Dunebashing

Dunebashing! I had already enjoyed it when I was introduced to it on March 1^st, but having Rafael visiting me in Qatar is an excellent reason to repeat the adventure and indulge in a mother-and-son trip. We can go on the so-called ‘desert safari’, a.k.a. ‘dunebashing’, a must for a visitor doing the attractions of Qatar.

Dunebashing is a pastime of young male Qataris who own cars at a younger age than is good for them, and who then get involved in some exciting and risky antics with their friends, when they have nothing better to do. The adrenaline kick basically comes from driving up and down the sandy dunes south of Doha after they have taken most of the air out of the tyres of their car, probably a gift from daddy. The steeper the dune, the better; the faster the ride, the better; and the riskier the moves, the better. Not surprisingly, the incidence of accidents is considerable. This dangerous hobby results in a lot of material damage to automobiles, not to mention the more serious loss of life when yet another brash young guy has gone too far and is sacrificed in a fatal accident. Dunebashing can clearly be a cause of worry and grief to many Qatari families.

The risk factor, though, has been reduced significantly to make this joy-riding a profitable activity. With so many expatriates and visitors coming to this country, it has been worth cleaning up the act and selling it as a tourist attraction. Tour operators have their own vans and employees to take small groups of clients on an original variation of the roller-coaster theme. An organized tour includes an experienced driver with an SUV and an overnight stay in Bedouin tents on the beach, with two meals and a few other bits ‘n’ pieces thrown in.

On the last Friday of April Rafael and I meet up with two freshly arrived Dutch tourists, Marius and Bert. They are friends of my new Amsterdam acquaintance Camiel, who got a contract with Al Jazeera TV to work on its children’s channel, but who unfortunately is too busy with work to join us. His two visitors come from the rainy, flat ‘polder’ land in Holland, with lush green meadows. The ‘desert safari’ will definitely show them a completely different scenery – forget about the green. We introduce each other in the lobby of the luxury hotel where I stayed at the beginning of January. Though I don’t recognize any faces of its staff members anymore, the hotel employees are still as smiling, friendly and helpful as I remember them to be. Marius, Bert, Rafael and I will be together for the next 20 hours, sharing an SUV-with-driver and a desert tent. Our driver Nasr is already waiting for us outside. He is wearing an immaculately white ‘thoub’ (the long white Qatari male dress) and a red-and-white ‘kuffiya’ around his head. His English is limited but we manage to communicate, and I also mobilize as much of my elementary Arabic as possible. Though Nasr was born and bred here, he’s originally from Yemen. Today he is at his weekend job.

The drive from Doha down south takes less than an hour, but it’s long enough to take us through a couple of small towns and along a desert landscape in shades of beige with no vegetation. After all, less than 2 % of Qatar’s surface is arable land. With no mountains and only flat, sandy land Qatar can feel the earthquakes from Iran, like the two recent ones that were in the news earlier this month. The view from the car shows us that the only ‘fauna’ visible consists of youngsters roaring and racing on quad bikes, and that the highest features of the region are huge oil refineries and pipes topped by blazing flames. Nasr tells me that another part of the country hosts the gas industry, the big resource of Qatar, with enough energy for another 80 years – no wonder the Qataris have the highest GDP in the world.

When we park outside a beach resort, we observe lots of similar SUVs filled with tourists. The drivers are busy taking out most of the air from the tyres, while the passengers need to register and pay for the tour in a small office. We stand in what hardly resembles a queue. Surprisingly, Rafael bumps into someone whom he used to know when working in Oman and who now lives in Qatar working for Al Jazeera. What a small world!

With the tyres in good order it is high time to fasten our safety belts to hit the dunes, and the SUVs drive in convoy across the bumpy dunes. Nasr zooms up and down the irregular surface of the hills. Downshifting, climbing, accelerating, cutting the slope, flying down, shifting back into higher gear, attacking the next dune… He is clearly in his element and goes wild, but he knows what he is doing. Sometimes he gets irritated with slow and overcautious colleagues in front of him. He swings from left to right and back again to find the best route in the soft sand. We love it, all four of us. We cheer, we gasp, we laugh. One of the biggest thrills is to get to the top of a hill and then drive down, nose forward, with Nasr steering against overturning our van. Another way is to drive across the slope of a steep hill while whipping up clouds of fine sand.  Nasr explains that it is forbidden to be on the slope and slide down sideways, as the car might flip over causing a dangerous accident, but we see some private cars taking that risk anyway. Honestly, some Qatari youngsters are reckless and crazy…. 

We are dumb-struck when it starts to rain: big, dust-filled drops fall on the car windows. What is happening to the usual climates of Mother Earth? And doesn’t the rain make scorpions and snakes come out of the sand (as I once heard but as was denied by one driver)? It is amazing that we happen to have liquid sunshine and a drop in temperature in this hot, dusty country, where a mere 2 weeks ago it was a stifling 39 degrees. A few days ago during our stay in neighbouring Muscat, Rafael and I already witnessed unexpected downpours, which caused such big puddles in the street that the Omani drivers had to avoid them by driving on - what in other countries would be a sidewalk but in the Gulf countries is merely - the messy, sandy strip in front of private homes. Later the TV weather forecast informed its viewers that Muscat had received a shocking 51 mm of rain in a couple of days, while Doha temperatures had hovered around a pleasant 29 degrees, an unusual and welcome treat at the end of April.

Our convoy stops at the top of some dunes that overlook a flat plain of wet sand. A sheen of white powder seems to indicate that the sea water sometimes comes in to leave the salt behind. The international crowd of tourists spilling from a dozen SUVs takes ample photographs for posterity and Facebook. A number of energetic participants run down the steep slope, but have more trouble climbing back up. I regret that there are no flamingos on the wet plain, like last time I was here. When I turn around I see that half a dozen of our drivers have taken the opportunity of this break to do their mid-afternoon prayers. Against the backdrop of the broad dunescape they go through the devout movements of their Muslim prayers in unison. They are facing in the other direction, away from the plain and the photographic poses of their clients – aha! so that is then where Saudi Arabia is located.

We are off again for the next bumpy ride.  Presumably, it has got too jerky because our SUV has some trouble, some mechanical breakdown. We need to get out and Nasr starts repairing the front wheel, with the help of some other drivers. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be stuck in this sandy expanse with such problems when you are alone in your private car. How far away is civilization? In which direction of this sandy desert? But the repairs don’t take long, and we are off again on the roller-coaster. At the next stopping place the engines are turned off at a dune ridge, not far from the Inland Sea, the Khor Al Udayd. We take in the panorama of Saudi Arabia in the distance. Surely, I ponder, this must be the area that used to belong to the United Arab Emirates, with which Qatar used to have a border. In 1971 Qatar could have become the 8^th emirate of the United Arab Emirates, but it preferred to remain independent from them. At the time it must have been possible to drive from Qatar to the UAE. It seems that Saudi Arabia simply confiscated the land, much to the chagrin of Qatar. It resulted in Qatar inviting the Americans to construct a huge base somewhere (but in accordance with an agreement you hardly ever see any of those thousands of American soldiers in the streets of Doha), and therefore in the large number of American expats living here. To get to Dubai or Abu Dhabi you now have to take a flight or a boat – but who knows Qatar may build a bridge across the sea to the Emirates to the east, and across to Bahrain to the west in order to avoid driving through Saudi Arabia. Our view across the land and the water is calm and peaceful, so it is hard to imagine that the waters between the UAE, Saudi Arabia and Qatar are disputed by all three parties. Not to mention Iran, of course…. 

Dunebashing continues afterwards. We are enjoying every slope, every turn. I have lost my sense of orientation, except when to my right I can see the shimmering waters of the Arabian Gulf (a.k.a. the “Persian Gulf” by the Iranians on the opposite side) – we must be going back north. On flat plains of sand I cast a glance in front of Nasr: our speed can exceed 100 km per hour, road or no road! But by the end of the afternoon the roller-coaster ride comes to an end. We are at the campsite on the beach and have to take all our luggage out of the 4-wheel drive. 

Our tent is big, about 3 by 3 meters, and along the sides there are traditionally Qatari mattresses and cushions (part of the guest reception area called “majli”). There is enough space for four people to lie straight along three sides of the tent. Thank goodness I brought some blankets, because those mattresses are always very hard to lie on. 

On the beach there are a couple of camels for the tourists. Despite the limited movement that my jammy (pre-operation) hips are capable of I decide to do the silly 200-meter camel ride. My camel, called Raja, is a bit snarly and snorts as soon as I mount. Let’s hope that Raja is not so bad-tempered that I get thrown off. The tricky part is always when the camel gets up and stretches its hind legs, so that the unsuspecting passenger suddenly is jerked forward. I hold on tight, definitely not wanting to bite the dust.  When the camel stretches its front legs my position becomes level again and Raja follows the short route along the beach for the umpteenth time. Five minutes later after I have dismounted again, my suffering hips are happy, and so is Raja no doubt.

The following bit of entertainment is the dune next to the beach. A couple of snowboards (called ‘sandboards’ here; yeah! right!) lure the daring visitors up the sandy slope to try a ride downhill. For the majority of campers it’s impossible to slide down with the snowboard and reach the bottom of the hill still in an upright position; the snowboards were obviously made for snow, not for sand. Never having been a snowboarder anyway, I really don’t want to try. But Bert gives it a go, and ends up with a bleeding toe. Rafael, too, wants to have a turn. I witnessed his first attempt on the Moroccan sand dunes in 2008. Today he does a lot better than during his first experience 5 years ago. 

Time for din-dins. There is lots of food prepared for all of us, most of it barbequed in an open hut, next to the blaring music system. The four of us choose a table near the sea to eat and chat, while a couple of flamingos fly past the beach. The sea is not really cold but it is already dark outside. Regrettably there is no spectacular sunset, but a beautiful moon adorns the evening sky.  Should I have a swim perhaps, or leave it till tomorrow morning? Maybe not now in the dark. Instead we order four shishas, or hubble bubble – flavour grape/mint - and somebody comes along regularly to renew the hot-red coals. When we move our chairs and water pipes to the campfire in the middle of the campsite, I wonder again, like last time in March, where all the wood comes from to keep the flames going in a country with so few trees. We chat with four South Africans who have teaching jobs at a school in Doha. 

There is also a small group of three Swiss visitors. Since they have brought marshmallows to roast, Rafael and I decide to introduce them and our Dutch friends Marius and Bert to the Canadian campfire snack: smores. We have some cookies and (Swiss) chocolate, they have the marshmallows. I warn them that they may find this ‘delicacy’ from Canada absolutely disgusting, but at least it is a lesson in Canadian culture, plus it may keep their dentists in jobs. Since the Swiss all work in aviation they can give us a lot of information on airports and airliners in Europe. The woman in the group, a pilot, tells us that her employer, Qatar Air, is one of only half a dozen 5-star airliners in the world, none of them European or North-American, it seems. She and her colleagues in Qatar Air represent no less than 140 nationalities, in other words, that reflects the work force I have already observed in Doha: plenty of immigrants and expats everywhere. The “Qatarisation” of the labour force is underway but has a long way to go yet. Around midnight we hit the sack, or rather the hard majli mattresses, and the camp becomes quiet – so different from my last camping trip when a couple of dozen Indians had gathered around the fire and were singing songs in all their different Indian languages and playing charades (in English).

The next morning at 6:00 somebody walks along all the tents to wake up all the tourists. I remember from last time that we don’t get a lot of time before departure, so I should have my swim as soon as possible.  Bert joins me for a short, pleasant swim; the water is not cold at all. This salty dip will need to replace my morning shower for the time being. What a pity that there is no beautiful sunrise, like on my first trip. 

Breakfast is next (on the beach, like last time), then packing and then loading. The convoy sets off again, back to the civilized world of roads. The sand has visibly shifted on some mobile dunes and many of the tracks left by yesterday’s SUV wheels have faded with the wind. The sparse, brownish vegetation, which Nasr calls what sounds like “tu’us”, hardly anchors these sandy hills.

I feel sorry that the adventure will be over in less than an hour. I am having so much fun with Rafael, Marius and Bert. But our driver has a few unplanned bonuses for us. On the way back he takes us to a small harbour with many fishing boats. Some men are sorting their catch of the day, or rather of the night. Nasr explains in his broken English that they often leave at midnight and return with a full load long before dawn. Have I seen the big market in Doha where they take their fish? No, I haven’t, sorry. I make a mental note that I should check that out some day. He also points at a small museum near the harbour, perhaps also worth a visit some time in the future.

Back in the capital Nasr offers to show us some fishermen again. They are on a quayside near the hotel suites where I used to live and not far from the magnificent Museum of Islamic Art (designed by the Chinese-American architect Pei, who also made the glass pyramid of The Louvre). The fishermen proudly show their catch of last night and are eager to sell to the customers. In colourful buckets and plastic crates, wonderful collections of fresh sea creatures, including squid and crabs, are displayed. Nasr tries to teach me their Arabic names, mainly in vain.

When we head on along the Corniche of Doha Bay Nasr points to the coastal area where long ago he used to live before the old houses got demolished to construct the lovely boulevard and Rumailah Park. He shows us where as a boy he would take his bike to ride and play and where his angry father would find him when his son had skipped school again. I wonder if as a kid Nasr rode crazily and wildly then in preparation for his dunebashing driver’s job a few decades later. 

Less than 5 minutes later we are back at the hotel. It is time to say goodbye to Marius and Bert. Rafael and I head home. I should start planning my 3^rd dunebashing trip, probably when Leila follows her brother's example and visits Qatar.

(with special thanks to Marius, Sandee, Jackie, Melanie and Rafael for their photographs)

RAIN

A new experience: a rainy day in Doha. A few weeks ago I already witnessed some timid, short showers, with just about enough sand-filled water drops to annoyingly dirty a car window for 5 minutes, but not sufficient to drench the grassy patches and flowers beds along the main roads; those need to be watered artificially each day, and rumour has it that you shouldn’t walk barefoot on the grass because the watering happens with grey water.

Today is different. The first thing that strikes me early morning when I arrive in the top floor gym surrounded by glass walls is the sky. There is nothing blue about it. It’s a blanket of grey clouds. Looking up I am reminded by the expansive skies on many 17^th century Dutch paintings, but I am not sure that I want that type of nostalgia now. 

I reluctantly mount one of the bikes in the gym. After 2 months of acculturation they are still an affront to me. How can one possibly sit on a non-moving bike? My Dutch soul resents the thought that the bike doesn’t move me forward or take me along old canals, past strings of shops, near rows of townhouses, through busy streets or between green meadows. Nevertheless I faithfully peddle my 2 km in order to keep my hips in shape for my future hip operation. I look down from the grey sky to the semicircular Bay of Doha, one of my favourite views. That, too, has changed with the rain. The usually vibrant turquoise colour of the sea has turned into a dull, tired bottle green. The funny sandy patch in the middle with its one measly tree of solitude – so ironically called Palm Tree Island on one of my Doha maps – seems lost in the rain. Meanwhile the wind sweeps through the branches of the palm trees down below on the Corniche. The expensive, new quarter of The Pearl is a blurred patch in the faraway distance. Even the nearby Museum of Islamic Art looks less imposing without any sunshine on its smooth, off-white walls. 

There are a few white tents put up in the Museum Park which remind me of the Shakespearean village of Bard on the Beach in Vancouver. One is shaped the same way as the main stage tent, but apparently these tents are not for theatre plays but for an upcoming kite festival. Let’s hope that the rains will have stopped by then. Through the gym windows Museum Park looks less attractive today. Funny how I have to get re-accustomed to seeing the rivulets of rain water against the glass walls, no matter how normal and familiar such a sight used to be in Vancouver or Holland.

On my right a plane takes off while I keep cycling. Before it disappears in the rain clouds I try to see if “Qatar” is written on its belly, in which case it is a Qatar Airways flight, but it is too far away to read. On my left I spy what looks like a bird of prey hovering. It’s not as big, majestic or beautiful as a bald eagle in British Colombia. Would it be a falcon perhaps? Even a falcon kept by Qataris for their sport of falconry?

Half an hour later I am sitting in the car of one of our university drivers. It is weird in Doha to pass through streets glistening with wet tarmacs. The raindrops fall on the front window and I suddenly wonder whether cars here actually have windscreen wipers – the question has never struck me before. Bending forward I inspect the car and can ascertain that, yes, cars here come with windscreen wipers, but the driver does not use them at all. It must be an utterly alien concept to switch them on in a country with an average rainfall of 72mm per year. When I get out of the car, I spread my arms out, turn my head up to the sky and let the drops fall on my smiling face and bare arms.  It is such a rare treat to experience rain here. I wonder if anyone back in Vancouver or Holland can understand my joy, particularly with all the lousy cold spells this winter.

The next morning early in the gym the sky is blue again, the sea has regained its rich colourful brilliance and the view of the buildings far away is as crystal clear as ever. End of the rain.

ON THE BEACH

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FEBRUARY  9th ON THE BEACH

All of the English instructors had to come together for a professional retreat: our curriculum needed to be re-assessed and probably modified. As is often the case, it was impossible to find a working day slot to bring about some 20 people together without clashing with teaching hours. OK, a weekend day then. But in order to make a 6-hour get–together palatable on a Saturday, the location really had to be comfortable, if not super-duper luxurious. The Department Head’s choice fell on a posh hotel-with-beach, the St Regis. 

This was a special treat considering that along the beautiful bay of Doha there is no public beach with easy access to the turquoise-coloured waters of the Gulf. Beaches (a) either are non-existent down below from the Corniche (b) or belong to big hotels such as the Sheraton (c) or charge non-negligible entrance fees to their eager visitors. Since I hadn’t put my toes in the Persian Gulf yet, this was my chance! I felt sure that I’d enjoy it particularly after a hard-working day with my colleagues.

During the lunch break in between a wide range of delicious dishes, I got an early glimpse of the swanky, swimming pool at ground level, surrounded by palm trees, deck chairs, cushioned sofas and sun shaded tents. The inevitable bar with its impeccably dressed waiters was located at the far end of the pool, right where the sandy beach started. It was a promising sight for later that afternoon.

When all our discussions and working sessions had finished, some colleagues and I sauntered over to the pool and beach area. Some of my veteran co-workers regarded a February dive in the Persian Gulf as the equivalent of a Polar Bear Swim on New Year’s Day, in other words, any direct physical contact with the water was fine for fools but to be shunned by the wise. I had to try that luring sea, though! I managed to get in. The water, albeit not exactly warm, was still acceptably tepid for a recently arrived northerner. At the same time, it was extremely salty, and to my surprise not as crystal clear as I had previously imagined – but hey, the calm green-blue water was still relaxing.

 

Standing again on the sand 15 minutes later I could look out and admire “The Pearl”, that huge stretch of land reclaimed from the sea and built up with expensive apartments and palatial waterside mansions. What we couldn’t see, from our vantage point, was the neighbourhood of “The Pearl” where the streets, canals, and bridges emulate the ambiance of Venice, a quarter even called “Venice”; nor could we spot Porto Arabia, which was supposed to be a seaside boulevard with little stores and restaurants, an area that I’ve resolved to explore some time in the future. The Pearl was still under construction. Apparently, only 10% was inhabited so far, and in any case nobody but a Qatari was allowed to buy real estate in this country. 

I peered into the distance towards the other end of the bay, but couldn’t spot the imposing Museum of Islamic Art, which is at a stone’s throw from my apartment  not too far from the airport and where a friend had photographed me recently.  

Was it simply too far from this beach to detect with the naked eye? And what about that story that Qatar might want to build a bridge across the bay all the way from The Pearl to the new Doha International Airport? My colleagues were discussing the rumour and tried to work out what distances would be involved. Surely, a bridge like that would be quite a bit longer than the one from Prince Edward Island to New Brunswick.

It was time for me to do some lengths in the pool. I seemed to be the only one in the water; everyone else was sunbathing and relaxing on the hotel deckchairs. 

When a little later I did the same and got chatting with half a dozen colleagues – with all of us in total agreement that the weather was perfect to chill here in our bathing suits and sunglasses – I couldn’t help noticing a couple walking by. They stopped at the glass fence between the pool and the beach. The man was dressed in an immaculately white “thawb”, the long head-to-toe garment for Qatari men. The matching white scarf ‘rotra’ on his head was held in place by the black, rope-like “'iqal”. He was holding the hand of what presumably must have been his wife. She was wearing a black “abayah” over her entire body, with her head covered in black as well (by a "hejab"). Most Arab women in Qatar wear a scarf that covers their hair but not their face. Some may also cover their foreheads and the part of the face below their eyes (Is that a "batoola" or a "niqab"? I never know). This woman, however, didn’t even show her eyes; not a square centimeter of her face was visible to the outside world. Her eyesight can’t have been perfect, because on top of her facial veil she was wearing a pair of glasses. Involuntarily I inspected myself in my bathing suit and decided that, as far as clothing was concerned, I had in common with the couple that I was wearing black and white, too. How to feel naked even next to a swimming pool….

With the sun gradually going down it was soon time to wrap up. Leaving the one posh hotel behind I was actually heading for yet another one, with the brief name of the “W”. There various jazz musicians would perform that evening in a special fund-raising event. I still had to pick up my ticket and wait for a couple of friends, so I wanted to be there in time. I arrived at my next destination when the late-afternoon sun was slowly disappearing and making the tall buildings of the ultra-modern West Bay area glow with golden light. A few minutes later it was dark.