Intolerable Acts

This town
Is gonna be like a ghost town.
All the clubs have been closed down.

This place
Is gonna be like a ghost town
Bands don't play no more
(Too much fightin' on da dancefloor)

The presence of intoxicating alcoholic beverage in Qatar has for many years been a touchy subject. On one hand, we have an indigenous society for whom alcohol is forbidden by both religion and the law of the land, and on another there is a majority of residents who regard a drink as a normal part of adult life.

So for many years there has been an arrangement whereby non-Muslim residents have a permit to acquire liquor for personal consumption in private. It’s also possible to buy and consume liquor in certain hotel bars and restaurants. Current practice is that any prospective drinker has to present a valid passport or ID card before being allowed in. Whether this is to shame us into not actually visiting a bar (good luck with that), or to keep track of who drinks, or is merely a way of giving a couple of doormen something to do is unclear.

And then a couple of years ago, everything changed as The Pearl appeared. This man-made development, won from the ocean by reclamation, isn’t technically in Qatar. It’s a gated community on what is almost an island. The normal rule that non-nationals can’t own real estate doesn’t apply, and thus foreigners have purchased apartments and business units. It’s luxury living, with the developments in crescents around marinas full of motor yachts. We all know how waterfront properties command high prices, don’t we? 

Another aspect of the not-quite-in-Qatar-ness of The Pearl is, or more accurately was, the relative freedom to buy drinks.

Until, according to one of my associates who “saw it happen”, there was a punch-up.

A couple of drunks have a fight, and are presumably arrested, fined, given very short haircuts, imprisoned, and deported. Good: most adults are fully capable of imbibing without becoming incoherent or aggressive. Assault, drunken or otherwise, is unacceptable; it is right and proper to punish the guilty.

The Qatar authorities have reacted by shutting down all liquor outlets throughout The Pearl. This appears to be a form of collective punishment. Why should all residents, all visitors, all businesses, and all employees suffer because of the unacceptable behavior of a tiny minority? Restaurants that did a booming trade up until the liquor ban still have to pay their high waterfront rents , but now struggle to find customers. Businesses close down. Employees lose their jobs and have to go home. Their children don’t get educated. Their relatives don’t get medical care.

Incidentally, I await with interest to outcome of the discussions between FIFA and the State of Qatar with regard to the supply of vast quantities of booze to very large numbers of thirsty foopball fans. In Brazil, the 2003 law preventing sale of beer in foopball arenas is in direct conflict with Budweiser being a major sponsor of the tournament. “The selling of beer in stadiums is part of the fan culture and will also be part of the 2014 FIFA World Cup,” said FIFA in January. And what about in 2022?

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Yes we can

I recently read that the sale of tinned Pepsi and Coca-Cola is now banned in the UAE. Over the next month, cans of this popular cola-flavoured beverage are, by law to be removed from the shelves, on pain of 'strict penalties'. I don't generally drink the stuff, except to disguise the nasty taste of the rum, ha ha.

What has bought about this sudden move by the Ministry of Economy? Positive action against obesity, diabetes, rotten teeth, or littering? An effort to force the general populace to switch to OwnBrand^(TM) Cola, perhaps? Or are the plastic bottles that ultimately come from oil somehow more environmentally sustainable than alumininium, aluminium, aluminum or alumium?

Once we get past the 'Read me! Read me!' headline that suggests that the UAE has chosen its sledgehammer to crack the proverbial nut and has banned soft drinks, we find that the truth makes a lot more sense.

The reason given in this news article is that the cans are breaking the regulations by not having the price or ingredients displayed in Arabic.

I see. Putting aside the semantic issue about the naughty and disobedient cans, it's not exactly rocket surgery to stick a printed paper label on the product, is it? That's what happens to other imported prepacked goods, much to the irritation of those of us who would like to read what's invariably obscured by the label. What is Arabic for 'sugar', 'high-fructose corn syrup' and 'aspartame', by the way?

What is actually happening is made clearer in this news article. The drinks are on sale in both 300ml and 330ml for Coke and 355ml for Pepsi, and they're all up for sale at the same price. The news articles do note that it's only the 300ml cans that are being withdrawn from sale. Apparently, Joe Public cannot tell that the big cans on sale at Dh1.50 offer better value than small cans at Dh1.50, and he and has to be protected. The cost to manufacture, market and transport any can size has got to be virtually identical: what's wrong with "...and up to 55ml free!"? This difference is worth Dh0.275 (less than a shilling in UK old money) to Mr Public, and is for less than four level tablespoons of the actual product.

As the stuff is made locally in the UAE, it surely cannot be beyond the wit of man to print the ingredients list in Arabic, can it? Even some of my beer has Arabic ingredients.

My other canned drink of choice is best served with juniper-berry flavoured beverage and a dash of lemon. I wonder if the curious mixture of 300ml and 330ml packaging will affect tonic water and other products, or be limited to cola?

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The hole truth

The Goat hasn’t needed an alarm clock for several weeks. New electricity cables have been being installed in the street outside his flat since the summer, and the inexorable progress down the road is now having a direct impact on the Goat’s lifestyle.

Every day at exactly 6am, the contractor’s diesel engines are all started, and gently warmed up by revving them to the red line. The compressor powers pneumatic tools, so at 6:05 the jackhammers start. At least the contractor waits until spot on 6:30 before starting with the pecker attached to the excavator. VroomVroom! DinkDinkDinkDinkDinkDink! DinkDinkDinkDink! There isn’t even any respite by going to the office: there’s a vast hole in the plot next door to the Goat’s office block and, six floors down, three excavators spend all day pecking away at the native limestone, as they create space for a third basement level for a new building. VroomVroom! DinkDinkDinkDinkDinkDink!

To the Goat’s delight, he noticed last week that some lines had been spray-painted across the frontage of his apartment block. Clearly, digging a trench on the other side of the road wasn’t going to be sufficient, and the contractor had plans for works on both sides.

Getting home after dark has for many months involved weaving down the street and avoiding potholes, plastic barriers, road cones, and flashing orange lights. Last Thursday morning the situation became worse, because a bloke in a hard hat and carrying a red flag was standing guard at the end of the street and only letting motorists out.

It seemed obvious what would shortly come to pass, so the Goat didn’t drive home after work on Thursday and then take a taxi to the airport. Instead, he parked at the airport so that he could drive home after his weekend in Dubai with Beloved Wife.

This turned out to be a staggeringly astute decision. At 3am on Sunday, he arrived back at the flat to discover a huge, barriered trench all the way across the frontage of the apartment block. There is no way in or out for a vehicle, and all the tenants are parking over the road on the open ground behind the buildings opposite. A different decision would surely have resulted in Rio being trapped in the car park under the apartments, and leaving the Goat with no reasonable means of getting to work.

There is a piece of boiler plate over the trench, so at least pedestrian access to the building is possible. But it’s awkwardly located and not very wide, so the Goat’s motorbike might be trapped until further notice. Given that this is a good time of year for riding a motorbike, the Goat is not best pleased.


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Prosopagnosia

Back in Doha, I find that I keep running into people from my previous life in Qatar. Surprisingly, I get recognised in the street and in shops by apparent strangers. Perhaps the weirdest example was when I walked into a car accessories shop where I’d not been for about eight years, and the proprietor recognised me, instantly remembering that I used to be involved with the Doha Players. It wasn’t as if he’d used any clues either. For the first time, I’d rolled up at the shop on a motorbike rather than in a Nissan Patrol, and the shopkeeper recognised me despite my bike gear and helmet.

A total stranger recognised me in the Kawasaki showroom. He correctly identified me as the Goat who’d bought the aforementioned Nissan Patrol off him in 1999.

And then last Saturday it happened again.

I was hailed by a complete stranger in the Harley-Davidson shop in Wakrah, who had instantly recognised me as the scuba diver who bought loads of stuff from his shop between 1996 and 2002. (I’d only dropped in, on my way back from taking Rio for a dance across the sand, to see if they had any motorbike boots that I might like; I’m not about to spend QAR97,000 on a Fat Boy.) Actually, the last time I saw him wasn’t 2002; I ran into him on a flight back from the Philippines in early 2006. Nevertheless, he instantly recognised me out of context after six years.

Is this uncanny ability to recognise people by face alone a normal skill possessed by almost everyone on the planet, or a special ability possessed only by politicians, policemen and proprietors in the retail trade? I can’t do it at all. I have an atrocious memory for faces, or so it seems. I can remember other stuff in immense detail, such as the above flight from the Philippines where Beloved Wife and Goat paid for Business Class, the in-flight entertainment didn’t work in our seats, the food was inedible, the Doha to Dubai flight was delayed and we were bumped, and I totally failed to recognise Samir who was on the same flight.

So I was fascinated to learn that there’s actually a name for it. Prosopagnosia (from the Classical Greek πρόσωπον and αγνωσία, meaning “face” and “non-knowledge”) is the inability to see faces. If I have this, it’s very mild because I don’t see a blank where a face should be, and a possibly more likely condition is the related neuropsychological deficit prosopamnesia, in which the sufferer sees faces OK but can’t remember them.

I’ve always had it. A great terror at school was being handed a pile of exercise books by the teacher to distribute around the class. Two years in the same class of over thirty teenagers, and I couldn’t hand the books to the correct people. Much hilarity and ridicule always followed. Teenagers are merciless.

Similarly television and films. I seldom find myself thinking that Kunta Kinte and Geordi LaForge are the same person. I completely failed to recognise Patrick Stewart in I, CLAVDIVS, because he was wearing a wig, and drama with large casts I find immensely confusing. Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy? I don’t have the first idea what’s going on.

I deal with it by using clues that aren’t face-related. On a desert drive, I use the car as the identifier: Prasad is in that white Land Cruiser with two spare wheels on the roof. At the dinner dance, Steve is the one in the loudest waistcoat. In the office, I depend on people being in their allocated cubicles, until I can sneak a look at their ID cards. Please don’t be surprised if I don’t recognise you if you change your hairstyle, grow a beard, switch from glasses to contacts, or have your wonky teeth fixed.

Trouble is, being recognised is such an important social ability. According to a news article I was reading on the subject, people generally expect to be recognised in about 0.2 seconds, and if they’re not they feel insulted and I feel acutely embarrassed. So I cheat, pretending to know who I’m talking to until they let slip some clue: that they were in such-and-such a play, or they have a daughter who plays the violin, or they bought a boat off my friend.

And please, don’t ever ask me to pick a villain out of a line-up or a page of mug shots.

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Oh no I didn't!

It’s time to raise the curtain.
It’s time to light to lights..

It’s time to put on make-up
It’s time to dress up right…

The Doha Players’ annual pantomime is over for another year, and the Goat now gets his life back.

The English pantomime, for anyone not familiar with this particular art form, is a comedy musical stage play. The plot is usually based on a well-known traditional story, usually a fairy tale, but the plot invariably heads off on tangents that don’t appear in the Brothers Grimm version. Peppered with local and topical references, the script is also loaded with corny jokes and slapstick. A very important aspect is that the Leading Lady, a matriarchal ‘Dame’ figure, must be played by a bloke. And everyone understands that ‘she’ is a bloke, except for the other characters. A ‘Principal Boy’, on the other hand, is played by a hot babe in tights. Unlike most stage shows, audience participation is actively encouraged. Children of all ages should warn that “He’s behind you!” while the hero is being stalked by a villain. Cheer the good guys; boo the bad.

On reflection, the Goat’s life seems to be irregularly punctuated by pantomime. He arrived in Doha in 1996 and quite by accident ran into a member of the Doha Players in about October. Having found out about the theatre in general and the forthcoming panto in particular, off the Goat trotted, landing a principal role. Other plays followed, including musicals, comedies and dramas and, of course, a traditional pantomime at the end of the year.

Then in 2002, the Goat found himself seconded to Dubai. Here he ran into the Dubai Drama Group and landed a part in a panto. He also met his future beloved Wife. She removed clothing on stage to Patricia The Stripper while he appeared in a selection of foul frocks and garish wigs and make-up.

“Oh no he didn’t!”

“Oh yes he did!”

Several years later and back in Doha, the Goat re-acquainted himself with the Players and it was déjà-vu all over again. Getting a part and wearing ghastly clothes, that is; not meeting one’s wife. Although she did fly over for the weekend to see her husband, meet the Doha Players, see the show, and even to help out.

With any show, the number of people on stage is minimal compared with the legions of back-stage volunteers. Pantomime typically has a huge cast plus a chorus, so the director relies on wranglers to get people on and off the stage. It really is teamwork, and this is why amateur dramatics appears at the bottom of the Goat’s curriculum vitae. There’s no other evidence of being a team player in the absence of membership of a foopball club.

Thanks must go to the other actors and singers, director, producer, musical director, band, lights and sound, set building, scenery shifting, costume, make-up, stage management and props. Someone kindly cleaned up after the slapstick scene every performance, so muchas gracias there. Also rehearsal and interval refreshments, ticket sales, programme, front-of-house, rehearsal space, performance space, and of course the fee-paying punters who came to the show and made it all worthwhile. Thank you; thank you all.

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Christmas in America

There is far, far too much to write about in one blog post about What I Did Over Christmas, so I’ve split it into chapters.

Beloved Wife and Goat definitely wanted to travel away from the middle east over Christmas, and certainly wanted to be together for at least part of the time. The selection process finally boiled down to her family for Christmas, and meeting ex-Dubai refugees for the New Year.

Having more leave than the Goat, Madame set off a week earlier from Dubai, only to be bumped off the Emirates flight. How is it that the punter complies with every crossed T and dotted I of Emirates’ terms and conditions, turns up at the airport in good time to use her non-refundable, non-changeable ticket, only to be told that they’ve sold about 50 seats twice and no you don’t get to travel today? Compensation offered was a future free cattle class flight from Dubai to New York (and presumably back again). I’d have held out for business class and probably ended up with nothing more than a flea in my ear.

The Goat travelled a week later, ostensibly via United but actually by Qatar Airways, United and some minuscule jet-powered cigar tube that was late because of snow in Denver. The return journey involved larger aircraft and a whole different selection of airports.

Delays meant that the Goat was finally collected by Beloved Wife at 03:30 on Christmas Eve. He collapsed unconscious chez in-laws an hour or so later, but was up again a couple of hours later. Curse you, jet lag! You confuse the body and the mind. Beloved Wife suggested an early morning snoop around the local McMansions to see the festive bling adorning the houses.

From the sublime...

...to the hilariously ludicrous

Christmas was a fairly low-key family affair, with stockings, presents, food and drink. There were some splendid gifts that Beloved Wife had obtained during her recent trip to Kathmandu, including scarves and carpets. And this goes part way to explaining these three wise men.

Magi

Also books and booze. The Goat was going to be unable to bring the splendid bottle of vintage port from his brother-in-law back to Qatar. It would have to be consumed on American territory. Oh lackaday.

The rainy weather cleared up over Christmas and the temperature dropped. The numbers don’t look very scary, but 26 is frighteningly cold for Gulf residents when it’s in Fahrenheit.

Pre-arranged plans for after Christmas involved a road trip south, ultimately to Key West, which is about as far south as it’s possible to drive within mainland USA. Father-in-law said that we should borrow his car, a Toyota Avalon, mostly on the basis that it was big enough for the luggage and the passengers CJ and J that we’d be meeting in Miami, and it might even be reasonably economical unless the 3-litre V6 engine were thrashed. Like with rigidly-enforced 55, 65 or 70mph speed limits that was ever going to happen. As it turned out, the 22 miles per gallon on the car’s computer soon rose to 25, then 28 and more. At one point it even got to 31mpg, and remember these are those titchy American gallons.

The GPS was already pre-programmed with south-east USA, and as for voice prompts, Clarissa explains it all.

The non-negotiable appointments were to drop off Christmas presents with relatives in Jacksonville and meet CJ and J in Miami at a particular hotel near the airport and travel with them to Key West.

Perhaps the Goat could buy some motorcycle apparel in Daytona Beach.

Orlando is halfway down Florida, so it seemed sensible to drop in there. A trip to Universal Studios seemed to be in order.

It was surprising to note how much warmer the daytime temperatures were than even north Florida. 70F/21C. Cold at night, though, dropping to around 45F/8C.

Near Orlando is Cape Canaveral, so that’s a also a good place to visit.

Onwards, southwards and westwards. Key West is very much the End of the Road. Actually, Mile Zero of US Route 1 is in Key West, and is something of a tourist attraction. It’s right next to Ernest Hemingway’s house.

An uneventful yet picturesque trip back to Miami followed, including stops for shopping and photos. CJ was desirous of paddling in the ocean, so we all did this in the freezing cold water near Seven Mile Bridge. The one thing that we didn’t find time to do was dive. Beloved Wife and I had packed our qualifications, dive computers, swimmies and masks, but the ferocious itinerary simply didn’t allow a day of diving. Some other time, then. This despite the mid-winter temperature ranging from 80F/25C during the day to 60F/16C at night. No need for coats, then, although wetsuits would have been needed in the sea.

It’s quite a long way from Key West to Miami, but we found the airport and dropped off CJ and J without incident or hassle. Thank you Clarissa. Then immediately another 350 miles to the frozen north of Jacksonville to Beloved Wife’s relatives. Clearly we’d not misbehaved, and had been invited back. The following morning we drove the 450 miles back to North Carolina.

The trip ended up being some 2000 miles, and was faultless except for when the keyless ignition fob failed. Fortunately, it’s familiar technology to the Goat (who has a similar device on his motorbike) and was a simple fix with a new button battery. It would not do to be stranded in the back of beyond and unable to start the car.

A couple of days chilling, relaxing and running errands, before the great air-travel onslaught. Beloved Wife’s arrangement started two hours after the Goat’s, but we both arrived at our respective destinations within an hour of each other. And so did all our luggage, which was a bonus.

Now, about the next trip. Japan, perhaps?

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What-ho, chaps

Beloved wife had finally decided that I needed a Nespresso machine for my birthday when it occurred to me that such a device would be so much scrap metal if I couldn’t find a local source of coffee capsules. It further occurred to me that I actually rather enjoy the ritual of grinding my own beans before firing up a moka pot. So despite Doha’s emporium of the Designer and Expensive, Blue Salon carrying Nespresso, I declared that I didn’t want one.

That was August. Beloved Wife says she still owes me a birthday present.

I came up with the brilliant idea of getting some motorcycle leathers. My old ones would now not fit me, even if they were available and not missing presumed stolen. Leather biking gear is extremely rare in Qatar, even in off-the-peg sizes. Personally I need to be sure that any leathers I own will actually fit my unorthodox body shape. When I put on a one-piece suit, it usually appears to have been designed to fit Igor: “Have you finished the stitching?” “Yeth, marthter!”

There are many more motorcycles in the USA than in Qatar. Surely during the Christmas visit I can find a shop selling a selection of leathers and try them on? Surely they’ll be realistically sized for the middle-aged biker.

And this is what we tried to do on our new year road trip. The signs looked promising. Huge roadside signs, in fact, promising motorcycle hypermarkets not one mile from the next exit on the interstate. So we turned off and, indeed, found huge motorcycle hypermarkets full of huge motorcycles and plenty of leather and chrome.

If I’d wanted a jacket with fringed sleeves, a black leather waistcoat, fingerless gloves, or some chaps I would have been very much in Hog heaven. But I want racing or touring leathers, preferably two-piece, zip-together with body armour, and perforated for warm weather. Not Coming In South Carolina, sir. And Not Coming In Georgia or Florida either, as we were soon to discover.

The sales assistant suggested that we might have better luck in the famously petrolhead town of Daytona Beach, so that’s where we headed next. Indeed, the town was full of motorcycles and shops selling riding apparel. Again, waistcoats and chaps. I protested about the preponderance of assless chaps until someone pointed out to me that all chaps are, by definition, assless. Or ‘arseless’ in British English. The idea of someone wanting racing leathers was entirely alien to everybody in Daytona Beach except one. The woman in the BMW shop knew what I wanted, but had none in stock.

Elsewhere on our trip we dropped into various random motorbike shops. I’ve learned that it was a total waste of time trying anywhere marked ‘Harley-Davidson’. Quite a lot of those only sold tee shirts and wallets on chains. I eventually found one set of leathers, stuffed full of old newspapers and perched atop a sports bike in a Kawasaki shop window. But if I wanted to buy my own they’d have to be ordered from Illinois.

So I still don’t have a leather riding suit. No track days for me. It looks very much as if mail order is the only option. If so, I’ll probably bespeak a made-to-measure suit.

Back to the main post.

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