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.