Doha -Qatar

I roll into the service station, wind the window down, and wait for an Asian-looking man (wait, before you judge me!) to walk past so I can shout ‘91 full’ at him. He will nod and proceed to fuel up my car as I doodle on my phone looking at nothing in particular and mildly thankful that I don’t have to leave my air-conditioned oasis – although I do leave the window down in an effort to be a man of the people. With the car refuelled, I wave my phone at the young man who presents a payment machine, we touch, £18 for a full tank departs my account, and I from the service station. Welcome to Qatar, and the first of what will probably turn out to be many accounts of me trying to justify being here. In defence of my ‘Asian-looking man’ comment, it’s deliberately provocative. You can’t live in Qatar comfortably without taking advantage of someone living uncomfortably. It’s not right, but it is fact. Qatar is run by an army of people largely from central and southern Asia, especially Pakistan and Bangladesh. However, thinking about it, the World is here; African, SE Asia, ‘rich’ Asia, Europe, both Americas, in theory it’s a melting pot of culture and inspiration. But here lies the very first problem with Qatar, and one I will continue to refer to. Nobody cares about your culture. Yes, you can eat food from anywhere in the world, but everywhere feels the same. Most places are just okay. Somehow, they have managed to turn something so distinctive, food, into something so generic. And this is the first problem I’m trying to explain; Qatar does not allow any freedom of expression. You may be thinking ‘duh, everyone knows you can’t sport rainbow merch in Qatar,’ but it isn’t just one group of society, it is the whole of society. I can’t express any affection to my girlfriend here, a Bangladeshi can serve up their food, but it won’t be much of a different experience to an Argentine serving up empanadas here. The whole country has been built to attract foreigners, to provide the illusion of western living, but without actually doing so, but we’ll get back to this on-going internal discussion.  

Everyone knows my love for Saudi Arabia, and I have a lot of respect and appreciation for the whole region, an area of the world grossly misunderstood and misrepresented by an ever-worsening media landscape. Qatar, as with the U.A.E, is another one of those countries constantly criticised for being naughty and un-western yet people flock to them in their droves to enjoy the beaches, shopping, shiny buildings and ludicrous salaries. I therefore had no problem moving to Qatar as I am happy to embrace my hypocrisy, and as always with this part of the world, it currently offers opportunity where others do not. I wanted a job saving the world but that has been shelved to maintain the status quo and I have moved to a region where even I have given up trying to avoid plastic bottles, single-use bags, food miles, and gas-guzzling cars. I’ve even had the window open in the office for a bit of fresh air with the air-conditioner still going. I know, I’ve given up. Land Cruisers drive by at max speed with ‘charging into the future’ written on them, referencing a transition to a greener economy. There are electric public busses knocking about but these make little sense in a city dominated by ICE cars and powered exclusively – to my knowledge – by a fossil fuel electricity grid. I don’t believe I’ve seen a single solar panel or wind turbine. But, let’s be honest, these charges can be laid against the majority of countries around the World; many are failing to do anything meaningful in a changing climate.

Moving to Qatar has been the largest of emotional rollercoasters I’ve been on when starting a new job which isn’t necessarily the country’s fault. It is the first time I’ve lost more than I’ve gained. I don’t have a home, I don’t have a girlfriend, proper travel is on hold, I’m not doing a job I recently went to uni for. I can’t have it all, that’s life, but ticking a few of those boxes would be nice to help feel a little more settled. For example, I sit here in Malmesbury, on holiday in England, writing this in my house, on a sunny August Friday and I couldn’t be happier. I have spent the past three months living in an apartment with three other people in Doha. When I moved in there was a single saucepan and two knives, no other kitchen items, not even a kettle. One of my housemates would literally order a coffee to the door. Some poor bugger riding a bike through the mental Doha traffic in 40^oC, then having to get to the nineth floor of an apartment building to deliver a matcha coffee in a plastic cup. You can Google matcha coffee, I’m in no mood to explain. However, one itch has been scratched. I have always said I wanted to experience living in a city, and it wasn’t long ago I was writing about the need to push myself personally, and Doha has certainly helped in that respect. Yes, living in a shared flat is bloody awful, but I’ve at least tried. I haven’t had much choice because I don’t have residency which makes it pretty much impossible to get my own place right now, but I could have spent ludicrous money to stay in a hotel apartment for the sake of my own space, but it wouldn’t have been my own space, it would have been the hotels. I am also living on The Pearl which is one of the fancier parts of town and centres around a marina and network of manmade canals. Don’t know why I said manmade, nothing in Qatar is natural. Look closely and the buildings give the impression they could fall down in a strong wind, but at night – as with the whole city – it really is quite beautiful. I am within walking distance of countless places to eat, and if you ignore the price of alcohol there are plenty of places to enjoy a drink, assuming you have someone to share it with. But besides shopping there is little else. Still, it’s an experience that I’m enjoying for the sake of having it, and I actually believe that if I were able to go home to my very own apartment every day after work, to be able to get out of bed on a Saturday morning and walk to the kettle without putting any pants on, to bang around the kitchen at 6.30am before work without worrying about disturbing others, to lie on a sofa in a living room watching whatever I want instead of confined to a bedroom, or to fill my kitchen with anything I want and without fear of someone helping themselves, I’d be enjoying living in Doha a whole lot more than I currently am. The one thing that brings me the greatest joy living in a high-rise apartment – that I’ve discovered so far at least – is throwing rubbish into the garbage-chute. There is something incredibly satisfying about the sound of a bag of rubbish tumbling nine floors to a mysterious end. Apparently, no one else in my flat gets the same sense of satisfaction as I am the only one bothered to take out the rubbish when the kitchen bin shows signs of bursting.

Above all else, my biggest concern moving to Doha was knowing I would have to drive 50 kilometres to work and back every day. The roads in Dubai and Saudi have always terrified me to the point that I simply didn’t drive in those countries however, this was not to be an option in Qatar. Doha is in fact rather nice in this respect. It is a city that instantly feels quite chilled out despite its appearance and becomes even more so once spending a bit of time there. It is much more relaxed than Dubai, not as in your face or crowded. Doha is prettier than Dubai, more compact yet spacious and much less pretentious. In fact, one of the reasons why Doha annoys me so much is also its saving grace; it hasn’t been overrun by western social media arseholes, but we’ll dive deeper into that paradox next time. So, I hired a Kia K5. Because I didn’t want a Nissan Sunny and I can’t afford a new Defender or Land Cruiser. The K5 also continues my uncontrolled fall into being a typical consultant. As with life, driving in Qatar is a sink or swim affair and I am pleased to report that I am swimming strongly at present. There is only one way to handle the chaos of Arabic roads and that is to let go of all Englishness and embrace the absurdity of it all. It’s actually being English that has held me back all these years. The fear of beeping my horn at someone or feeling stupid when someone beeps at me or flashes their lights at me as they try to get by at 150mph. Now, I simply don’t give a f***. I beep, I flash, I pull out in front of others, I undertake, and my favourite, I never indicate. Why? Because no one else does. It’s the survival of the bravest/dumbest, and if there was ever a way to sign off a blog about living in Qatar, that would be it! 

1^st July 2024