One night in Doha
Automatic gunfire, swooping helicopters and multivoiced screaming shattered the calm. It may have seemed dire, but the occasional orchestral hit with full reverb punctuated the cacophony.
It was this god awful noise that drew my attention as I was innocently shopping at the supermarket nearest to my compound.
On an elevated stage, above the heads of the audience and just inside and opposite the main doors was a clown and a chicken. Now, I've always thought clowns as being slightly sinister and this was even before I saw poltergeist, but this clown was truely creepy. I guess it was the cheerful expression indelibly molded to its plastic face while waving gaily at the kiddies to a sound track of death and mayhem. His friend, the chichken, seemed a little uncertain, standing off to one side, holding onto a microphone, with what looked liked grim determination. I suppose I could be mistaken as to what the chickhen was feeling, but the firm grip on the mike and the occasional swaying didn't seem to telegraph joy and hilarity. He was cute though, that chickhen.
The sound swelled, lights began stobbing and a smoke machine puffed little grey clouds of sweet smelling smoke. Something was imminent. An arrival. Who could it be?
Fast forward ten minutes. Automatic gunfire, swooping helicopters and multivoiced screaming, the occasional orchestral hit with full reverb and a clown and a chicken. Somehow the audience was still captive to the dynamic duo, and then finally and without warning, he appeared.
Michael Jackson.
Well, a very small, filipino version of Wacko Jacko, who then proceeded to dance though a remix compliation of his greatest hits. I'm not sure if the clown appreciated the appearance of such a megastar, he was determined not to share the limelight and insisted on waving to as many children as possible, his gestures becoming more exaggerated. Chickhen didn't want to offend his friend, Mr Clown, but couldn't help himself and was caught out occasionally bopping to the beat. He'd stop if Mr clown turned in his direction. He was a good chickhen and never let go of that mike once, not even when Mr Jackson wanted a go.
Then it was time for the quick change, which was heralded by Wacko Jacko throwing off his luxuriously studded jacket and ducking behind the black curtains. Mr Clown and Chickhen were then joined by a new friend. A large man in black commando gear wearing a deaths skull mask. The trio then waved, gaily, in unison at the gathered crowd.
Mr Commando Death Head then took his leave and Michael returned to rapturous applause (recorded of course). He recommenced his moonwalking, although I couldn't help but notice he was wearing exactly the same costume as before. And as sudden as his appearance,it was over. Wacko Jacko and Mr Clown left the stage.
And then there was Chickhen, all on his lonesome still glued to that microphone.
For some reason that performance sums up my experience in Qatar. Perplexing, amusing but mostly incomprehensible.
It was like seeing in a perfume souk male fragrances with the names, 'Love Scent','Deep In Men','Rupture' and 'Pain'. I was shopping that day with two other gay men from the crew and we all pissed ourselves laughing. It was literally one of those moments when everyone looks at each other, does a double take and all start laughing at once. The poor shop owner had no idea and probably thought we were just mad westerners. There was no disrespect intended, we just couldn't help ourselves.
Other odd moments I remember. Seeing women in abayas (full length black dress), hijab (head scarfs) and boqnoq (veil) shopping for g-strings and french lingerie in the same local supermarket later to be frequented by Michael Jackson and friends.
Watching the local young men doing bog laps in another supermarket carpark, in Ferraris, Lambourginis, Hummers, Rollers and sundry other vehicles more expensive then most houses.
And then there was the dust. The ever present dust. It clung to everthing. It was like that mysterious blue lint that you find in your navel when you go to bed at night. In Doha, there was still blue lint, but also a very fine pale beige dust.
Ah yes, beige. I was beginning to wonder if the inhabitants of Qatar were like the eskimo and had eighty words for beige. I've never seen so many variations of the same colour. Even the sky was a shade of beige.
But there were many wonders as well. I never tired of watching the landscape roll pass the windows on the morning bus trip to work. Each trip I'd spot something new. I loved the varied minarets of the many mosques, the tall slender towers always sorting themselves against the sky as the bus flew down the highway. And the call to prayer.
In my final hours in Doha, while waiting for the shuttle to the airport at 4.00am, the first call to prayer for the day unfurled. It was magical. The city was still and quiet and then one melodious heartfelt voice called into the morning, and it heralded a gentle rainfall of exqusite sound. A fluttering leaf light of many voices singing out from their lonely towers. Overlapping waves of beauty subtle in the dark fading, fading until one lone call, one last musical syllable, then the still morning again.
And the people. I've never experienced such hospitality or open friendliness as in Qatar. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to stop and have a chat. And the kids. On one hot evening I found a local swimming pool and went for a swim. I was mobbed by the local kids who wanted to know who I was, where I was from and why I could swim so well. I was startled by how unafraid of strangers these kids were, and somewhat unsettled by their instant affection. But it made me think. My nephews and nieces at home aren't like this. What is it about this place, that children have the confidence to talk to complete strangers and trust them? These people aren't naive. In Doha, I never once felt unsafe. I've never felt that anywhere before.
I think of all the things I'll remember most, it will be the people. That and the chickhen.
It was this god awful noise that drew my attention as I was innocently shopping at the supermarket nearest to my compound.
On an elevated stage, above the heads of the audience and just inside and opposite the main doors was a clown and a chicken. Now, I've always thought clowns as being slightly sinister and this was even before I saw poltergeist, but this clown was truely creepy. I guess it was the cheerful expression indelibly molded to its plastic face while waving gaily at the kiddies to a sound track of death and mayhem. His friend, the chichken, seemed a little uncertain, standing off to one side, holding onto a microphone, with what looked liked grim determination. I suppose I could be mistaken as to what the chickhen was feeling, but the firm grip on the mike and the occasional swaying didn't seem to telegraph joy and hilarity. He was cute though, that chickhen.
The sound swelled, lights began stobbing and a smoke machine puffed little grey clouds of sweet smelling smoke. Something was imminent. An arrival. Who could it be?
Fast forward ten minutes. Automatic gunfire, swooping helicopters and multivoiced screaming, the occasional orchestral hit with full reverb and a clown and a chicken. Somehow the audience was still captive to the dynamic duo, and then finally and without warning, he appeared.
Michael Jackson.
Well, a very small, filipino version of Wacko Jacko, who then proceeded to dance though a remix compliation of his greatest hits. I'm not sure if the clown appreciated the appearance of such a megastar, he was determined not to share the limelight and insisted on waving to as many children as possible, his gestures becoming more exaggerated. Chickhen didn't want to offend his friend, Mr Clown, but couldn't help himself and was caught out occasionally bopping to the beat. He'd stop if Mr clown turned in his direction. He was a good chickhen and never let go of that mike once, not even when Mr Jackson wanted a go.
Then it was time for the quick change, which was heralded by Wacko Jacko throwing off his luxuriously studded jacket and ducking behind the black curtains. Mr Clown and Chickhen were then joined by a new friend. A large man in black commando gear wearing a deaths skull mask. The trio then waved, gaily, in unison at the gathered crowd.
Mr Commando Death Head then took his leave and Michael returned to rapturous applause (recorded of course). He recommenced his moonwalking, although I couldn't help but notice he was wearing exactly the same costume as before. And as sudden as his appearance,it was over. Wacko Jacko and Mr Clown left the stage.
And then there was Chickhen, all on his lonesome still glued to that microphone.
For some reason that performance sums up my experience in Qatar. Perplexing, amusing but mostly incomprehensible.
It was like seeing in a perfume souk male fragrances with the names, 'Love Scent','Deep In Men','Rupture' and 'Pain'. I was shopping that day with two other gay men from the crew and we all pissed ourselves laughing. It was literally one of those moments when everyone looks at each other, does a double take and all start laughing at once. The poor shop owner had no idea and probably thought we were just mad westerners. There was no disrespect intended, we just couldn't help ourselves.
Other odd moments I remember. Seeing women in abayas (full length black dress), hijab (head scarfs) and boqnoq (veil) shopping for g-strings and french lingerie in the same local supermarket later to be frequented by Michael Jackson and friends.
Watching the local young men doing bog laps in another supermarket carpark, in Ferraris, Lambourginis, Hummers, Rollers and sundry other vehicles more expensive then most houses.
And then there was the dust. The ever present dust. It clung to everthing. It was like that mysterious blue lint that you find in your navel when you go to bed at night. In Doha, there was still blue lint, but also a very fine pale beige dust.
Ah yes, beige. I was beginning to wonder if the inhabitants of Qatar were like the eskimo and had eighty words for beige. I've never seen so many variations of the same colour. Even the sky was a shade of beige.
But there were many wonders as well. I never tired of watching the landscape roll pass the windows on the morning bus trip to work. Each trip I'd spot something new. I loved the varied minarets of the many mosques, the tall slender towers always sorting themselves against the sky as the bus flew down the highway. And the call to prayer.
In my final hours in Doha, while waiting for the shuttle to the airport at 4.00am, the first call to prayer for the day unfurled. It was magical. The city was still and quiet and then one melodious heartfelt voice called into the morning, and it heralded a gentle rainfall of exqusite sound. A fluttering leaf light of many voices singing out from their lonely towers. Overlapping waves of beauty subtle in the dark fading, fading until one lone call, one last musical syllable, then the still morning again.
And the people. I've never experienced such hospitality or open friendliness as in Qatar. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to stop and have a chat. And the kids. On one hot evening I found a local swimming pool and went for a swim. I was mobbed by the local kids who wanted to know who I was, where I was from and why I could swim so well. I was startled by how unafraid of strangers these kids were, and somewhat unsettled by their instant affection. But it made me think. My nephews and nieces at home aren't like this. What is it about this place, that children have the confidence to talk to complete strangers and trust them? These people aren't naive. In Doha, I never once felt unsafe. I've never felt that anywhere before.
I think of all the things I'll remember most, it will be the people. That and the chickhen.
posted by Van Dino at 6:03 am
0 comments
