Working in the Fresh Air

finishing the roof - muntazah, doha

Spare a thought for these guys. I'm on a level with them, literally, because my Muntazah apartment is on the seventh floor. Their building is also seven storeys. The main difference is, mine is finished, with roof, windows and air conditioning. Theirs is still an empty shell: columns, slabs and block-work. And the half finished 'feature' on top which the eight of them are working to complete, probably by yesterday.

Another difference is: I can afford to live in mine; they can only work on theirs, outdoors, in searing heat and sandstorms (yes, that's why the sky is pink) until the end of the shift. Then it's the clapped out American school bus, back to the labour camp.

Once upon a time, the British Labour Party Constitution aspired, in Clause Four:
"To secure for the workers by hand or by brain the full fruits of their industry and the most equitable distribution thereof that may be possible upon the basis of the common ownership of the means of production, distribution and exchange, and the best obtainable system of popular administration and control of each industry or service".

But Tony kicked that into touch, preferring something not far removed from:
The rich man in his castle
The poor man at his gate
God made them, high or lowly
And ordered their estate.

But as this isn't a political blog, I'll shut up. Pretty photo Nice back light.

The Barber's Wife

Sometimes she leans on the windowsill, looking down into the alleyway. Probably she'd like a better view, ideally from a better house in another country. But that's why she's here, after all. And even if it never happens, at least she is with her husband, making both of them luckier than most of the workers who keep Qatar ticking over.

Two pints of Aftershave and a packet of crisps please.

The guy who drove his forklift straight through the portacabin wall and the guy who was found outside the compound semi-conscious and coughing blood had this in common - both were blind drunk, on cheap aftershave. Subsequent inspection of the workers' quarters showed that most had a large bottle of the same cheap aftershave tucked away somewhere. All were of course confiscated on the spot, as if that were addressing the problem.
How about, instead, providing an affordable 'clubhouse' bar where the guys could have a beer or two after work? How about raising wages to the level where an occasional visit to a cheaper hotel bar is a reasonable prospect? Oh wait, we've closed all but four and five star outlets haven't we, and we're working on closing even the fours. Better still, how about allowing the workers to bring their families to Qatar? Of course, Qatar is not good for women and children, because of the grossly skewed male/female balance. But isn't that a 'problem' that presents its own solution?
In short, how about respecting the people who are building your bright new city?
Now back to the aftershave. Those of us who can afford our preferred tipple might look down on anyone who would raise a bottle of aftershave to his lips. But we'd do well to remember that all strong drink is an acquired taste. A child presented with whisky and aftershave would find both equally repugnant but might even favour the latter, for its nicer smell. (This is a thought experiment only, of course!) Remember too, that these guys are not the old-style western down-and-outs whose addiction has so degraded them that methylated spirits or even brasso is their final port of refuge. They are workers, though they might as well be slaves. What they do, they do from desperation. It is wholly avoidable, and that's the shame of it.

Yellow Bus Blues

I've often wondered if many Americans know where some of their pensioned off school buses end up? Half-way round the World in Slaka, that's where, for a new lease of life as workers' transport. They're not refurbished in any way. Many still have the school name painted on the back and sides. Some still sport the stop sign. In not a few, the upholstery is worn through to the bare plywood. Balding or bald tyres are de rigueur. With no air conditioning, the interiors can get pleasantly warm in the searing desert sun. It's conceivable that the workers (affectionately known as bachelors by Slaka authorities) would prefer more modern coaches, but any such gesture would run counter to the noble tradition of social stratification that must be upheld at all costs. Or something.

No like this Qatar

Clearly scrawled straight from the heart, this choice piece of graffiti must have a sad story behind it. One wonders what poor disaffected soul could have been frustrated enough with his host country (for one assumes he is not a local) to throw caution to the winds and vent his frustration on a defenseless concrete wall. A grey concrete wall in a hot, dusty city. A hot dusty city that doesn't allow its immigrant workers into its shopping malls, or even to walk on the Corniche. I can't understand it at all...

Working on the Chain Gang

Slave labour is alive and well in the Gulf. One of the nastier tricks the less scrupulous employers use is simply to withhold payment for several months, often from an entire immigrant workforce. Westerners often fail to understand this one. Here, the employer is also the sponsor. The affected workers can't go to work for someone else, because the sponsor won't release them. They can't even cut their losses and leave the country, because the sponsor will not issue an exit visa (and you thought you could just get on a plane, huh?) And of course there are no unions, no worker representation. So what are the choices? Withhold your labour and starve, or continue to work for whatever late pittance your sponsor feels like doling out. Probably enough to keep you alive and working, just.