Dongurigal

She says, hey babe, take a walk on the construction site

Seeing as the temperature has turned down a notch and seeing as it was nearly 7 am Friday morning, the day of rest, so no school rush of SUVs to navigate around, Sproglette and I decided to go for a stroll in our neighbourhood.

On leaving the parking lot...

and turning the corner...

...we thought we saw a snake. False alarm. Just some chewable tubes and wires.

We saw some pigeons...

and cranes...

...and a truck with a flat tire.

So close and yet so far. The City Centre shopping mall, the one just a few minute's walk from our apartment. Too bad it's not open at 7am on a Friday morning because we might actually be able to cross this normally busy road without being flattened by a Landcruiser.

Heading home, we walked down this lovely tree-lined street, made even lovelier by Flickr's colour editing palette.

We saw some driftwood, too.

Finally home. After all that fresh air, we think it's time for a nap.

Eavesdropping

So, like, I was at the private beach club of a certain 5 star hotel with a friend of mine and our sprogs, when I noticed a group of young men and women pretending to be Bay Watch lifeguards. They were having fun, laughing, snapping photos, and dissing each other.

They had the bods for it, too. The women were buff, the men even buffer. It was then that I also noticed that their backpacks were exactly the same, all sporting a desert fatigue pattern.

Aha, I thought, US soldiers on R & R from Iraq, most probably. 99.9 percent most probably.

Later, while I was kicking my legs in the hotel pool while pushing Sproglette in her inflatable beer lounge chair--my main form exercise these days and Sproglette's main form of watching the world go by (all she needs is a Molson Canadian to complete the 'look')--we passed the same group of soldiers.  They were hanging by the pool now chatting about what to do in the evening.

Soldier 1:  What time are we not supposed to go out again?

Soldier 2:  After 1800 hours.* I guess the driving is insane here, especially during Ramadan.

And I'm thinking to myself, yes, yes, there are multitudes of jackasses who drive the ubiquitous Landcruiser like it's their own personal tank here, but hello, YOU'VE JUST COME FROM IRAQ. There is nothing to worry about.

(The guy really did say 1800 hours, not 6 pm, like us civilian folk would.)

I'm plugging my ears: la la la

Ramadan started on September 1st and what that means to non-fasters like me is now there really is nothing to do in Doha all day long, unless you love grocery shopping in stores that have run out of stock. 

Last night, at 7:52pm, Hubs, Sproglette and I went to one of the chi chi Doha malls to pay for our internet service. We had planned to go to the mall that would be a mere 5 minute walk, if you could actually safely walk there, but on the way we saw a long line of cars entering the parking garage. The line went all the way up to and included the main road. Skip that.

At the other mall, at 7:52pm, the outdoor parking lot was full. Full to capacity, with slowly driven cars looking all dejected and frustrated as they sought out a spot. Cars can look dejected and frustrated.

But I know of a secret, underground parking place that few people use. Yet. (I dread the day when people realize it's there).  So our car did not look all dejected and frustrated. It looked smug.

While our car looked smug, we did not. We arrived at the QTel desk to see two long lines of people also waiting to pay for various telecommunication services.

But enough on the trials of getting stuff done at the mall when you're tired, your husband is tired and your sprog is tired. Your sprog is tired because she has decided that waking up at 5 am and not napping most of the day is really really fun. And it's even more fun to be all whiney and miserable and drive mom around the bend because she can't even take you outside (except for the morning swim) until, until, untiiiiiilllll 5:50 pm when iftar, or the breaking of the fast, is announced. The roads are quiet then, the sun has nearly set, and even though it is so humid a single step causes you to sweat more droplets of water than a monsoon downpour, you drive to the Corniche to go for a walk because if you don't, IF YOU DON'T, well....and even then, your sprog is all whiney because she's probably hot, definitely tired, and doesn't want to sit in her stroller, but you're finally walking, you are really WALKING, and so you say to her, la la la, I can't heaaaaaaaaaaar you. 

Yes, you are actually telling your baby that you can't hear her in that la la la tone of voice.

And it feels good.

(FYI, she is awake now, awake since 5:30am, she's crawling around the floor whining because she's so bloody tired. I've read to her, I've played with her, I've chatted with her, I've cuddled her, I've fed her, I've changed her poopy diaper. And still she whines. So now I am ignoring her. Because she's making me crazy. This heat is making me crazy. This sitting around inside is making me crazy. So if you're not going to nap, fine. Don't nap. But mom's going to ignore you if you whine. Lucky for you, my friend is coming over later. Maybe she won't ignore you.)

La la la la laaaaaaaaa.

In my dreams

Please, someone, anyone, explain the logic of my dream last night (or rather, early this morning)?

I'm on a lively street with cafes, shops, pubs. Hubs and Sproglette have wandered off somewhere. I have to go to the toilet. Next to an outdoor terrace teeming with diners, I see a toilet. It's not a public toilet with a coin slot, it's an actual white, ceramic toilet sitting out in the open, next to the terrace. I pull down my pants and sit on it to take a dump. So far, so good. But, when I poop, the sound of it plopping into the bowl is so loud, so splashy, I am mortified because all the diners have heard it. Everyone stops talking.  I sit on the toilet staring down at my feet until Hubs and Sproglette come back and then I try not to look at anyone because I am so embarrassed.

See, that's what I don't get about this dream. It was ok for them to SEE me taking a crap, but it was not ok for them to HEAR me take a crap.

I woke up, confused and so very embarrassed, but then Sproglette's squawking brought me back to reality. I had not just shat in public after all. What a relief.

This morning, after the poo plop in public dream, Hubs, Sproglette and I drove to the airport together. Hubs was jetting off to somewhere far far north and that's all I'll say about that for the moment. We went into the airport together and like airports everywhere it was a mess of luggage, stressed out passengers, line ups, announcements. As Hubs was flying business, he moved through the line quickly. When the agent handed him his boarding pass he told Hubs there was a special terminal just for business and first class passengers. He suggested Hubs skip immigration in the regular, plebian terminal and walk the 2 minutes to the fancy schmancy one.

Hubs had already checked his luggage, but if he hadn't, numerous hotel-style bellboys were waiting by the door with their red-carpeted carts to take the offending weight off his hands. The part of the terminal where passengers could say goodbye to friends and family was filled with low tables and comfortable chairs where everyone could sit and relax. It was quiet, subdued, calm. There was no line up at immigration.

My dream airport terminal.

After a saying goodbye and stopping off at a travel agent on the way home, Sproglette and I got stuck in traffic. I turned on the radio to keep both of us entertained and heard a breathless ad that went something like this:

You see an SUV flipped over on its back, the jackass driver is lying there, not breathing. In the distance, you hear the sirens but know there isn't enough time. You proceed to give CPR. When the ambulance arrives, the driver is breathing again. Now he's in the hospital in intensive care, but he is still alive thanks to you and the medic course you took at the College of the North Atlantic.

Definitely Qatar is a dream country for a paramedic. 

Ohohoh OH What a Feeling, Toiiii--fucking--yota and etcetera

Toyota has the niche market on jackasses, here in Qatar, no question. The Toyota Land Cruiser is the Qatari hoser vehicle of choice and it is with this said vehicle (and always this particular colour scheme too, for some reason) that I have had too many near misses to count.

It's why, in my defense, Sproglette's first word will be jackass. Or motherfucker. And her first phrase will be, "Get off my ass, motherfucker" or "Don't even fucking think about it, jackass."

I often explain to people who've never lived in this part of the world, that though the driving may be bad, real bad, there's very little road rage, save for phrases loaded with swear words. Road rage of the sort where you actually honk your horn in anger (rather than impatience a millisecond after the light turns green) or chase the offender, throwing cans of tomato soup at his passenger  window, just doesn't exist here.  Who has time to have that kind of road rage when you've got five other jackasses, all driving Land Cruisers, bearing down on you from all sides?

Merging is for sissies, people who drive Chevy Trailblazers, for example. A Land Cruiser never merges. A Land Cruiser cruises right into oncoming traffic and all the other cars, wimpasses with the so-called right of way, had better brake or get out of the way, or else, seriously, ohohoh OH what a feeling, TOYOTA. Crunch.

A Land Cruiser that has the misfortune of being stuck behind a Trailblazer that is carefully merging onto the highway, merely drives around and cuts off the Trailblazer, especially if that Trailblazer has a Sprog on Board sign suctioned cup to the rear window. Single merge lanes are also for sissies and Land Cruisers shouldn't have to wait their turn anyway. 

They certainly don't wait their turn at roundabouts either. Do I even need to describe the mayhem that then results? I think not.

-------------And etcetera

I'm not sure what to make of this headline:  Swords fly off the shelves as wedding season sets in.  I think I've been watching way too much CSI.

------------

I'm pleased to report that Villagio Mall, a shopping centre I find myself hanging out at twice a week because that's where I go with my mommy helper, who lives near there, has made Forbes' list of the world's best shopping malls. I feel so blessed. (But seriously folks, I do feel blessed to have a mommy helper. I never knew what a pain in the arse the simple act of grocery shopping or going to a public toilet could be.)

Dad, I double dog dare you to go snacking on peas in Tripoli, Lebanon

Around this time of year, you'll find my dad in mom's backyard garden snacking on peas picked right off the plant. If Willow, their half-vegetarian cat, is lucky, he'll scatter a couple at her feet so she can snack alongside him too.

The rest of us are not so lucky. I believe my mom said to me last year, hurry, get out to the garden and grab some peas before your dad realizes they're ready to eat!

I love peas too. Not frozen peas, but the ones still in the pod. I love how the pods snap open, how, with your thumb, you can pop each pea into your mouth. I love when they are sweet and crunchy and am disappointed when, having not been picked soon enough, they are bitter. Those I would give to Willow because she's not as fussy as I am. A pea is a pea, and not some salty day-old kibbly bit, to her.

The other day, I bought a huge box of peas in the pod from Lebanon, a country that exports a lot of very tasty fruits and vegetables to Qatar. Admittedly, I was disappointed. The peas were bitter, so I'll put them in salads or cook them instead.

I was also disappointed because the fruit  and vegetables I have been buying from Lebanon are, in a word, delicious.  The nectarines are juicy and sweeter than anything I've had from the Okanagan. I've been buying boxes of them and either eat them whole or get all Martha Stewarty and make a nectarine crumble, which Hubs loves but may be getting sick of already.

I bet you can't guess what I made for dessert tonight, Hubs, eh. EH? Go on, guess!

This is about as locavore as I can get, a concept I like the idea of, but that is probably unrealistic anywhere but in San Francisco and my mom's backyard, but only in the summer.  Wait, that's not true, I was pretty locavore in Vietnam, except when I took that gawddanged shuttle bus to Quang Ngai to buy milk or to Danang to buy peanut butter and roquefort cheese.

Today, in order to write this post, I went so far as to examine the box a bunch of plump, purple grapes were packed in. It's the same style of box, only smaller, that the peas are in.  The name of the company is LAMA (Lebanese Products Always the Best... is the motto and their ellipsis too), but I can't find their website on the internet (Google, c'mon, help me here. Quit giving me websites about the Dalai Lama) so I'm not sure if these grapes are grown up near Tripoli or if just the company office is based there, as is stamped on the box.

With the incessant fighting up in Northern Lebanon, I was all ready to write about what a miracle it is that we, in Qatar, even have the pleasure of eating fruit from that region.

And peas, even if they are bitter. 

It's on a street with no name, no worries, you'll find it

A lot of cities and towns I've lived in have streets with no names. Or if they do have a name, the sign is non-existent or the town is so small that you are kind of are surprised to find out that, yes, indeed, I do live on Typepad Street and not,as you had always thought, on the first dirt road to the left of Main Street, which is not, legally speaking, Main Street but rather Blogger Road Way.

It's all very confusing, but you get used to giving directions like:

When you turn off the highway into Tiny Town, go down Main Street (all Saskatchewanians understand this to mean the only paved road in town) and turn left at the first dirt road. Drive down one block. We're across from the blue house. We have a trampoline in the side yard.

Giving directions in Japan, even in major cities, is much the same. You tell the taxi driver the ward you live in and the number too, if you want, but that doesn't help so much as a key landmark.

I'm just up the road from Mr. Donuts. Ah so. Nihongo ha jouzu desu ne!* Yes, thank you, just drive, buddy.

*I see.Your Japanese is good, eh. (Ok, unless you've lived in Japan, that doesn't sound very funny. It's a you had to have lived there kind of comment.)

Giving directions in Doha, Qatar challenges my powers of efficient description. It's not that there are no street names. There are, although not always signed. There are also many permanent landmarks. The roundabouts are also named, both official and unofficial, and as there are plenty of roundabouts here, you need to know where they are when you are driving somewhere for the first time.

The unofficial names are better known:  Rainbow Roundabout, Independence Roundabout, (I think that's what it's called), The Roundabout with that Weird Thingy on it, That Evil, Where-You-Nearly-Die-Every-Time-You-Enter-It Roundabout, etc etc.

The problem is that the city is being built so fast that new streets appear, older streets close for road works, new lots get dug up, buildings are torn down.  What was a simple five minute drive home yesterday, is a 20 minute reroute past traffic cones and obstructive diggers the next day.

Directions to someone's house often go something like this:

If you're coming up from Rainbow Roundabout, turn left and drive straight. Try to stay in the left hand lane unless someone in a Landcruiser is bearing down on you, because you'll be turning left at the next and only set of lights. Ok, as I said, turn left at the lights and right at the next roundabout. Turn right onto the first slip road and drive straight. After the second speed bump turn right again. You'll drive past a new compound construction site. All the houses are partially finished, they may be putting new windows in, at least they were a few days ago, but that work seems to have stopped. After the unfinished compound is a sand lot, on the right hand side. On the left hand side are 2 villas. If you're driving a 4 x 4, go up over the curb and drive across the sandlot to the paved road on the other side. If you're not driving a 4 x 4, carry on down the road for another 3 kilometres, turn right at the gas station, go into the gas station, past all the gas tanks, and out the back way, drive all the way back until you get to the sand lot and turn left. (If you have come across the sandlot go over the curb and keep going straight). Count 6 villas on the right hand side, one sand lot with a digger on it, if it's still there, and then 3 more villas, also on the right. Ours is the second villa. We're across from a massive Qatari mansion with peacocks strutting about in the front courtyard. (You can just barely see them through the wrought iron gates).

Are you still reading?

Good luck finding me.**

**You'll never find me. First, this is a composite of directions (and any reference to actual villas and peacocks is purely coincidental), but it is not exaggerated. Second, we live in an apartment, anyway.

In all fairness to Doha

To be fair to Doha, it's not its fault it's a hot, dusty, desert city, unbearable in the summer, somewhat palatable in the winter. It didn't asked to be turned into a suburban wasteland, all malls and SUVs and no sidewalks and indifferent public transportation. (Hey wait a second, says Doha, we're adding new bus shelters. And buses. So, cut it out, Dongurigal).

Doha certainly didn't invite Dongurigal to live here and blog about its flaws.  She's a wannabe tree-hugger anyway and the whole idea of Doha is poison to tree-huggers, both committed and wannabe.

But while Dongurigal is a big whiner, she's also capable of seeing the good side, if pushed. And she's being pushed.

And who's doing the pushing?  Why Dongurigal herself. There's only so much moping one can do.

So...(and back to first person singular.)

The best thing I can say about Doha is that it is one of the most child-friendly places I've ever lived in. Or noticed, now that I have a sprog. Kuwait's probably much the same.  I can bring Sproglette out for some fine dining or a fancy tea. We can go to a five star restaurant at an internationally renowned five star hotel. Sproglette can moan and bitch and generally be a big pain in the arse--she is a baby, after all--and it just doesn't matter. No one pays attention, not the Qataris, not the wait staff--except, and I'm not joking, to take your flailing, let-me-play-with-that-knife-now! baby out of your arms and tickle and cuddle her so that you can eat in peace. Not even do North American or European expats, who would not hesitate to tsk tsk you for bringing your sprog to the exact same hotel in downtown New York or Paris, pay attention.

They're not allowed to tsk tsk. Their kids are behaving like monsters themselves.

I mean where else but in Qatar (and another Gulf State country perhaps) would you have to fend off a balloon sword attack from a menacing 6-year-old European boy while you're eating your fois gras on toast and roasted red pepper and tomato bruschetta?  You can't get mad at the kid, either. Sproglette's been wailing for the last half an hour and you and Hubs haven't done much about it except take turns giving her a cuddle (where is that damn waiter!) and promising to get her back home to nap, eventually.

Take her out into the lobby or to the bathroom to settle her down, away from the other patrons. Nah. For that reason alone, balloon boy knight gets away with it while his parents gulp down plate after plate of buffet delights.

Bonk bonk bonk. Boing.

Should I pop it?

Speaking of the five star wait staff--who hail from all over the world, but mainly the Philippines, Indonesia, and India--they just seem to get it when it comes to the sprogs. When I am served a scalding cappuccino, it is always, without fail, placed in the middle of the table, within arms reach of me, but not of Sproglette. Soup too. Steak knives, as well.

When I return to my so-called real life in Paris or Canada, a life I've been craving since I wrote this blog post nearly two and a half years ago, I'll probably remember my life in Doha with rose coloured glasses as someone is sure to make me feel very uncomfortable for daring to bring a squirmy sprog to Bob's Grill & Diner or Pierre's corner brasserie.

We can just forget about the Ritz Carlton.

If you build it, they will come. Except the grizzlies, don't invite them.

In case you haven't noticed, I'm itching to get out of this apartment and go for a walk with Sproglette. Trees, ducks, ponds, pathways, fresh breeze, dog poo. I'll even take dog poo.

My friend J, the one married to S, sends me random links from time to time to keep me entertained and well read as I sit in this fusty apartment. It's fusty because Hubs, Sproglette and I fart a lot and we can't open our windows. They just don't open. And the four tiny ones that do open are never opened because of the dust and the incredible heat. So, while it's a perfectly nice apartment, it's fusty, ok.

The latest link J has sent me is this silly faux interview between Dubai, the person, and the New Yorker's Cartoon Lounge. It's funny because it's so fucking true. If you consider that Doha is Dubai's little brother in all things flashy, then Doha must have an even smaller penis than his big brother across the pond. That's a pond without ducks, I might add.

Dubai even has an indoor ski dome and I just read on that indoor ski dome's website that another one is being built. Two ski domes in the middle of the desert and the second one promises to have polar bears! I drive an SUV and don't eat local these days so I'm not going to even bother discussing the environmental, animal abuse atrocity this is.

But Big Brother Dubai and Little Brother Doha, I have one request. Just one. Since you're both in total denial that you are a desert and since you're going all out spending mula on building the biggest, the flashiest, the coldest, the glassiest, the obnoxiousist structures in the world, how about a massive, fuck off botanical garden. I'm talking acres and acres of boreal-forested, pathway- crisscrossed, squirrel-inhabited land under a gigantic dome to protect it from the desert sun.

Go on, I challenge both of you. Then maybe I'll shut my whining cake hole for once and get to go for a walk, in the middle of the day, in July.

Just leave the grizzlies behind, will ya.

Uh, what to do? How about ice skating?

NB: Sproglette's lungs are clear, she's just a reincarnated yoga master, that's all.

A while back, Hubs asked me, somewhat hesitantly, to have sex. No, I'm kidding. He asked me if it would be ok to host a young colleague of his and his girlfriend for a few days.  He thought, not without reason, that I'd get all stubborn and all no way, what an imposition, blah blah blah, but I was all for it. This is the hot season in Doha after all and without a kick in the pants, or a visitor who needs some guiding around while her boyfriend is at work, I'm prone to do not much at all except take Sproglette down to the pool and watch pirated copies of CSI Las Vegas even while Sproglette is awake. Bad mom, bad mom! But hey, she likes the opening track.

Who are you, who who who who....

It's illegal here to have premarital sex, so Hubs' colleague, who lives in the company's single guy camp (no visitors), needed a place to stay with his girlfriend as they wouldn't be allowed even to stay in a hotel without that little piece of paper that proves they tied the knot. Basically, Hubs and I are accessories to a serious sexual crime. Oh dear. Should I be confessing this on my blog. Maybe we'll get deported. (Ahem, go ahead, deport us, I won't complain.)

But back to the purpose of this post which is to lament the fact that the only touristy thing I can think of to do right now with our visitor is take her to an air conditioned mall. That is really embarrassing. I feel like such an ignorant ass about this country we live in.  That, and Sproglette's sporadic napping schedule means that any plans we have, like let's go to the Corniche for a walk at 6:30pm and watch all the women in abayas power walking, get thrown out if she chooses to sleep when we want to head out the door.

It's not that Doha doesn't have places to go, people to see--actually, probably the coolest aspect of visiting a Gulf State country is people watching, especially at Starbucks--it's that it's too hot to bring a sprog out (except to malls) until the evening and by the evening, she's a cranky bum.  She'd be a cranky bum at that time of day in Paris, in a camp in the middle of nowhere in Vietnam, in the Saskatchewan city that rhymes with fun, but at least you'd be able to go outside during the day, so it wouldn't matter.

Today's tour is a visit to Villagio Mall. It has a faux river running down one side with gondoleers from the Philippines gondoleering up and down. You can ride one for a small fee. The interior of the mall looks like a theatre set of a small Italian city, minus the laundry flapping on lines out the window. The mall also has a skating rink, so if it's open to the public when we're there, maybe we'll go skating.  It's 42 degrees outside right now and very humid, so yeah, ice skating. In Doha. In the summer.

Why not.