You say regime, I say government

I'm settling in nicely at AJ.
I love the work. Four days on, four days off (for now), 7am-5pm.
Script editing is intense. You get about 10-15 minutes to turn one around, while newsdesk editors and executive editors stomp over to your terminal to look over your shoulder to see whether you've got the copy. and, btw, when will it be ready?
We also edit the stuff the anchor reads off the teleprompter, anywhere from 10-15 minutes ahead of the newscast, right up to a panicky 2 minutes before... fun stuff... 30-45 seconds after checking in the file, the presenter is live on camera reading your changes.
Those kind of tweaks are hopefully quick word swaps, stuff like instead of saying Syria's regime, we say Syria's government.
We try not to judge.

I'm getting fingerprinted today, after having had a chest X-ray and blood test last week... part of the process whereby before you get your residence permit you are treated you like a plague-carrying criminal.
Come to think of it, that doesn't change much even after you get your RP.
(I'm JOKING)

I shot the pic of the sign outside a small mall here. There's a lot more flex here in what, for example, women can wear despite signs like this. Westerners need not fear.

Nothing like it

I don't think I've ever seen the quality of light that I saw at dusk just now.
I was strolling on the boardwalk that runs parallel to the Corniche, a boulevard that skirts the shoreline in Doha.
It wasn't as humid today as it has been.
In fact I went out because the persistent haze that seems to be an integral part of summer here had finally lifted.
As the sun set, the light became this creamy soft orange. It lasted only a few minutes but it was stunning. I'd love to see that light on a sand dune... maybe when I camp out in the desert.

Blood not so simple

Another step today, taken towards the coveted Qatari RP, or residence permit.
An AJ driver took me and three other newbies to have our blood leached and chests irradiated.
The medical authorities will screen for whatever they like... I've heard AIDS, tuberculosis, etc.
Once we pass that... we'll be off to be fingerprinted.
The hospital was a zoo, but our driver just skipped the queue a couple or three times and me and this other guy were done in 30 minutes... the two women with us were on their own, though... Why, I haven't a clue... Chaos... two hours later...
At some point you stop asking.

Last call

A good friend in Toronto asked me today how many trips I'd made so far to the "ex-pat booze store".
Ha ha.
Here's the thing. Doha has a nondescript warehouse-like building on its outskirts somewhere. (I've yet to see this magical place.)
Inside is every conceivable type of alcoholic beverage that anyone could want.
But to shop there you need a liquor licence.
And to get a liquor licence you need a residence permit... which will take three weeks if I'm lucky.
Doesn't matter anyhow.
During the month of Ramadan all sales of alcohol are prohibited, licence or no.
And the hotels shutter their bars.
It gets better.
The hotel at which a colleague is staying emptied the poor chap's minibar.

Me and my shadow

The plan was to beat the heat by arriving at the Museum of Islamic Art when the doors opened at 10.
I left my apartment at 11:30. As they say, the best laid plans...
It's only a 15-minute walk to the MIA from my place, but wow...
The wind was gusting, whipping sand all about.
It was the hottest that I had experienced.
Not a scrap of shade to be found.
I looked at my feet and my shadow was about the size of a dinner plate. I was standing right on top of it. I looked up and the sun was about as directly above my head as is possible.
I felt like an ant seared by a child's magnifying glass.
After the museum visit, I walked back.
Not much better.
The Indian caretaker in the lobby of my apartment looked at me as if I was off my nut.
"Too much hot," he said.

Look both ways

My employer gave me a handy little guidebook to living in Qatar.
Women are to dress conservatively, meaning no bare shoulders, short skirts or anything transparent.
When sitting with someone, do not point the sole of your shoe or the foot at him (presumably if you're crossing your legs). It's insulting.
And when eating with your fingers in the company of a Muslim, don't not use your left hand. "The right hand is considered more appropriate because the left hand is reserved for personal hygiene."
Nice.
Finally, look both ways before crossing the street, then forget about it... Doha is lousy with roundabouts, sans crosswalks and often without traffic lights. Drivers here are sometimes stupid fast. They'll come flying into a roundabout and whip through the very next turn. If you're trying to cross the street, and there's a building or whatever, you can't always see them. As a result, when it comes to road fatalities in Qatar pedestrians account for almost a third of all deaths.

'Only money'

"Taxi, sir?" a man's voice behind me said.
I'd just left the Villaggio, a garish mall complete with Venice-like canals and gondolas. It belongs in Vegas.
The driver was Indian, like many of the low-paid workers here.
He was a sight for sore feet (so to speak). It was almost midnight and I'd dragged myself through the sprawling mall for more than two hours.
Cabbies in Doha usual wear a uniform or are otherwise smartly turned out.
This man, looking to be in his early 40s, was dressed plainly and clearly wasn't a regular taxi driver. He was just trying to earn some cash.
I accepted his offer. We walked to his "cab", a beat-up sedan with a front passenger seat that refused to go back.
"Where are you from, sir?" he asked as he drove me home.
"Canada. Where are you from?"
"India."
I'd never heard of the city or town or village that he named, but it was somewhere in the south.
"Very beautiful," he told me. "Very green there, sir."
"Not like here," I said, making conversation. "Just brown."
"Here," he said, "is only money."

What's in a word?

The Moro Islamic Liberation Front is a militant Philippines-based separation group. The other day at the TV network I work at, we were prepping a full-screen graphic, the sort of thing that pops up during a news report so that viewers can read certain facts and, having seen them onscreen, better understand what's being said.
The headline for this graphic, which explained who these separatists are and what they're up to, was going to be:

Philippines MILF

I nearly choked. I wanted it spiked... the young female producer who had written it didn't quite see the problem. I insisted it had to change. To her credit, after some resistance (because the graphic was going to be difficult to alter at this late stage or somesuch), she and the designers tweaked the formatting and put in the group's full name in the headline.

It's a start

Day 5 in Doha...

I knew coming to Doha that residents in Qatar had a rep for being crazy drivers.
These days I get a lift to and from work from a company chauffeur (it won't last).
The other day, on my way to the hospital to have my blood type tested for the Emir's corp., the dude behind the wheel of snaz Audi A6 or A8, with me in the backseat, sideswiped the kerb with both passenger-side tires.
Oops.
Today, another chauffeur was doing a fair impression of an F1 driver, redlining the sedan as my knuckles turned white gripping the holy-shit handle.
We slowed down only when we came across what looked like a minor fender bender.
What must have been the two drivers were on the side of the road taking wild swings at each other.
The swings were inelegant, but a couple landed pretty good around the head of one poor fellow.

I know nothing about this place yet.
Other than it's hot. Real hot.
Without exaggerating, it is very much like stepping into a sauna while still fully clothed.
When I exit a building here, my eyeglasses invariably fog up, chilled as they have been by the AC.
The weather's like Winnipeg in the winter, only in reverse.
Too extreme to be outdoors for long... but you get used to it. Really, you do. Sort of.
The moist air also seems to condense on your cold skin (they juice the AC in most places here).
As a result, my entire body feels clammy. Ick.
I try to think of it as a cleansing sauna that opens every single pore that I own.

Because Doha is a pretty cool place (get it? 'cool' place), I'm hoping to have enough material to make semi-regular contributions to this blog for friends, family and anyone else interested, stuff that's moderately interesting... that's the goal anyways.

Apologies in advance for the blog's initial bland look.
I will tweak when time permits.
For now this'll be how I stay in touch.
Because, much as I love you all, writing personalised emails to each and everyone of you, well, it ain't gonna happen.
For now, Ramadan kareem.
d

Inelegant swings though they were, a few landed pretty good.