You are Here: A work of flash autobiography

by Matthew Stranach

It is a sunny day in Qatar.

How easy it is to say “a sunny day” when you are here.

In fact there is a wide variance of sunny days.

There are some days in the early months of the year when dust storms render the sun little more than a pale, dun-colored disc floating over the low dun-colored buildings which line the horizon in nearly every direction within Doha.

There are the days when the sun is akin to liquid metal boiling in the kiln of the sky.

You think of places in Qatar.

There is your office. It is gorgeous, comfortable, and ultra-modern. You may find yourself thinking you are doing the best, most professional work of your entire career. You may look outside and see the palm trees in the courtyard swaying in the breeze, which also riffles the water in one of the numerous fountains around campus.

Then there is your compound. In many ways this resembles an exotic neighborhood of your home country. You may go running numerous laps around it in the evenings. You will say hello to your coworkers, and their spouses, and their children.

You will be amazed at how tightly-knit this community feels.

There are numerous shopping malls. This is where you will go most every weekend. Your child will dash between stores. He will careen and tumble between aisles a hundred types of shoes, makeup, clothing, and electronics. He will learn to walk in the malls and in the villas and in the compounds. You will not take him outside during the late mornings and early afternoons in the spring and summer months.

Of course it is hot. After a very short amount of time, the word “hot” loses all descriptive meaning. In the winter, when it becomes as cold as ten degrees Celsius you will reach for your long-sleeved shirt and turn on the space heater in your villa. You will remark that the weather has finally turned. For two whole months you may find it is more comfortable to wear long pants around the compound as opposed to shorts.

Of course there is a vibrant cultural life outside the malls, the compound, and the worksite. When visitors come you will take them to Souq Waqif, and the Corniche, and to the beach resorts outside the city. You will camp in the desert and float on the salty waves of the Arabian Sea. These moments will color the rest of your time in Qatar.

Depending on where you live, you will grow accustomed to the sound of construction from early hours of the morning and throughout the day. This is a growing city, after all.

When you return to your home country to visit you will find yourself looking forward to returning. Friends and family will ask what it is like to live and work in Qatar.

You will say that there is nowhere else like it in the world.

Doha, April 2011

Tradition

by Paula Hayden

Alec sips his Starbucks coffee. It’s a “bold pick of the day,” but he doesn’t know the bean. Doesn’t care. He is happy to enjoy the comfort a coffee brings him as he sits in the mall reflecting on his decision to move here.  It was a no-brainer. Money talks. Still, this place is not quite what he thought it would be. He had had visions of mud-bricked buildings in dusty enclaves, small shops and bazaars, local grocers, and neighborhoods dotted with patches of green. He had had pictures in his head of old men—always old, always men—sitting contentedly out of the sun instreet cafes playing games and sharing stories. Pieces of that impression do exist, but the city is more, much more, than that. Alec lights a cigarette, despite the sign forbidding it. He is not sure he can reconcile the images he had of this Arab nation as a desolate desert with the reality he is living. He is sitting in a mall. He is drinking a coffee. At Starbucks.  He first hears, and then sees, five women approaching the coffee shop. They are each clothed head to toe in a black abaya, shayla, and niqab. Only their eyes show. The shopping bags they carry from Zara, Dolce and Gabbana, and Ralph Lauren, are testament to the fine shopping they have enjoyed. The Gucci, Coach, and Prada purses they carry also speak to their tastes and the money they have to spend. Will I ever get used to this? Alec wonders. The call to prayer echoes lowly through the mall loudspeakers. Alec takes another sip of coffee. I’ll try, he decides.

Returning to Qatar by way of the Arabian Desert

by Adam Larson

“Are we going home now?” my three-year-old son asks. “I don’t want to go to another hotel… I want to go to the place with the blue carpets.” It’s strange to think of Qatar as home, but it has become such – especially for the children. This little one was a newborn when we spirited him away from his Toronto delivery room to Doha’s northern suburbs. “Yes sweetheart,” I reply, “we’re going to the place with the blue carpets.”

Our return begins in Medina, the City of the Prophet, which lies nestled in a valley with mountains on three sides. Thousands of pilgrims walk, run, limp, and wheel towards the white-marbled courtyard of the Prophet’s Mosque. They come from all walks of life – sturdy Iranian village women, their chadors emblazoned with flowers, Indonesian youth wearing neon green sarongs and peaked black hats, groups of elderly Turkish men with cheap vinyl bags distributedby their tour operator slung over their shoulders. In the distance the mountains of Uhud, where the early Muslims struggled for their very existence, rise up from the valley. The latticed walls of Baqi’ enclose their small mounded graves marked by ancient, weathered volcanic stones.

The car slips onto the new expressway that cuts across the desert towards Riyadh. Gazing across the expanse, I recall a story I wrote as a child about a pilot who crash landed in the Arabian Desert. The pictures that illustrated this story were straight out of Lawrence of Arabia – seas of yellow undulating dunes and a blazing orange sun overhead. I’m struck by how different this desert is from the one I imagined as a child. It is indeed vast. It is also hot, especially in the summer. But this desert lives and breathes. It changes color and form as you move through it.

The rocky outcrops of the Arabian-Nubian Shield dominate the Hejaz. It was here that ancient miners dug the wealth of King Solomon from Mahd al-Dhahab, the “Cradle of Gold”. These mountains give way to fields of twisted, black, volcanic rock, testament to the extinct volcanoes which gave the land its shape. Waves of mountains are divided by wide valleys with grass and scrub to feed the white, red, and black camel herds that range the area.

The car overtakes a vintage Ford Crown Victoria up the escarpment to the high plateau of Nejd. Here the land becomes more verdant – water from the wheel lines irrigates green shoots of wheat pushing up through the sand. Al-Qassim is the breadbasket of Arabia and farms abound. The contrast of brown and green and the scattered farm equipment remind me more of Nevada or Colorado than Arabia. The road then turns southeast towards the sprawling metropolis of Riyadh. The desert takes on a deep red hue. Scattered dunes topped by tufts of grass gradually give way to concrete once we reach Riyadh. Spindly acacia trees grace the highway medians.

Outside Riyadh, the desert changes again. The Eastern Province is sandy and stark. Bulldozers push sand drifts off the road like the plows push snow drifts in the Canadian prairies. Blowing sand creates shimmering snakes above the roadway. Whirlwinds form dust towers above the land as the sun begins to set. It is dark when we turn off the main highway and head towards the oasis of Al-Ahsa. I pull over to the side of the road. There is no sound but the wind, no light but the galaxies of stars overhead. The desert is a dark place. The fluorescent tubes in the distance are the only sign of humanity.

We cross the border into Qatar. The road is different here. It is lit. There are speed cameras. It feels more modern, more sterile. The desert here is flat and rocky, and you can smell the ocean in the air. My son wakes up from sleep long enough to ask, “Are we home yet daddy?” Thoughtfully I answer, “Yes, we’re home… the place with the blue carpets.”