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.