They broke Christmas

The ornaments belonged to my parents.
They date from the 1960s and I've always enjoyed hanging them on the tree during the holiday.
But the Custom Clods here were in a hurry, didn't give a shit or whatever, but you see the result.
My fault, too, for not packing them better.
I know, small problem.
And it is.
I was shooting the breeze with some Nepali guys in Doha that work in a cafeteria (how's that for a segue?), and one guy told me his work schedule.
I thought I heard wrong, so he repeated it.
"Sir, in one month, work 29 days, one day off."
I didn't have the heart to ask what he earns, but the guy who I regularly dial up to drive me around has been here many years and says that guy's probably earning less than 1,000 riyals a month... less than $300.
So, yeah, they broke Christmas, but what's that expression again?
First World problem

Hockey Night in Doha

I am now a Sand Viper.
Viper for short.
Or just sniper.
They call it the Qatar International Ice Hockey League. As billed, the QIIHL is the hottest game in the desert.
This evening, in our first game, the Vipes were in a tight one against the Molson Canadians, tied at 2 going into the second before going on to a glorious 5-2 defeat.
Surreal moment of the game (aside from the fact that we played in a mall): at the start of the second, the boys are huffing and puffing and skating... and then over the mall's PA, the Muslim call to prayer.
What's it like being back playing hockey after something like a two-year absence?
As the first 20-minute period ended tied at 2, Dan, thinking the game is over, goes, "What happens now? Shootout?"
Coach says, "No man, we play another period."
I'm pretty sure he didn't see my eyes roll back into my head.
Another 20 minutes of this? It felt like I could hardly stand, much less skate.
I managed, of course, conserving vital energy by standing still on the ice as much as possible.
Towards the end, while on the bench, I glance up at the clock... 1:42 left to play.
Thank Christ, I think.
Then the guys come off for a change and I don't want to go on, figuring, guys, finish the game. I look at the clock again. 6.12 to play.
Those 7s can be tricky when you're not wearing your glasses.

The other half

IT'S PROBABLY hard to see in the picture at right, but in the middle, near the top is someone's deck.
They've rigged a piece of plywood for shade, and if you click on the photo and magnify it, you can make out a plastic lawn chair.
They're not in the picture, but there were two people sitting there a few minutes ago. It's about 40C right now.
It's only marginally better than some of the shanties I've seen, and surrounded by more satellite dishes than I've ever seen in one spot. The migrants that I've talked to, mostly cab drivers, swear by Qatar. To a man, they've told me that here they're able to earn more than in India, Nepal or the Philippines. But then my driver from India hasn't seen his wife and young family in months.
A topnotch 3-bedroom apartment in Doha costs about 16,500 riyals a month, or about $4,500. My driver was thinking of bringing his family here, but he was having a hard time making it happen. He'd be looking at 5,000 riyals a month, he said. He charges between 30 and 50 riyals for a ride. I'm not good at math, but something doesn't add up. It's the new calculus.

If this is Saturday...

AND THE beat goes on... and on... Six weeks into this gig and I'm staying in my third temporary accommodations. The plan's to be in my own apartment by Thursday, quite possibly without furniture.
But that's OK. Finding an apartment was stressful, much of it self-induced I'm sure. The clock was ticking and I had my stuff from Greece sitting on the dock for two months in 45C heat... all sorts of surprises I'm expecting.
I was looking forward to a mini bar this latest hotel. But all there was was a price list and an empty fridge. Called reception to find out about having it stocked. I was told I'd have to put down a deposit: 900 riyals, or just shy of $250. I laughed. Besides, a bottle of beer for $10. I'm better off.
It's a bit like cigarettes in North America. When a pack costs $15, who wants to smoke?

Boobies, booty: banned

LET ME make something perfectly clear. I buy Esquire for the articles.
That said, imagine my surprise when at the newsstand this afternoon I was flipping through the September* issue and came across these censored pictures of some "actress" named Ruah.
When I came to Doha I knew about the conservative society. I wondered whether I'd be able to buy Western magazines such as Esquire, GQ or Vanity Fair. Because more often than not, these publications, as everyone knows, feature scantily clad women. How would this jive in a country where Qatari women in public are veiled and covered head to toe?
It seems they've found a compromise
Apparently they hire some guy, or guys, to edit out the naughty bits with a black marker.
Rather clever, if labour intensive, I thought.
Flipping through the magazine I didn't at first notice the alterations until, um, closer inspection.
I couldn't believe it. So I flipped through six or seven more copies... all the same. No butt cheeks, or gentle curves. Sigh.
Still, I suppose given the choice between that and no magazine at all, well, strikes me as relatively reasonable.
But man, I'd love to interview the guys whose job it is to identify which pix get blacked out, and what the guys doing the inking think.
What's that old chestnut again?
The pen is mightier than the sexpot?

* http://www.esquire.com/women/women-we-love/daniela-ruah-pictures-0911?click=main_sr#img

Seeing double

The sign said something like, Ladies and Couples Only. Imagine my disappointment, standing there alone, male, and thirsting for a pint.
The Irish pub at the Sheraton in Doha was finally open after closing for the Muslim holy month of Ramadan.
But they do that here sometimes... have 'family' nights. I can't, for example, go see a movie by myself on Fridays, the day when all comes to a stop and Muslims pray. It's their Sunday.
But this was Thursday.
Maybe because it was Eid, the celebration that marks the end of Ramadan. Never got an answer from the two security guards standing outside the door.
Bottom line, I had taken a cab to get there; I was on a mission.
And that was to have some sort of pub grub... and a pint... or two.
"Do you have a membership, sir?" the security guard asked.
"Um, no, I don't."
"Around the corner, you can get one there."
Whatever.
The woman seated at the desk looked at me with suspicion. That's how it felt anyway.
Long story short, she let me in, but not before questioning my ID and asking how long I planned on being in the pub.
Jeez, what's a guy gotta do to get a drink around here, I thought to myself.
Waitress says, What would you like sir?
Guinness, please, I says.
It's last call for happy hour, she says. Would you like two?
See photo for proof of response. I should have snapped the look on my face.
The pub was jammed with guys, maybe 90 percent male.
It got a bit frat house. This dude in his late 50s, at the urinal, had to lean his forehead against the wall, he was that drunk.
I left after a couple more pints. When I retrieved my ID at the door, there must have been a dozen guys waiting to get in. Ladies, schmadies.