By MARK McLAUGHLIN
In DOHA
22 November 2009
Jahannam is the Islamic word for Hell, and judging by my first few days in Doha I could be speeding my way there pretty soon.
Spent the first full night in Qatar in the Doha Sheraton Hotel "Irish Bar", which is licensed to sell alcohol - a proscribed substance nearly everywhere in the Arabian penninsula except in specially licensed clubs or bars.
Women are also forbidden from displaying their shoulders or knees (as well as the other obvious taboo body parts) outside these licensed areas, so they make the most of it in the hotel bars by wearing as little as possible.
There is, however, a high cost for breaking these prohibitions, even in licensed premises. Apart from the risk of losing your soul to Shaitan (that's Satan to you and me), it costs 38 Qatari Riyals (over six quid) for a pint of Guiness. The penalty for non-maritial relations is a year in prison.
Friday night also introduced me to a taxi ride on Doha roads. The driving is wild and I'm reliably informed that by the time my visit is over I will see, or be involved in a (hopefully non-fatal) road accident. Crossing points are also very rare on the main roads, meaning you may have to walk half a mile to find a place to cross or risk you life during a break in three lanes of constantly weaving traffic.
In contrast to Britain's sparing use of the horn (which is normally used to indicate imminent danger and occassionally to express frustration at the kind of driving that is customary in Doha), the horn in Doha appears to be a form of driver communication, like the twittering of birds. During particularly frustating episodes of gridlock, where any movement is impossible and frustrated horns therefore futile, they nevertheless become a cacophony akin to a herd of trumpeting elephants.
Hopefully I'll make it home alive.
Showing posts with label DOHA. Show all posts
Showing posts with label DOHA. Show all posts
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
DOHA: Castles Made of Sand
By MARK McLAUGHLIN
in DOHA
20 November 2009
My first impression of Doha was to note just how massive it is. Coming from Edinburgh I'm accustomed to a whole city contained within the space of few square miles. Doha is a sprawling mass that eminates outward from a horseshoe shaped harbour, flanked at its northern edge by a futuristic cityscape that puts Blade Runner to shame.
At the northern tip of the harbour stands the toblerone shaped Doha Sheraton Hotel, and to the south is the newish Museum of Islamic Art, a lego shaped building full of artifacts from 1000 years of Islamic history (might do a full review later).
From there the city expands outwards in concentric circles, marked out by circular motorways called simply Ring Road A through to E.
Outside of the Blade Runner metropolis at the shore, the rest of Doha architecture consists of simple, flat roofed buildings the colour of sand, as though they were whipped up in a sandstorm by an industrialist djinn. Conical spikes stick out every half mile or so signifying the ubiquitous mosques, which five times a day cry out in unison for the call to prayer. Most expats grow tired of this regular interuption to their day (especially the sunrise call at 4.30am) but to the ininitiated they have a haunting quality.
in DOHA
20 November 2009
My first impression of Doha was to note just how massive it is. Coming from Edinburgh I'm accustomed to a whole city contained within the space of few square miles. Doha is a sprawling mass that eminates outward from a horseshoe shaped harbour, flanked at its northern edge by a futuristic cityscape that puts Blade Runner to shame.
At the northern tip of the harbour stands the toblerone shaped Doha Sheraton Hotel, and to the south is the newish Museum of Islamic Art, a lego shaped building full of artifacts from 1000 years of Islamic history (might do a full review later).
From there the city expands outwards in concentric circles, marked out by circular motorways called simply Ring Road A through to E.
Outside of the Blade Runner metropolis at the shore, the rest of Doha architecture consists of simple, flat roofed buildings the colour of sand, as though they were whipped up in a sandstorm by an industrialist djinn. Conical spikes stick out every half mile or so signifying the ubiquitous mosques, which five times a day cry out in unison for the call to prayer. Most expats grow tired of this regular interuption to their day (especially the sunrise call at 4.30am) but to the ininitiated they have a haunting quality.
DOHA: Santa Clause in Saudi Arabia
By MARK McLAUGHLIN
at Amsterdam Schipol Airport-Dammam-Doha
19 November 2009
Set off for Doha in the early hours of this morning, with a five hour stopover at Amsterdam Schipol Airport. Having never been to Amsterdam, but heard many a story from my reprobate friends, I was disappointed to find the airport devoid of strippers. I did, however, find the "slag room", which much to my annoyance turned out to be Dutch for "whipped cream".
The airport has a casino, which I stayed well clear of preferring to keep my cash, and at the time of flying also an art exhibition featuring paintings by the Brueghel family of artists, who are apparently quite well known if you're Dutch and into art.
I set off again for a quick stopover in Dammam, Saudi Arabia, to pick up the final passengers set for Doha. An Arab family boarded the plane. The father was sporting a jet-black beard and a gleaming white dishdasha, and the elder son was similarly attired with a wispy bumfluff moustache which I found quite amusing. The women, presumably his wives and/or daughters, followed dressed in black burqas and they were followed in turn by throng of happy looking children, dressed in simple jeans and t-shirts and as yet unencumbered by the strict Saudi dress code of their elders.
The culture shock was complete when the Dutch air-hostesses, a spirted bunch who had teased me for most of the flight for trying to pay for the complimentary alcohol (who knew!), arrived with complimentary toys for the children.
"Santa Clause is here," said one of the air-hostesses, apparently unaware of her cultural faux pas.
I don't think Saint Nick would be too welcome round these parts!
at Amsterdam Schipol Airport-Dammam-Doha
19 November 2009
Set off for Doha in the early hours of this morning, with a five hour stopover at Amsterdam Schipol Airport. Having never been to Amsterdam, but heard many a story from my reprobate friends, I was disappointed to find the airport devoid of strippers. I did, however, find the "slag room", which much to my annoyance turned out to be Dutch for "whipped cream".
The airport has a casino, which I stayed well clear of preferring to keep my cash, and at the time of flying also an art exhibition featuring paintings by the Brueghel family of artists, who are apparently quite well known if you're Dutch and into art.
I set off again for a quick stopover in Dammam, Saudi Arabia, to pick up the final passengers set for Doha. An Arab family boarded the plane. The father was sporting a jet-black beard and a gleaming white dishdasha, and the elder son was similarly attired with a wispy bumfluff moustache which I found quite amusing. The women, presumably his wives and/or daughters, followed dressed in black burqas and they were followed in turn by throng of happy looking children, dressed in simple jeans and t-shirts and as yet unencumbered by the strict Saudi dress code of their elders.
The culture shock was complete when the Dutch air-hostesses, a spirted bunch who had teased me for most of the flight for trying to pay for the complimentary alcohol (who knew!), arrived with complimentary toys for the children.
"Santa Clause is here," said one of the air-hostesses, apparently unaware of her cultural faux pas.
I don't think Saint Nick would be too welcome round these parts!
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