suggzy

Part One

Hello! Time for the first of a sequence of (I think) two pieces on some of the smaller elements of my life as an ex-pat.

I’ve (just last weekend) been to Kuwait City. Country number 53? Tick. I fitted in rather a lot in about 30 hours – and you would I suppose assume of most people that this was a trip carried out with the characteristic smoothness of a modern traveller, and that there will be little to report. But that traveller was me, and it was a vision of chaos, soldiers and misadventure. I will unveil it for you in a break between these shorter pieces. Oh, and I’m going to Ghana, too. That was a surprise. Details to follow.

For now, I am working away merrily enough. One or two more difficult moments on the work front, but to my surprise the other day I figured out that I only have about 20 weeks left in the office itself. Remarkable how time sails by, out here. I roll from my bed at 6.15am, and it generally seems no time at all has passed before The Bus (of which there is much to come) drops us back here at coming on 5.00pm. The environment, although frankly pretty cossetted, has a surprising capacity to tire one out – there have been a number of instances when I have arrived home, poured myself a glass of water, dragged myself into my running gear, and promptly fallen asleep for an hour.

Increasingly, I am having to focus in on returning to the search for further gainful employment. Back to the days of a shortlist of potential new gigs, and waiting to hear from them. Keeping a nervous ear out for the chirrup of my phone in the hope of an offer of an interview. I wonder, frequently, where I or we will finish up next. Back in Nottingham? A spell in Egypt? Or perhaps life will take us down to Portsmouth, or over to Liverpool? The future is as yet to be written.

However another weekend has dawned, and I have little to do, today, so let’s have a tour through a few some more of the bits and pieces of my time out here. Some of the minor gems that have twinkled here and there.

One way of filling the time is to go to the cinema. I was thinking about going again later, but there isn’t much on, so I have decided that today’s outing will be a trip to the bowling alley, to attempt to relive some of the glories of my youth. I love the game, and getting out of the apartment at the weekends is important, if only for a little while.

But the cinema is good too. There are loads of them around, and from time to time one travels a little bit further afield to ensure one can see films on a more limited run. The main interest seems to be in Action, Horror and Bollywood. I’ve seen some other stuff, like The Post, Darkest Hour, and the latest Star Wars, but my first trip – a bench test of the service – was to go and see the magnificently portentous and overblown Geostorm. Truly, it was a load of old crap.

However, the cinema is five minutes from my sofa on foot. It’s heartily air-conditioned, and at 35 Riyals a pop (about £6.50, right now – the blasted pound is rallying) represents good value for money. As with all of these things, it’s best to avoid the Kiosk Of Ultimate Expenditure (I generally sneak in with a bottle of water in my bag), although I have been known to spring for a nice cup of Karak tea to sip during the interminable adverts for fizzy drinks, expensive perfumeries and films I do not want to see.

Others take a different view on The Kiosk, and can be seen wandering away from their laden with buckets of various comestibles. Those chaps with the wheelbarrows down at Souq Waqif could make a killing if they hooked up with the hungrier film buffs.  And so it was to prove at Geostorm, which was the first film I went to see out here (spoiler – it’s dreadful, but was the only liveable option when I wanted to see what the cinema looked like).

You pay up, and select a seat from the electronic board you are presented with.  With me being me, I got it into my head that this was a touch-screen affair, and started grubbily stabbing at a particular seat, to no avail, only for the lady on the counter to suggest to me I just told her the number, so she could make the selection on her computer. The usual apologies followed, she wiped my sweat off her console, and in I went.

A cinema is a cinema is a cinema, of course. Nothing unexpected about it. One blunders around for a bit in the gloom and settles in on one’s seat. As is my wont, I lined myself up at the end of a row, took a sip of my tea, and awaited the start of my film.

The Blockbuster was just in the early stage when a man in local garb staggered in, and plonked himself down to my immediate right, and noisily unveiled a picnic that would keep a regiment going for about a fortnight. A parade of beverages from one sack, and a tray of nachos and a bag of sweets in the other. Pops, hisses, and plastic lids stripped off, and our boy was away. Crunching, slurping, and snorting as the action built. My usual tolerance on display, I started to consider my options. These really did not include addressing my fellow film-goer’s table manners, for he was a fellow of great substance, and I did not want a black eye and a ban from my local picturehouse.

However, it was not long before there was the unmistakeable sound of a mobile ‘phone ringing. A brief pause in consumption came, with a “harrumph” and an angry little fart from within the robes. And then the blighter took the bloody call, and started jabbering away, whilst removing his sandals and giving his feet a bit of a rub down.

Whatever it was he said, it seemed not to be “call you back later Dave, I’m 30 minutes into Geostorm, and the bloke three seats away looks like he might pop if I don’t step away from my lunch.” The discussion was interminable.

I gathered my man bag, my cup of tea, and marched off into the distance and took up a seat elsewhere. No issues with that, as there were only four other patrons in the place – few screenings even get near to full out here. I went to see Star Wars Part Eight just before Christmas, and could have had a row to myself.

Such behaviour in the UK – turning on one’s heal like that, would probably draw an amount of questioning of oneself, for the muncher of the Nachos. However out here, no one cares in the slightest. He just merrily got on with his afternoon. And good luck to him. I shudder at the thought of what the front of his crisp white Thobe must have looked like once he’d worked his way through all of his purchases. A Tex Mex Jackson Pollock, I’ll warrant. “How do I get salsa out of Egyptian cotton, exactly?” his Mother may well have asked him. Who knows?

Alas such poor etiquette bedevils almost every screening one attends. Marching around the place, in front of the screen? A common occurrence. Clearly people fear Deep Vein Thrombosis if they don’t put a few yards in every few minutes. Phone calls and loud talking is de rigeur, as is coming in 20 minutes late and just suddenly leaving halfway through. Yesterday (Ready Player One), a lady brought her baby and her toddler in, with predicable results.

The worst thing I have seen is a woman having a right go at a member of staff, during the showing itself. I’m not clear quite what the issue was, even now. She marched down the aisle to him, stood there in front of the screen, stuck a wagging finger in the little guy’s face and I heard “I don’t CARE! Get off your arse and do it for me RIGHT NOW!”

Frankly, there is a bit of a culture of lazy entitlement out here. There are many many positives about society in Doha, and I’ll tell you about one in a minute, but with the large, lowly-paid migrant population from India, the Philippines, Nepal and others, there seems to come an attitude of dreadful disrespect. I have seen people treated like dirt – little more than slaves. And yes, it makes my blood boil. That afternoon my knuckles went white as I gripped my seat. The horrid, horrid cow! I decided after a while that the only counter-action I could take was to treat people in service roles with a respect they probably come not to expect. I tip everywhere I go, I smile, I shake hands, and ask how people are, with a genuine interest. Short of launching a coup against the Royal Family, which I conceded would be unwise, there is little one can do but act behind the scenes to make people happier.

So there we are. But, as I say, there are some golden moments. And one of them came on my first visit to Katara. This is an attractive Cultural Quarter, on the waterfront, a couple of miles from where I am based:

Walking there is not possible, as it skirts a series of mysteriously snaking roads and the commencement of the highway that runs North of here up to Al Khor (a place that will feature when I get ‘round to my visit there with SWK to give kayaking another try, with predictably terrible results). Instead one order up an Uber, and off you go. The journey went rather less than well, as I had not the faintest clue where I was going, and this made the driver unaccountably angry with me. Eventually he just sort of chucked me out somewhere in sight of the Gulf, and tore off in a shower of dust.

I was a trifle bewildered by this, but didn’t let it get me down. I sauntered merrily, and snapped plentifully as the sun began to come down for the day. Scored a cold drink, got some fresh air, and generally just delighted in how lucky I was, and am, to be in such a remarkable place.

Once the light had gone, I parked on a bench, reviewed my pictures, and made mental plans to drop into the shops, get some dinner and enjoy the evening ahead.  I walked to the edge of the green, and soon enough one of those Spearmint cabs appeared. A chirpy Senegalese man ushered me in, and we headed out towards West Bay.

Of course it’s generally when you are at your most complacent and cheerful that you realise you have made a terrible, terrible mistake. And so it was that my own came to me, as I reached into the faithful man bag and plucked out my ‘phone, on which to fashion a short shopping list.

“Fuck!” I announced.

We veered a couple of lanes, and horns were honked, as my driver for the evening registered some concerns on the part of his fare.

“I’ve left my bloody camera behind!” I shouted, clarifying the situation for him.

“Have no fear Sir” (he actually said that) my cabbie came back. “We will return to fetch it for you.”

At this point he pulled off a u-turn in what was a busy dual carriageway. That’s a manoeuvre that’s more common in these parts than you might perhaps think wise, but I have already alluded to some of the rather bold motoring that goes on.

In moments, we had pulled into the outermost lane and were screaming back to the spot where he had picked me up. The needle was soon out somewhere around the 150 km/h mark, and my saviour had set his jaw in concentration.

“People here are very honest Sir” he told me. “I am sure it will still be there.”

I was new to the country, of course, To my mind, the camera was gone, and someone was busy flogging it on eBay. In my own country, that would no doubt have been the case. Indeed it took me a long time to accept that criminality out here is just near-enough non-existent. People are brought up with a clear understanding that stealing is a sinful thing to do – and it’s really not a country where you want to find yourself behind bars, or punished. I used to go around the place with my wallet in my fist – now I realise you can leave your stuff out in full view of the public and nothing will happen to it. I need to disabuse myself of this confidence in my fellow man before I next return to Blighty.

Moments later we bounced back across the cobbles of Katara and juddered to a stop at the bench I had been sat on. My new hero leapt out, and waved a hand to indicate the camera was still there. He plucked it up from the location where I had absent-mindedly left it, and rushed back with it in his hand. Returned to me, I realised it had not even been switched off, and was still on the same frame I had been looking at earlier (the picture above).

My heartbeat slowed, as we took a more sedate roll back to West Bay. I was quite emotional, actually, and pressed the shoulder of my new friend when we arrived. I insistently gave him various notes in addition to the established paltry fare, and wished him a happy evening.

So okay, cinemas are a varied affair – but no-one’s going to nick your stuff. Ahead on points so far.

We’ll come back to these bits and bobs in another couple of weeks. And we will meet The Colonel, along with one or two other characters from around the world, as we journey through my commuting life. I also have some thoughts to give you on going to hospital out here, and we might also muse a bit on some camels I have come to know, and relate a discussion overheard on something known as Rattlesnake Round-Up.

But next time, to Kuwait. Where you will read The Most Unpleasant Thing I Have Ever Written, in a dizzying extravaganza of bumbling as only I seem able to bumble, in a piece that bears the working title:

Trouble at Ten Thousand Feet and the Lift That Smelled of Gravy

Have a good week, everyone.