last night, but one could be wrong. The number 23 looked familiar. The announcements were all in Arabic. The one name I remember hearing was Karkouri, who used to play for Charlton Athletic in England. Also, it was Emir's Cup quarter-final, and QSC are now in the semi-final, to be played on 3rd May. Here is the report from the official QFA site.

The weekend comes, the cycle hums...

Zoinks! It's Wednesday night already. One more day and then a full weekend of fun. OK, maybe just one day. Better than nothing, as a man with a wooden willy might say.

Firstly, the moans: I had an attack of the old beast they call Atrial Fibrillation last night. I was actually dreaming that it happened, and at 1 a.m. I woke up and realised it was for real. The familiar flutter in the chest brought all the bad thoughts pouring into my head like treacle, but without the sweetness. I had just been thinking earlier in the day how my heart seemed to have built up some immunity to it, as I hadn't had an episode since January. I'd even managed to have a few drinks on Monday night when we'd all been taken out for dinner by the BIG BOSS (who was visiting from the UK) at the very nice Il Rustica Italian restaurant in Rydges Plaza hotel, and hadn't had a hint of AF. Still, I tried to be Phil O'Soffical about it, telling myself to take another tablet and it should sort itself out. It has done so the last few times I've had it. I also reminded myself that this very thing had happened in my first week in Dubai. The combined triggers of tiredness, stress, moving to a new country, jet lag and sexy camels had probably done for me once again. It had been a strange dream, I'll admit so much.

As it turned out, it was still there at 6 a.m., so I rung 007 and told him that my taking part in the mission was impossible this morning. OK, he shaid. Take it eashy. Then, about half an hour later, as I was just thinking I would have to go through another hospital experience in Qatar, I got up to put the DND sign on the outside of the door, and as I walked back to bed, my heart flipped back into Normal Blessed Sinus Beautiful Rhythm. Oh yes!

I still had no way of getting to work with Mishter Bond on hish merry way, so I rung the Qatar boss to explain. He told me to ring his next in command who was just leaving for Ras Laffan, and he told me to take it easy for the day, as they were already on their way. A day of sleep, then. Wrong! The phone rang again two minutes later and it was the BIG BOSS from the UK this time, who was with Mr. Next In Command in the car. He told me they were turning round and would pick me up in ten minutes. Bugger. At least I wouldn't lose a day's pay, I suppose. As it turned out, the long drive to Ras Laffan went quite quickly as I chatted merrily away to the BIG BOSS about work and different countries, global warming and aliens.

From there, things looked up more and more as the day progressed. I was promised a hire car that would end my reliance on poor old hapless Driver Man, who had somehow conspired to get us to and from work safely, if erratically, all week. He must be sick of being berated by the other passenger with his shouts of, "FOR FUCKSH SHAKE MAN! SHLOW DOWN!" I think the Sean Connery thing has maybe run it's course today, eh? Well, it's still amusing when I hear it. One more journey would have to be endured, though.

Lunchtime brought a nice surprise. The project boss, a dynamic young Lebanese man with an Esther Rantzen smile, treated us all to pizza. It made a change from cold chips. I was astonished that the pizza was still warm, as it had arrived from Pizza Hut, and the nearest one (as far as I know) is in Al Khor, a good 20 minute drive away. Everywhere is a long way away, to be honest. The Ras Laffan Industrial City is huge. I got a good idea of the size of the place today when we left our project and headed towards the port (where the huge LNG tanker ships with domes on top dock to load up) to collect a colleague. We drove past mile upon mile of green, three metre diameter pipe waiting by the side of the road to be installed. Huge chemical plants are being constructed everywhere. I thought Wilton on Teesside was a big complex, but this place is at least 5 or maybe 10 times the size.

So tonight I got a car. I was driven round to the hire place by the company Admin Man, and we endured a frustrating 20 to 30 minutes waiting for the usual arguments about red tape and arguments about arguments to be resolved. I should be used to it by now. But finally, I made off into the Doha night in a very nice Nissan, soon making the adjustment to driving on the right while sat on the left.

Another boost looks to be on the way: I am moving into an apartment tomorrow. Hotels are OK for about up to a week, so it's good timing. I hear it's got a gymnasium, so that fits nicely with my plan. Now if only I can swing working a few days in Doha rather than schlepping up to Ras Laffan every day, things will be really good. And only 30 days till I go home for my first week off.

I like Mozzarella.

I love it, actually, which is weird considering I don't really like cheese. Well, not raw cheese. Cooked into stuff; on toast with Worcestershire sauce; melted on meat; it's mostly good. So when I read this in the room service menu tonight, I expected something of reasonable quality:

Sandwiches

TEXAS LONGHORN
Grilled Steak Sandwich with Grilled Vegetables and Mozzarella Cheese served with French Fries. 22 QR.

Sounds good, no? The price (about 3 quid) should have set alarm bells ringing, but I ordered anyway. It took almost half an hour to arrive, so my expectation was even more heightened. They don't spend that much time on crap.

Wrong.

I took the metal lid off the plate, and was faced with a stale baguette filled with blackened thin strips of some kind of meat topped with this:


Now, forgive me for nearly throwing up all over the plate, but THAT is not Mozzarella. It's not even cheese. It's probably been closer to a penguin than a cow. I was so anguished and upset that I didn't even notice that the Grilled Vegetables were also stretching the terms of the Trades Description Act: they were sliced, cold salad vegetables. Still, I managed to peel the "cheese" off and devour the food. The chips were OK.

But there we are. I've vented my rage and have howled at the moon, and have perspective again. That said, thinking back, I can count the decent meals I have had since returning to Doha on one finger. That was the huge rib-eye steak I had last night. Other than that, the food here has proved to be fairly shite.

The breakfasts at this hotel are crap. The sandwich I had at the Ramada hotel was crap. The lunch at work today was...interesting. I don't want to seem ungrateful, because it was free, but it was stone cold. I might actually lose some weight here, without even trying.

Before the moaning gets too insistent, I will relay some good news: the job is interesting. I've had a good first day, and have already got stuck into some juicy contractual issues and exchanged points of view with a Lebanese QS. Lebanese people are weird. In a nice way, I mean. They throw you with their accent, which sounds at times French and other times German. I digress. Work was good.

It wasn't what I expected, to be fair. I had worrying preconceptions about the place, being on a huge Industrial City up in Ras Laffan (North East of the country). After a very early start of 7am (I'm still at 5am), the drive there was quite long, and then there was a bit of a wait to get through security, and then there was more of a drive through desert to get to the project I am working on. The constant sight of sand and sky was suddenly punctuated by flare stacks and petrochemical storage tanks. The roadside was suddenly littered with giant metal vessels, like some giant's discarded Mechanno set.

Finally we arrived at the site offices and I was pleasantly surprised at how good the facilities were, with clean toilets, good AC, modern furniture and the ubiquitous little man with a tray offering drinks and fruit. The biggest surprise came at lunchtime. A very helpful chap showed me the way to the canteen, and I assumed it would involved buying something very basic, but when I was guided into the little cabin, I was greeted by the sight of about ten plastic patio tables adorned with metal food trays (like the ones from Chinese take-aways) and plastic bags containing Arabic bread and cans of fizzy beverages. Every place setting had these, and people were sat here and there helping themselves. I turned to my guide, probably with a very stupid expression on my face, and grunted, "Wha?" He just smiled and motioned to the tables and then left the hut, so I took a place at an empty table and started opening the lucky dip boxes. There was salad, humus, rice, chips, fried chicken and some kind of chicken casserole, and all of it was stone cold (as I might have mentioned). Never mind, thought I. Free grub is free grub, whether it's cold or not, so I ate it up and went back to work.

The evening drive back was an experience, in much the same way waking up surrounded by scorpions is an experience. The "driver" was less of a driver than the "cheese" was Mozzarella. He didn't seem to know what to do with a gear-shift vehicle and seemed to have a powerful magnet pulling him towards other cars' bumpers. I had to distract myself by holding a conversation with my fellow passenger, a gregarious, well-travelled Scotsman with an uncanny Sean Connery impression for a voice. I washn't shure if he wash taking the pish oot of me. Anyway, he provided some good entertainment as he shouted and swore at our hapless driver whenever he made another life-threatening mistake at seventy miles per hour. After an hour and a bit, we finally arrived back in Doha, and I nearly got down on my knees and prayed in thanks. Nearly. It might have been deemed provocative here.

Back in the State of Qatar

So here I am again....oh, said that already.

I am now back in the Middle East. The flight wasn't bad, as I managed to get myself into an emergency exit seat with extra legroom. The only problem was the delay in take-off, which was an hour and a half.

I arrived at about half past midnight local time. A meet and greet by Al Maha services had been arranged, and it certainly beats standing in the passport control queue. When greeted, you are guided to a little room with comfy chairs and drinks to help yourself to. At least, I think you help yourself. No-one asked for money. While you are waiting, the Al Maha ladies take your passport away and deal with the formalities on your behalf, and by the time it's all sorted out, you just have to show your face and passport to the immigration people and breeze on through to the baggage claim area.

Doha airport really is a small operation, with only six baggage reclaim conveyors. It's little wonder that they are building an entirely new airport when you think how fast the place is growing. On the plus side, you only have to walk about 100 yards in total after leaving your plane.

My hotel pick-up was there as expected and I was transported the short distance to the Qatar Royal hotel. It's not a major chain hotel like Ramada or Marriot, but it's pleasant enough and of a decent standard. It didn't take me long to hit the sack and get myself into the land of nod. The fifteen hour trip had taken it - whatever it is - out of me.

This morning I laid in till nearly ten o'clock. I had been woken by the mournful echoes of the call to prayer at 4am and had wondered why it caught me by surprise. I'll get used to it again, I'm sure. When I finally rose, I showered then ambled down for a leisurely breakfast. I was on my own in the restaurant, and the breakfast buffet had obviously seen better days. All the food had the look of things that had been left for a few hours. The scrambled eggs looked congealed and unappetising, so I had some toast. Lesson learned.

The rest of the day has been about kicking my heels and relaxing, grabbing a power nap every now and then. I will finally get to meet one of the people from my new company tonight, as he is taking me out for dinner. I'm hoping it won't be too extravagant; I've come here with the notion of trying to eat healthily. For those readers experiencing Deja Vu, I am sticking my tongue out at you.

Here I Go Again On My Own.

I feel like a bad, bad person right now. My children have gone to bed in torrents of tears because Daddy is leaving them again in the morning.

As per bloody usual, things never worked out how I wanted them to. My best-laid plans have crumbled like a sandcastle in the high tide. My flighty ambitions have evaporated in the scorching sun of reality. I left Sofia last year with a head full of good intentions and told myself I would never leave my kids again, and now I've let them down.

It seems my plan to live frugally and save up and pay off debts was fatally flawed from the outset. I didn't recognise the fact that my health problems would come to a head again, but they did, and I was actually out of work for a few weeks due to it, and had to claim incapacity benefits for the first time in my life. It felt wretched. I felt the judgemental stares of the world on my back. I couldn't see a way out, with a growing mountain of debt blocking my path. The vultures were circling. I went into a very dark place and fell to an all-time low.

Thanks to the people around me - my wife, kids, parents, siblings, etc., I have pulled myself together. Things have been finally looking up, and I am now on the waiting list for the heart ablation, which will hopefully make things much, much better. I had to fight to get the funding from my PCT, but they have relented, and now I am just waiting for the right time to get it done. I am looking at August this year. Just knowing that I am going to have it done has made a huge difference to my outlook. I think having had a kick up the arse from my mother has also given me some perspective as well.

So this (what seems to be) perfect opportunity has fallen into my lap. I am taking up a consultancy contract position back in Qatar. The pay is really, really good, and the 5/1 week rotation means I won't be away from home for horrendously long amounts of time. With pretty much all my expenses covered by my employer, I am in a good position to finally graft for a while and get some bloody money in the bank and shoo those vultures away.

The job is also something of a change in direction, going into construction claims and law rather than just counting bricks. I've had a little taster of it before, and it is something I am interested in doing. There is more scope for actually thinking about problems and coming up with solutions rather than being a dispassionate, objective observer. I am looking forward to it, and the future potential of this type of work is really attractive.

I've been so positive about it. I have been itching to start, even when the usual red-tape issues threatened to derail the whole thing. I've not felt this excited about a job for a long, long time. Until tonight.

The kids went to bed crying and it broke my heart. I struggled to keep my own tears away, and just managed it. All the positivity drained away for a good hour and the doubts flooded in. I felt like a selfish, heartless piece of shit, to be honest. But now that I've got this out, committed to blogland, I don't feel nearly so bad. I have perspective back, and know that what I'm doing is playing the long game. I'm going to suffer some short-term pain for a whole load of gain a bit further down the road. Getting back on track, getting rid of the debts, giving my family what they need and deserve is what is going to keep me going. Working for 6 days a week in something interesting will keep me occupied and help me avoid the boredom which has often caused me real problems before. Five weeks is going to fly by, and I'll be back before I know it.

So tomorrow is not far away now. My bags are packed - they have been for a while, to be fair - and I'm ready to make the 14-hour trip to Doha.

Let's get it on.