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.
Tuesday 17 June 2008
Tuesday 20 May 2008
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.
Friday 16 May 2008
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 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...
Monday 12 May 2008
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.
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.
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.
Sunday 11 May 2008
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!
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!
Thursday 8 May 2008
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.
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.
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