suggzy

Part Four

So, to conclude matters, then?

Moving away from my adventures in deafness and X-Rays for a moment, I ought to tell you about the first of my wider forays away from my residence in West Bay.

This came before much of this nonsense started, when I decided, on my second full weekend here, to take a trip down to the Museum of Islamic Art:

At that point of the year it was too hot to walk there in the daytime. I do it all the time now, in Winter temperatures, but when you don’t know where you are going, quite, it doesn’t take too long to get into trouble in 30 degrees plus. It took me ages to navigate the mental map of the West Bay area, where I live – orientating oneself in the middle of a bunch of skyscrapers is harder than over a wider area of more visible ground, I suppose? Dunno.

So instead, I opted to get a cab from home base to my chosen location, and then to walk around more once dark had fallen, grab some food at Souq Waqif, at a Yemeni restaurant I had looked up online, and then to make my digestive way back along the waterfront, towards the memorable skyline and maison moi. What could go wrong with that?

Well, a bit. I was pleased when someone on the front desk found me a nearby idling taxi, as it really was pretty hot outside. Unfortunately it was one without a meter, so the guy behind the wheel, visibly annoyed by the fact other people had decided to use the road that afternoon, simply picked a number when we got there, and added a zero. I was so excited to be out and about and immersing myself in Doha life that I just handed over about ¾ of an inch of notes (1 Riyal note = 20p, so one is generally possessed of a gangster-like bankroll, out here) without arguing.

I’ll confess I have since tightened my policy on being driven about. I mostly use Ubers, although I am wrestling with ethical concerns on that front, given what’s been in the news. Part of the reason for this is safety: an agreed and affordable price at the start of the journey, and a public rating system means one tends to get people who can drive accurately and efficiently out on the mean streets. Sometimes the chap will fancy a chat, and others just whisk one away in stony silence.

My favourite story so far when out in someone’s car came when I was on the way back from the airport after SWK’s visit in November (we’ll get to that). No chance of an Uber that day, so I committed myself to a local Karwa cab:

I love the colour, for one, but they also have a visible an audible meter, so you know where you are and what you are in for.

My fellow tore out of the airport rank at the sort of pace only really seen at the movies.  We were ripping along the bridge up to the airport highway, and there was a sudden sort of Ruth Madoc, Hi-De-Hi bing, ding, bing tone, and a lady’s voice said:

“You’re exceeding the speed limit – please slow down. First warning.”

I looked around me, but it was just an announcement.

The brake was duly applied, but soon we were back for more and the needle was ‘round in the red zone once again.

“You’re exceeding the speed limit – please slow down. Second and final warning.”

This tempered matters for a while, and if anything we dropped to rather a pensioner pace, but before long his inner F1 driver emerged again and we were zooming along at an alarming clip. At that point, something more like the gong at the start of a J. Arthur Rank film sounded, and a MAN’s voice took over.

“You’ve have been speeding, and will be Fined.”

Not a flicker from our man. He just had at it from that point onwards, obviously accepting this sort of thing as a nightly hazard. It was a swift, and inexpensive journey home. For me, at least.

Back to the present past. I alighted from the Think Of A Number taxi, lighter of wallet, and spent a wonderful first 90 minutes at MIA. Outside and inside it is quite, quite glorious. And, like so many of these places in Qatar, completely and utterly free. The prices in the gift shop make up for it, mind. As it was coming up to Christmas, a scarf in there for my Mother rather caught the eye, but I folded it up again and quietly walked out when I realised £175 was a bit rich for my blood.

But never mind all that. Glorious venue, unsullied and hurried by hordes of visitors, and exhibits spread out in front of you that really take the eye. Carpets and calligraphy, of up to 1,000 years in age? I’m your man. Utterly hypnotising, beautifully crafted. Been back a number of times since – I just love the place.

As night had fallen, I made my way back outside and took the obligatory 54546854684 photographs.

Satisfied that all possible angles had been covered, I headed for the pedestrian crossing, and aimed in the general direction of what I thought was the Souq. Such was the flow of traffic on a busy Friday evening that it was rather an operation. The lights turn green for pedestrians roughly every three quarters of an hour, it seems. You could stick a pop-up Shwarma kebab place under the street sign and serve someone three courses, plus coffee and After-Eights, before it turns.

En masse, we crossed, and I promptly went the wrong way. Not for the first time, as we have seen. In my defence, that’s because I was acting on my earlier attempt to memorise the map of the area, for fear of using data on my ‘phone unsupported by Wi-Fi. As a properly paid-up citizen I am now onto a local Pay-As-You-Go arrangement, and have no such fear. However at the time I was rightfully worried, as later bills would prove. I have little doubt that every time I logged into Google maps, there was an eruption of glee somewhere in the O2 HQ, whereupon a few extra bottles of Margaux were ordered for the table at the Christmas knees-up. The dials of my account balance must have been going ‘round at a sensational speed.

But yes, a right and a left and I found myself cutting ‘round the edge of a rather down-at-heel indoor haberdashery, with one stall leading to a next, and seemingly only one way in and one way out. It was absolutely stuffed with gleeful women grasping at things on sale. Not a bloke in sight, and no ex-pats like self in view. I fought my way ‘round, wondering to myself quite what the fuss about this ‘Souq’ was, failing to realise that I was in entirely the wrong place. I was spat out, after a time, and things went from bad to worse. The streets took on an ever more dark character, with chop-shop restaurants and unlikely-looking mobile ‘phone stores and currency exchanges the order of the evening. I was utterly lost in all of this, and eventually thrust my way into some manner of Spar, 7-11, or what have you, and bought a cold can of fake Stout to drink, and a packet of nuts to eat. These I consumed at the roadside, whilst pondering my next move, and eventually conceding the need to revert to my mobile. Corks popped, 3,000 miles away and I was, finally, headed in the right direction.

I did find the Souq, in the end, although not before taking a route to it that saw me go through an underground car park, and cause some consternation in the lift to get out of it. Suffice it to say that it was busy, and I was firmly established as being In The Way.

But I alighted upon it, after a time, and it is pretty magical. Particularly when lit up at night. All life is there, and you can buy pretty much anything you want there, if you can find it. Honey, a cat, every pashmina or perfume under the Sun, traditional dress, lamps, toys, herbs and spices, tea, coffee and even a personal lawyer. Multiply that by a thousand and crush it all into a criss-cross labyrinth of miniature streets, with dutiful men following families round with all their purchases crammed into a wheelbarrow and you will just, just have scratched the surface of the thing. If you visit this City, do go. It’s only 20 minutes from the airport and you can lose a couple of hours in there quite willingly. As I type, I am waiting for SWK’s visit, and am already girding up my loins for her next assault on the place. I may buy my own wheelbarrow and a thread from Ariadne.

I’d meandered around all of this for a while, before being rooted to the spot by the most extraordinary, blood-halting noise. The place is proximal to the Al Fanar Mosque – one of the many highlights of the skyline in the older areas of the City:

As only I can, I had sort of forgotten it was there, and had lost track of time. It became clear to me that the chap with the Muezzin gig there is clearly dimensioned on a similarly mighty scale. How he gets up there, I don’t know, for he can only be an amalgamation of the Michelin Man, King Kong and James Earl-Jones bellowing up to you for his very life, from the bottom of an abandoned well. The noise, dear reader, was nothing short of awe-inspiring. My insides melted at this bassline battering, as the fellow called anyone within about 375 miles to go and have a chat with Allah. And those that do, did, in their many battalions. A sea of white robes ran over and around me, as shops were abandoned for worship. It was mine to just stand, wonder and enjoy.

I responded by going to get some food. I’d been out for ages, and wanted my Yemeni bounty. And just for once I found the place with relative ease. With the air outside pretty steamy and wet, I thought I’d aim for a spot of aircon-surrounded sustenance, and crossed the threshold into a roaring restaurant of joyous chaos. Food and people everywhere. Music, half-empty plates, and sweating consumers and staff just jammed the place. I found a sort of desk, and was about to ask for a ‘table for one by a window’, in my mannered best, before being told to “sit there” by the harassed man behind said desk. He raised a pointing finger before going back to pile of notes and receipts and a queue of replete customers seeking to pay and waddle back out.

I sat there. And waited. There was rather a lot of recently abandoned rice knocking around, so I swept it into a neat pile, just as a member of staff appeared, pressed a menu upon me, and spread it all about once again with a damp sponge. No matter, I told myself, as I settled upon Chicken Ogdat, a spicy green salad and bottle of much-needed water. The man serving me raised an eyebrow, but beetled off unquestioningly, only to return moments later with the first of two instalments of my order. A flat bread which, it transpired, came free, and a small dish of green, slightly grainy liquid that looked not unlike one of those sauces you chuck over a Sheek Kebab in an Indian restaurant.

“Bread and salad” he informed me.

I didn’t discuss matters, as I was hungry. The bread was roughly the diameter of the dish at Jodrell Bank, so I tore off a trailing yard or so, scrolled it up and dipped it into the liquid green salad. Down the hatch it went.

And I very nearly went up in flames. The spicy green salad is only 80p to buy, but will be in my memory for as long as my memory functions. It is 50 millilitres of fluid that is essentially a brew distilled from an entire chilli farm. Anyone looking at me, as I worked the stuff into my system, would be forgiven for thinking I had been physically assaulted. Within seconds, fan of spice though I am, I was awash in my own pouring perspiration, as my body attempted to save itself. It was quite unbelievably hot to eat. Through my tears, I spied the fridge where the cold drinks were kept, and bemoaned the lack of the bottle of water I had ordered, as my teeth bled and my mouth became a single, blackened blister. It was fully five minutes before I could make a more modest return to my meal.

My Ogdat appeared. And did nothing for my nerves. It was in an earthenware bowl, and still at a rolling boil. All I could do was gather together some napkins, and push it to one side, as its anger receded and it started to approach a temperature that human flesh could safely engage with.

My water appeared, and I could hear a gentle hiss from my throat as I poured it in. The evening went on, I took in the ambience of the place, and after a while I thought I should probably eat up, as clamour for my table was growing. The place has been open for 15 hours per day, for years and years, and I doubt it has ever been anything other than packed out with diners.

Mercifully the main course, although physically still so hot that even my Father might eat it slowly (a man never far from sticking an already piping plateful of dinner in a microwave), was just delicious. After a while I heaved myself up, paid a tiny little bill for my meal, and made my way out into the night. Very slowly, I made my way through the surrounding streets and commenced the long walk home, along the waterfront, digesting as I went. At some point in the future I will tell you about the Corniche, which runs alongside the edge of the Gulf, and lead back to where I live. It’s a number of paragraphs in itself, and simply one of my favourite places to walk in all the world that I know.

However, when we left off last time I was under threat of a life of deafness, and battling possible Tuberculosis. I know you’ll have been worried, so let’s clear that up, shall we?

In many respects, the first issue was the matter of the deafness. Since the oh-so-calm analysis of the week before, and the antibiotics provided, I had now gone profoundly deaf and was in a growing amount of pain, too. Take my blood pressure all you like, kids, but put in some work on the old diagnostic skills, eh?

All of this was combining just wonderfully with the ongoing trips to the fringes of Doha to be threatened with various fatal diseases, and the possibility of jail and deportation. I had misery for company.

However, in the end, everything was solved in one glorious day. I didn’t get anything much by way of work done, and the day before I had felt so crappy as to not be able to work at all, but between an 8.30am arrival back at the health screening place, and a final glorious return to aural function ten hours later, it was quite a high old day.

With a knowing “you again” sigh, and a roll of the eyes, Z bore me out to the screening centre one last time. Mentally, I was doing cartwheels, as I looked down on the black fading circle around the SCART mark, on my increasingly whiffy left arm. What would happen this time? A TB jab? An anal probe to check for head lice? Drink a gallon of caster oil? Have a crack at a four-minute-mile for them? Anything seemed possible. One thing I was prepared for was another X-Ray, so I dressed lightly for the prospect of another photoshoot.

But no such thing. Oh no no, that would make complete linear sense, and that is rarely in much supply, ‘round here. Instead I was parcelled and pushed through the usual series of ante-chambers and corridors before, finally, finding myself in front of another white-coated member of staff. Chap this time. In the corner lurked a HUGE security guard, which made me wonder afresh if this was the “sorry mate, it’s well-advanced and we’ll just aim to make you comfortable – in fact we think it may have started in your ear, oddly” room.

But no. It was, in fact, the “what are you are you doing back here? You’re fine” room. And there’s not a lot more to say than that. A simple explanation that everything was fine, and I could go back to work and await my paperwork, before finishing the process with my fingerprints being taken (in a building next to the state prison, presumably just in case anything went wrong at the last moment?)

I asked if an X-Ray was going to be necessary. Trying to second guess things, I suppose – it would be so typical of the process for me to head off only to then be recalled by someone else. But no:

“Why would you think that?” said my new friend, as he applied the stamp to my many forms.

The security man shifted in his seat. I concluded I was now ahead on points, said my goodbyes and left.

Next stop, a return to the local clinic that’d issued me with useless antibiotics the week before. May as well have been dropping Loctite into the old lug-hole, frankly. I had long lost count of the number of times I had said “pardon?” in conversation. One person I had had lunch with actually moved seat to shift ‘round to my good ear, reasoning I was in fact genetically deaf, and seeking to assure himself that I was not offended. Gave us a laugh at the time, but it was rather symptomatic of how bad it had got.

Anyway, the usual 645312 checks of my blood pressure and weight followed, but finally someone had a bit of a decko inside my ear and declared themselves somewhat baffled. That didn’t do wonders for my mood, but buoyed by the fact I was not now dying, and was only a few fingerprints away from becoming a credible citizen, I refused to move until something was done.

Shoulders were shrugged, yes, but after a while a piece of paper was issued and I was directed to take it to a hospital. There’s a hospital of some sort about every 75 yards in this city. They were experts, I was told. I was doubtful, but hey, why not continue the road trip? I hailed my man Z, and we burrowed off into another indistinct suburb, before I was deposited at what was, on closer inspection, an ENT place. Getting closer all the time, it seemed.

Paperwork, hand over some notes, go and sit in Only Men for a bit. You know the drill. Another unrelated consultation and a quick check that the old blood was still circulating at the required pace and I broached the inner sanctum.

To be met by a friendly Lebanese lady Doctor. So far as I could make it out, she was entirely sympathetic and was sure she could do something. Various caving equipment came out, and in she went for a bit of a scout ‘round.

“A BIG PLUG OF WAX HAS DEVELOPED” she screamed, so I knew where we were with matters.

“THE ANTIBIOTICS HAVE MADE IT MUCH WORSE! WHO TOLD YOU TO TAKE THOSE?”

I ground my teeth, and explained.

“YOU ARE QUITE WARM, AND THE PLUG IS SOFTENED, SO IT MIGHT BE I CAN SHIFT IT WITH WATER AND SUCTION” she added.

I was provided with a sort of all-over paper bib, and instructed to list to Starboard, whilst our gal poured in about half a swimming pool of warm water. It dribbled down my neck. I have rarely felt more attractive. In fact I have only ever felt more mortified by my physical outpourings when on an occasion, years before, I sneezed blood and mucus all over a very very beautiful assisting nurse, when having my hooter cauterised. I might not write that particular tale.

There was a pause, and a bit of clanking and manoeuvring in the background, and a sort of miniature Dyson was fired up and inserted. Gurgling, pain, gurgling, a growing whistling sound, a register of polite horror from the medics and suddenly, suddenly, with a thumb in the edge of the mouth <POP> things went back into stereo.

The assisting ear lady appeared from my right, bearing a kidney-shaped dish.

“It’s fine, I’m not going to be sick” I started.

“No, please look” she said.

At which point I nearly was sick, as I was asked to gaze down on about half a pint of a sort of heavily blended lentil soup, sloshing around. This, I was told, had been the contents of my ear only mere moments before.

No matter. I was free of the bloody deafness. I suddenly became conscious of the fact I was in a high-ceilinged and echoing room. I tried out a few weighty baritone statements of glee at the new developments, and there were smiles all-round. I could have hugged them both.

I saved that for a while later, when I got back to my place and met my colleague K, coming sweatily out after a session in the gym.

“How’s it going?” he asked, sensing I was rather more chipper.

“I can hear again!” I said, and threw my arms around the dear chap.

Okay, so there we are. A rather varied four-parter of an introduction to my life over here. No small supply of trials and tribulations, but within just a few days I was in possession of my Residency Permit, and had the joys of a first visit from SWK.

She’s here again in two or three days, and then, poor me, I have to go to Washington DC for a Conference. No doubt all that will go with requisite smoothness and calm. I have an unusual cargo for my trip to see The Cousins, so I’ll tell you all about that and fill you in on some other events and observations when next I reach for the keyboard.