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.