From Souk to Souk

by Robin Ratchford

  As I was admiring the glistening raptor, I became aware that a man standing at my side was looking at me and saying something.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I said, pulling the headphones of the audio guide away from my ears.

  ‘It’s fabulous, isn’t it?’ he smiled. ‘The craftsmanship: it’s exquisite.’ With his short dark hair and swarthy features he looked Middle Eastern, but there was something about him that made me think he was not an Arab: perhaps it was the bulbous nose or the small chin. I reckoned he was in his late thirties, but with the subdued lighting it was hard to be certain.

  ‘Yes, I was just admiring it,’ I agreed. ‘In fact, the whole place is pretty spectacular.’

  ‘You like Islamic art?

  ‘I don’t have a special interest in it, if that is what you mean,’ I shrugged, ‘but it would be difficult not to be impressed by the things in here.’

  ‘Is this your first visit?’ He cocked his head slightly to one side, the light from the display case showing up his heavy stubble.

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded, ‘first time in the museum, and in the country. What about you? Are you from here?’

  ‘No,’ he laughed quietly. ‘I’m not. Can’t you tell? You wouldn’t find a Qatari walking around Doha dressed like this! I’m Lebanese.’

  Indeed, his striped shirt and sandy-coloured chinos were not typical Arab attire. We moved away from the glass case with the falcon so a young Arab couple could get a better view.

  ‘You are on holiday here?’

  ‘Sort of: more passing through. I’ve always wondered what Qatar was like and thought I would stop off to see. And you?’

  ‘I work here. Not all the time, but I come quite often.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, wandering over to a display case where a collection of ornate rings was laid out, each one a tiny work of art. The man drifted after me and then stood by my side looking at the jewellery.

  ‘They are so beautiful.’

  He ran his fingers over the glass, as if trying to make some form of spiritual contact with the centuries-old jewels on the other side. The simple band of gold round his wedding finger came a poor second to the filigree and craftsmanship that lay just beyond reach. He seemed to become lost in his thoughts as he stared at the masterpieces glowing gently under the perfectly positioned spotlights.

  I slipped away into the shadows and onwards to the next room where I stopped to study a pair of blue and white Albarelli – porcelain jars for storing medicines. In warm tones, the voice on my audio guide recounted how cylindrical pots like these from Damascus were in use in the Levant long before they were adopted in Europe and given an Italian name. As I turned away, an elderly tourist with a dowager’s stoop gave a brief smile as she shuffled by, milky eyes making her look like a figure from a past era revisiting the present. Knobbly fingers clutched a guidebook and what looked like a pile of scrawled notes that had been dropped and hastily gathered back together. Only her casual clothes and Birkenstock-style sandals gave any indication that she belonged to the here and now.

  I moved on, exploring one angular chamber after the other, walking over geometric shapes cast on the floor by the miniature spotlights that shone through the glass cabinets. I stopped in front of a show case to admire a bluish-green glass bowl, traces of gold round its rim. After surviving many turbulent centuries, the fragile dish from Egypt had finally found refuge, a place to rest and bask in the adoration of its beauty. Surrounded by the dark walls of the exhibition rooms, the artefacts on display lay like pieces of hidden treasure, waiting, as if by some strange sorcery, to convince each set of eyes that fell upon them that they were the first to do so. A deep-blue page from a Koran seemed to positively glow, the intensity of its colour drawing me over as soon as I entered the room. Across its width were shining golden letters, stylised Arabic calligraphy that could have been an art deco interpretation of the normally florid swirls were it not for the fact that the page was over a thousand years old. In one room, portraits of nineteenth-century sheikhs locked in rigid poses, elegant beards stretching to their waists, watched me with cold, black eyes as I crept past, an infidel violating their jealously guarded hoard. In another, silk carpets flattened against the walls looked as if they might spring to life at any moment and begin flapping against the glass that protected them, as if desperate to escape, to fly away. The exhibits were truly fantastic, but, by the time I finished the tour, even in the coolness of the museum, my thoughts were becoming feverish.

  I left the shadowy chambers and made my way down one of the twin staircases that curved their way into the atrium. It was on a very different scale to the exhibition rooms and flooded with daylight by floor-to-ceiling windows. At the bottom, I looked up to admire the cavernous space around me, letting my eyes follow the lines of sand-coloured walls that gradually became ceiling, seamlessly merging modern geometric design with traditional Islamic patterns, continuing ever higher until finally forming an octagonal dome. I craned my neck to look at the layers of triangles that repeated until the almost circular opening at the top through which sunlight fell. It was as if the entire cupola were a cut diamond of immense proportions: Pei had managed perfectly to evoke the fantastical world of the Arabian Nights through the medium of the most contemporary architecture.

  ‘It’s very well done, isn’t it?’ came a voice.

  I turned to see the Lebanese man from earlier on. I could hardly disagree.

  It was only as we walked over to the cafeteria that I noticed he had a slight limp, a poignant reminder, I felt sure, of his country’s civil war. We each bought a coffee and a small bottle of water before sitting down at one of the little round tables. As the familiar aroma drifted up from our cups, the man introduced himself as Michel.

  ‘So, did you like the museum, then?’ I asked, taking a sip of my coffee. It was astonishingly good, rich like liquid velvet; I savoured the intense, nutty flavour as it seeped over my tongue.

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded, a touch of foamed milk on his lips. ‘A wonderful collection. I’ve never had the chance to come before: I’ve always been too busy.’ His dense eyebrows dipped a little while his eyes, two black marbles, remained fixed on mine.

  Michel told me he worked for a hotel chain. He was based in Beirut, but spent most of his time travelling in the region. He was 32, married and had two children, a boy and a girl. He had been brought up a Christian, but had stopped believing in God ever since his motorcycle accident in Sidon in the south of the country. He had a brother in Toronto, another in New York and was allergic to tomatoes.

  In the time it took to finish my coffee, I felt I had heard his entire life story: a little conveyer belt of factoids pouring out in some meaningless flow. I could not think of anything to say and there was nothing left to ask.

  ‘How long are you in town for?’ With his tanned fingers he gently pushed his coffee cup away.

  ‘Just a couple of days,’ I replied.

  ‘I go back tomorrow,’ he said, sitting back in his chair and placing his hands on a paunch I had not noticed before.

  I glanced around the atrium; it was busier than I had realised. Tourists stared out of the windows while Arabs in flowing robes played with their mobile phones or tried to keep children under control. I took a swig of water to rinse the taste of coffee from my mouth.

  ‘Do you enjoy working here?’ I asked, suddenly thinking of a question.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Michel shrugged, ‘but it becomes boring after a while. It’s quite claustrophobic. The expat society here exists behind a veil of civility, but if you scrape below the surface a bit you find that beneath the smiling façade they are all… well, bitchy.’

  For a second, I was surprised he was so direct, but, given he had provided such a detailed exposé of his own life just moments before, I realised it was to be expected.

  ‘I think it’s because they all live on top of each other,’ he said, twirling his coffee spoon between his fingers. ‘In a manner of speaking…’ he smiled, looking straight at me.
‘They are like slaves.’ He drew the last word out as if stretching a tired muscle.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Expats working here have to give up their passports to their employer. Of course, the government passed a law a while back making it illegal, but it still happens. So once you are here, you are stuck. Nearly everyone has to do it. You even have to apply in writing to get permission to leave. Your kafeel is responsible for you, but they also control you.’

  ‘Kafeel?’

  ‘Your sponsor – the person who employs you, organises a work visa, gives you somewhere to live. But you can’t leave or change job without their permission.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘You look surprised.’

  ‘Are you just talking about domestic staff or…’

  ‘No, I’m talking about everyone,’ Michel interrupted. ‘Not just Philippina maids or people working in restaurants: people in nice offices with expensive cars – it’s the same for them. Sure, they earn a nice tax-free salary here, but everything in life has its price.’ He looked at me probingly. ‘Doesn’t it?’

  Clearing my throat, I gave a small shrug of the shoulders.

  ‘Do you know a lot of people here?’

  ‘Some – enough.’

  For a moment, neither of us said anything.

  ‘Well, it was nice to meet you,’ I smiled.

  ‘Likewise,’ he nodded, pressing his lips together.

  We stood up and said our goodbyes, casual, but slightly awkward. I watched as he turned and walked towards the gift shop.

  I decided to take a look at the museum’s courtyard just beyond the atrium. Shallow pools were the only decoration and, as I stepped outside, I was greeted by air that was as warm as that of the interior was cool. I stopped to contemplate the series of arches that ran the length of one side, slate-grey voussoirs and piers around their frames contrasting with the sandy stone of the wall above. The simplicity of style made a perfect frame through which to view the skyscrapers rising out of the haze on the other side of the man-made bay. Yet, despite imaginative designs and expensive materials, neither glass nor steel sparkled through the opaque voile that hung above the waters separating us. A handful of dhows, their romantic allure diminished by the faint hum of modern engines, made their way slowly between the shores. I centred one of the arches in the viewfinder of my camera, hoping to capture the contrast between its minimalist lines and the arriviste forest of architectural ostentation beyond. Of a contrast between old and new, there was no question: in Doha there is no old and the new grows almost as fast as plants in a speeded-up nature documentary. I snapped a few shots before pausing to contemplate the Manhattan-like cityscape across the bay, wondering how the scene might have been all those years ago when I first became aware of the country with the rebellious spelling. Perhaps in those days the wild beasts featured on my stamps really did wander the land.

  A while later, I was standing on the nearby Corniche Promenade that ran along the waterfront watching a bright-red powerboat in the middle of the bay roar past at great speed, ‘F1’ emblazoned on its side. A spray of water flew behind it as it marked a broad curve and then raced back to where a group of men was gathered at the water’s edge. The noise was incredible, the purpose dubious. The Qataris had come a long way since their life as desert nomads, I thought as the boat set off again, its motor blasting out like a heavy rock band that only plays one note. After watching for some time, I turned and headed back along the esplanade, my clothes sticking to me in the late afternoon heat. Lush lawns separated the broad pathway from the Corniche Road, a vivid band of soft green between hard beige paving and sticky black tarmac. Elsewhere, something as simple as grass would be so commonplace as to be virtually invisible; here, it was an artificial construct requiring constant life support. The emerald football pitches needed for the 2022 World Cup would, I thought, no doubt soak up enough water to supply a small town.

  Ahead, a family of four from the subcontinent was marvelling at a model of a giant oyster in the centre of a round, rock-filled pond, their uniformly white sneakers bright in the sun. Water cascaded from the open shell that cradled an imitation pearl the size of a large beach ball, a reminder of the country’s previous incarnation centred on its rich oyster beds. The parents were taking it in turns to photograph each other with the young son and daughter, who grinned broadly each time they were carefully positioned in front of the oversized mollusc. I asked if they would like me to take a picture of them all together and, a moment later, the family was lined up, a beaming example of India’s burgeoning middle class. The slim, smartly dressed quartet stared unflinchingly while I clicked away. As I handed the camera back to the father, they quickly gathered round to check my efforts on the monitor.

  ‘Ooh, that is very nice. Thank you!’ smiled the woman, as the son and daughter strained to see the images.

  ‘Can I take one of you with the children?’ asked her husband. His thin moustache and shiny, carefully combed hair gave him an earnest look. I imagined him being an IT manager in Bengaluru.

  I positioned myself between the boy and the girl with the bay as the backdrop and smiled while their father took a picture. He showed me the result, shading the camera’s screen from the sun with his hand. I was surprised to see how small we were – barely half the height of the photograph – but nodded approvingly before saying goodbye and wishing them a nice holiday.

  Continuing slowly on my way, I crossed over the busy Corniche Road and walked towards the Souk Waqif where rows of silver and white Land Cruisers and other huge 4x4s were parked in front of a series of low, unattractive buildings. I found myself a few paces behind a group of women heading in the same direction, their fluttering black abayas trailing on the dusty ground. Women are not exactly a rare sight here, but the multitude of mostly male expat workers, both blue- and white-collar, means women make up little more than a quarter of the population. The Qataris themselves are in the minority, foreigners outnumbering them nearly six to one.

  As I approached the souk I was unsure what to expect, but any notions I may have had of still finding anything like an authentic bazaar were quickly laid to rest. Once the place where Bedouin tribesmen came to sell their goats, sheep and wool, I discovered the sometime traditional market had been given a makeover worthy of a TV home renovation show and more resembled a theme park reproduction than the genuine article. Wooden beams protruded from rendered walls, the original construction now concealed beneath a pseudo-rustic veneer of dried mud. Coffee shops with smart canvas sunshades and eateries offering chicken wings, hummus and pizza stood alongside antique shops and purveyors of fine souvenirs. Brass lamps of the sort a genie might one day pop out of dangled above rows of decorative plates and strings of colourful beads hung next to stacks of folded T-shirts. Yes, there were spices and the occasional shisha as well to add a sprinkling of authentic flavours and a waft of oriental aromas, but the environment was devoid of the character – and the characters – that make many of the souks of the Middle East so fascinating. It was not surprising given that, historically, Doha was never a great trading centre like Damascus or Baghdad. Founded only in the early part of the nineteenth century, for a long time it remained a fishing village and a base for pearling boats. For centuries, the small peninsula that is Qatar was a dusty open space, the oyster beds below the surface of the jade waters of the Gulf its only apparent source of wealth. Since time immemorial desert tribes herded their livestock across the bare landscape and sailors navigated boats over the sea in blissful ignorance of what lay beneath.

  Today, the country is unimaginably rich and yet the value of Qatar’s oil and gas resources is only as great as the technical and economic need for them: had they been discovered four hundred years ago, the lack of technology to extract them and put them to good use would have rendered them of little value. Ancient Mesopotamia, in contrast, prospered because its soils were fabulously fertile. Even with their basic tools and methods, the Bronze-Age farmers in the lands between the Euphrates and Tigris
reaped upwards of thirty seeds for every one they sowed: their counterparts in Ancient Greece could only count on seven, those in Rome but four. Sandy Qatar is not intrinsically wealthy, I realised: it is functionally wealthy.

  I stopped to look at some kilims and saddle packs set out on the ground, briefly enjoying the current of air flowing from the wall-mounted fans above before moving on at the sight of the shop owner scuttling towards me. I passed tables outside empty restaurants and terraces of cafés where a few Westerners, expats and tourists, some tanned, some red, sat drinking mint tea and soft drinks. Four young men in dazzlingly white dishdashas strolled towards me, laughing and chatting, a walking advert for washing powder or perhaps just extras volunteering to add a touch of authenticity. Their perfectly trimmed beards, black designer sandals with gold motifs and wedge-heels, and expensive, chunky watches told of an easy life, their carefree manner of the confidence that comes with wealth. As they passed me, their eyes and thoughts concealed behind dark glasses, I pondered the ease with which their manicured hands held each other, expressions of male friendship that would make many straight men in the West shudder, such is their fear of same-sex contact. Perfume floated in the warm air, expensive, unknown notes taunting the most primal sense, and smiles as white as freshly laundered keffiyehs, the traditional headscarves, appeared between perfect lips.