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.