Breet breet!

I had just changed into my extreme hot weather walking kit and was on the point of going out when I thought I heard a cricket or cicada chirruping somewhere in the house. Clearly a quick eviction was called for. I stood still to listen and immediately the chirruping stopped too. (This is typical cicada behaviour. Whenever they think you're looking for them, they shut up and concentrate on being invisible). A few more steps to check behind the door were accompanied by a few more chirrups from somewhere nearby. Stop by the door and immediately the chirruping stopped too. This pattern repeated a few more times. Walk, chirrup, stop, silence! Walk, chirrup, stop, silence!

Addidas hot weather track pants have an inner mesh or gauze layer to wick sweat away from the thighs. Worn inside-out by mistake, this mesh or gauze, swishing against itself when you walk, makes a noise exactly like a small cricket or cicada. And it stops when you stand still. You should try it sometime...

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.

Qatar's Kings, Past and Present

Paraglider proudly presents a veritable Royal Pageant from the streets of Doha. Sadly, the first two of these Kings are no longer with us, having met their demise in the Musheireb Clearances. The King of Shoes suffered the same fate, without even a photograph to preserve the memory.

king of fashion - who needs versace?

note the inverted i - true sophistication

wait a sec, who's that in the window?

rather a modest kingly palace, on the whole

who knew that frames were subjects?

and shouldn't this be a prince?

If you know of any I've missed, please let me know and I'll add them to the collection. I've a vague recollection of a King of Chicken restaurant, but its location escapes me.

Doha's Finest Building?

top left, sofitel; bottom right, the hidden gem

Tucked away in Doha's central slum quarter is my favourite building in Qatar. To get there, from Grand Mercure né Sofitel (that's it top left with the blue swimming pool) you can either walk down to Boat Roundabout and take a right, or, you can take a right stepping out of Sofitel then left at Broken Corner, just before the B Ring. Either way, you're aiming for a very small building near the bottom right corner of the Google Earth view. Alternatively, you can plunge straight into the maze of slums and try to negotiate a South-Easterly zig-zag through it. This can be quite an adventure with no guarantee of success.

the gem, from above

You'll end up somewhere but not necessarily anywhere near the goal which is this strange double-D shaped building, hidden from almost everywhere by newer. higher and uglier neighbours. You'll also breathe in a lot of sewer gas and fibrous dust from the many upholstery workshops that somehow eke out a living here, against all the odds. All in all, the most reliable route is via Boat Roundabout. Look up every side street and alleyway on your right, until you see this:

The building shows little sign of occupancy and is probably deserted. It is either two modest villas or one large one, accessed by a central stair. It seems to be on two levels with highly ornate wrap-around balconies at both ends and on both levels. It is no longer possible to walk around it because of the press of later buildings on three sides. In time, probably within a year, the whole area will be fenced off and razed to the ground, like the rest of Musheireb and National.

But in its day, it must have been the finest building in central Doha. Quite simply, there is nothing else remotely like it. Maybe someone knows its history. Maybe someone still cares. At one time, it would have stood alone, home to a successful merchant family perhaps, or a minor Royal, resplendent in its basket-weave plasterwork and bas-relief crests. On borrowed time now, these few photographs may prove its only memorial. Shame.

Standing in the Heart of Doha

just another friday night, for the men who are building a new doha

It has all the appearance of a muster point. Why else would several hundred people gather in a condemned cul-de-sac in the heart of Doha, except to stage a march or demonstration? But no, this is just another Friday night. The same crowd gathers every weekend, and for no better reason than Eccles' excuse - everybody's got to be somewhere! They don't march. They don't protest. And at the end of the night they melt back into invisibility. These are just some of the men who are building the bright new Doha, not the Engineers and Architects, but no less vital in the grand scheme of things.
But why choose the demolition site as a hangout, especially when the Corniche is less than a kilometre away and the fashionable Souq Waqif a mere three hundred metres? Could it be that this is one of the few places from which they won't be 'moved along' by the police? The simple rule here is that rich people should not have to see poor people.
So they stand. Or sit. Or squat. They smoke. They pass around little sachets of gutra or manikchand. They chew. They spit red gobbets in the gutter. They talk. Then they go back to their 'bachelor quarters'. And next week they'll do it again. And weekly thereafter, until the Heart of Doha is finished.

Meanwhile:
"Dohaland celebrates 2nd anniversary with a host of achievements and milestones. Over 5 million man hours completed on company's signature project Musheireb".

Just sayin'...

"Tooking for a Lowel" - remembering Patrick Campbell

Patrick Campbell, BBC TV, 1970

Lying awake to the cacophonous accompaniment of nightlong rubble clearance from the demolition site below my balcony, my sleep deprived mind came briefly, if randomly, to rest on a reminiscence of an old-style Irish columnist, raconteur and 'personality' (we had these in the days before celebrities) called Patrick Campbell. 

It occurred to me that if he were alive today he'd have made a perfect blogger, with his unfailing ability to weave something from nothing. For example, long before Douglas Adams wrote Hitch Hiker's Guide, Patrick Campbell had penned a short story called Tooking for a Lowel, possibly the first literary exploration of the effects of separation from one's bath towel. Did Adams plagiarise it? Almost certainly not, but it's not important.

The reason for Campbell's night visitation was another of his stories in which he describes, in excruciating detail, trying to write his column while a road gang were giving it big licks with pneumatic drills just outside his window. As he observed, it's not the drill noise itself that destroys the nerves. The brain can shut out almost any constant noise. It's the sudden silences punctated by the gasping compressor, the sudden restart of the next salvo. It's the anticipation that murders sleep. The dread. 

Campbell had his drills. I have my JCB. Pity the poor souls in Libya whose current 'irritation' is heavy ordnance.

For Narcissa, who knows who she is

for narcissa, who knows who she is

even as you say
I must go home you
wonder why

there is a
turned down bed
and a chocolate
to say goodnight

for one less star
a made up bed
and no chocolate

only a minibar
with the sound of bees
in a stump

no trouser press thank god

each padded cell
empty
of narcissa who

does not leave the bar
casually but with
roses aforethought
and the mandatory

soft toy

bought to the band's
last number
in the grey lobby

Hope springs eternal in the human breast...

yet there are limits. And the guy who parked this huge yellow sewage water tanker (5,700 gallons, good area, best vintage) with 'for sale' signs stuck to it was surely pushing his luck.

OK, on closer inspection the tanker turns out to be brand new, fresh from the factory. And no doubt sewage water tankers are bought and sold like everything else. But surely not by casual roadside advertisement, like some clapped out Ford Cortina (MOT failure, £150). It's hard to imagine someone, say, walking to the mosque, prayer mat under his oxter, happening to spot the yellow monster with its sale signs and thinking: Hey, only this morning I was saying to my wife over breakfast, what we really need is a decent new sewage truck. It's not going to happen, is it?
Thinking about it, some readers might be unfamiliar with sewage water trucks. They're not something you see too often in most cities. But Doha does a special line in isolated buildings, not connected to mains water or sewerage systems. It has something to do with planning, or the lack of it. Such buildings are serviced regularly by drinking water delivery trucks and sewage water removal trucks. Ideally not on the same day, and not with the same tanker.

I suppose it could be presumptuous of me to assume none of my readers is interested in making an offer. It is quite a beautiful machine, in its way and might very well appeal to a collector somewhere. If so, the number, which is already public domain and so can be repeated here, is +974 55022771.

Doha Ramada Library Bar - in the Beginning was the Word...

Ramadan is only a week away and all the bars will close. When they re-open in September, it would be a great shame to visit the Ramada Library Bar only to find it redecorated, with the famous mural over-painted in a nice tasteful magnolia. Heaven forbid that this should happen, but just in case, I've preserved it here, for posterity. In best Arabic style, the mural progresses from right to left and begins with:

the hand of God giving Adam a book, or the gift of written language:

Then we have earliest cave markings:

Followed by ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics:

And the reading of a scroll in an amphitheatre:

From monkish scribes to the Printing Press:

To mastery of Music and Navigation:

To the domestic Study, with TV showing Mona Lisa:

To Modernity, with books launching trains, planes, skyscrapers, computers and beyond:

This detail, the Artist, Muriel Terzano Lamy:

Even to the bar stools.

Muriel Terzano Lamy's enormous and exuberant mural gives the Library Bar a completely unique ambience, making it one of Doha's most amenable night spots (though the friendly bar staff help too!) I've let her mural speak for itself, but the low quality of my photos (ambient light, no flash) doesn't do it full justice. There are many more details to be discovered.

Any colour you like, but no looking...

Fei was telling us why she always wears black: -In China go see man. Man tell me my good colours. Ah, so he looks at your hair colour, your skin tones, eye colour, and suggests what would suit you best? -No, man no look. Man take hand, touch hand with fingers. Understand lucky colours. For me, black, grey, blue, lucky. Black number one lucky. So, he reads your palm, by touch, to pick your lucky colours? -Yes. But maybe he looks at your face first? -No. Man no look. Eyes no working. No can see. Your country no have? Blind colour consultants? No, there's not much demand for them over here.
Though sometimes I wonder.

Occasionally busty, but..

Never Titi. Eat your heart out Akhenaten. Your Great Royal Wife, or chief consort, has finally made her mark, heading up an abayat in sunny Doha. And in so doing she edges the Kharbash School of Motoring (Karama) out of number one faux pax shop sign position (until further notice).
It is the inevitable loss of gems like this that takes the edge off the Heart of Doha renovation project. Yes, it will be impressive, but will it be half as much fun? Answers on a postcard (or in the comments section...)

Bob Marley and the Qatari Wailers

It's well known that Qataris don't frequent bars, except when they do. And then, they don't wear National dress, except when they do. And of course, they don't drink alcohol, except, you've got the pattern, when they do. And after all, why should they not, in their own country? But here's the greater mystery: when the spirit moves them to make a request, nine times out of ten, it is for Bob Marley. When the spirit further moves them to get up and dance, it is again to Bob Marley. And, late into the evening, when spirited onto the stage to (af)front the long-suffering band, what else do they sing but, you've guessed it, Bob Marley. And none of your rare album tracks favoured by intellectuals and aficionados. No, it's straight for the big hits. Buffalo Soldier. No Woman No Cry. What is the magical attraction of Cap'n Bob (no disrespect to his memory) to the Qatari psyche? Because, for sure, he's deep in there.
With honourable exceptions, of course.

A bleak, dark place

It's not that the landscape's so different from the UAE. Yes, it's colder. Snow takes the place of sand; conifers, of palms; stone walling, of concrete. One leaden sky is much like another, whether laced with ice crystals or with traffic fumes. And after all, what is a hill but a plane, tilted? Yet here, there is the suspicion, however unfounded, that were attrocities to be committed deep in this frozen wilderness, justice might follow, in due course.

On the Breaking of Bonds

What's best about living abroad is the range and change of people we meet. It's a truism that every lost soul at the bar has a story to tell. That applies every bit as much in the local back home as it does in Sofitel or Paranormal. The difference is in the stories, which tend to be more extreme, adventurous or simply bizarre among ex-pats. I suppose it's to be expected that people who have deliberately exchanged the familiar for the unknown might typically rank higher on the eccentricity scale.
Only last night, I overheard an attempted conversation between a Spanish expert on English porcelain and an English authority on the history of Flamenco. The English aficionado spoke no Spanish save for the names of cantaores and tocadores (singers and guitarists). The limit of the Spanish antiquarian's English seemed to be a few well-connected towns: Royal Worcester, Royal Doulton, Crown Derby. West Ham and Fulham never got a look-in! It's just conceivable that a similar conversation could break out spontaneously somewhere in the Vale of Evesham, but I wouldn't bet on it. Not where the norm is:
'Ave you seen Jeff? - Jeff? - Jeff, ar. - Old Jeff? - Old Jeff, ar. - A'nt he passed away? - Passed away? - Passed away, ar.
There is, unfortunately a down side to the crazy parade that is ex-pat life. And that is when people who have become good friends disappear from our lives. With or without warning, it's equally tough when you're having that last pint together.
And you say- safe journey then.
And you say- we'll meet for a beer when this contract's over.
And you know you won't.
And you don't.

Mirrors, Mirrors, on the Ball

What's good and bad about Engineering is that there's something new to learn every day. The good is that it can be interesting; the bad is that it's hard work keeping ahead of the game. So I'm always fascinated to meet people with easy jobs, in case one day I wake up tired of challenges and decide to seek a change.
Which brings me to Tony, a recent bar acquaintance. I asked him if he was in Energy or Construction, usually a safe bet in Doha.
No. I'm a mirror ball Consultant. The only one in the Gulf. It's a niche market.
A what? Surely you just stick these things on the ceilings of tacky discos, switch them on, point a light at them, and forget about them till the next refurbishment? How little I knew.
I advise on the ideal ball diameter and mirror-tile size for the venue, the optimum x,y,z coordinates [sic], the correct orientation of the projectors, [I'd have thought pointing at the ball would be a good start?] Oh, and the speed and sense of rotation.
Let's get this clear. You travel around bars and night clubs in the Gulf sticking mirror balls on the ceiling. And that's it?
No, no. I don't touch them. I just give advice on best practice. I'm a Consultant.
Tony - drop me a line when you're retiring, OK?

When Don Quixote met Ella Gow

The talk soon came around to dancing. His pantaloons were incongruous but, in her green drndl hand-me-down, she herself was scarcely a model of elegance. None of which seemed to matter as, seamlessly, they moved from talk to practice. Well, more of a lesson, if truth be told, as Ella, till now, had only read of the Pavane. The Don’s grace and courtly manners were matched only by her guileless acquiescence and, perhaps, by the vacuous stares of the seven attendant Livingstone Daisies, resplendent in their black neckerchiefs and white lace petticoats. There were none to mock, for it was Tuesday, and barely dark.
--------------------
No, I've not quite gone mad. There was a short-lived blog once, called Paraplexed. I always had a soft spot for this particular post and thought I'd preserve it here. Anyone recognise the picture?

Mr Gumbo Jumbo PBUH

No doubt he had a crush on Lisa. No doubt it was not reciprocated. We think he was a dentist. Certainly he was a gentleman. And a regular. Occasionally, he would come in wearing a business suit, and once, a paisley pattern jumper. But his normal attire was an immaculate white dishtash, his dancing dress. He would drink bottled Heineken with an ever-widening smile and a sparkle in his crossed eyes, waiting for the band to play his request, the one he thought was called Gumbo Jumbo. Then he'd get up and dance. If Lisa let him have the mic, he'd sing - ya ya gumbo jumbo ya ya yai. He liked being happy, was polite to everyone, died suddenly and will be missed. Mr Gumbo Jumbo, peace be upon him.

A Taste of the Dark

Eric's dance was a long time coming. Maybe half a dozen double whiskies and fourteen tentative approaches from all nations East of Turkey. He seemed impervious, even to the wiles of Kyrgyz Carina who retired gracefully, knowing herself rebuffed, albeit in barely comprehensible slurred County. Enter Stella from Eritrea, beaming her beam as only she can. Eric's dance began, all elbows, knees and wire-rimmed glasses. Snake-charmer par excellence, you'd almost think he didn't know he didn't have to try. From her corner stool, Carina said something like "Blyatt!"