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.