Petroglyphs-Part 1

Hundreds of petroglyphs exist unprotected in various areas of Qatar. The largest cache of these perplexing images is carved in a collection of limestone mounds called jebels in the northeast corner of the country named Al-Jassasiya. Experts are fairly sure that they are old, but certainly not ancient when compared to the thousands of years since the beginning of humankind’s evolution. Best guess – 700 years give or take. Archeologist consider them modern, so modern in fact, that the carvings have only attracted casual investigation. But, they are the only legacy of a long gone transient culture.

On one of the last days of the long-run riding season, which ends in the middle of May when the temperatures in the desert become dangerous, a group of expats rode to the petroglyphs. I am not sure how many of us were actually interested in seeing the carvings as much as we were interested in hanging with friends and getting in one more ride before melting into summer when rides are limited to a few turns around the Corniche at dawn. Expat riders are a tight community where friendships are made quickly and deeply during Friday morning rides, usually the only day off for many of us, and transcend the limitations of an impermanent lifestyle where leaving can sometimes reach crisis proportions; tight friendships bonded in the desert do not slip away when a contract ends and one is forced to move on.

The majority of expat riders are hard-drinking, hard-working men working their way through middle age. Many are self-educated and in the oil/gas or construction industry. Others have jobs at one of the military bases supporting the US war effort. Occasionally, an expat may own 49% of a private company sponsored by a Qatari whom, by law, must own 51% or more of any outside businesses. On rare occasions a teacher, or a pilot, or a doctor becomes a part of the group. Most smoke. Some have families in country, but many are on single-contract status. Without exception, we are all in the country for the money. Qatar, its history, its culture, and its petroglyphs are interesting but ultimately meaningless. If it were not for the extraordinary compensation packages expats receive, most would never choose to live in a land that looks like it had the life bled out of it a million years ago. Our lives are intense; riding and partying with friends transforms life in a harsh environment into a bearable existence.

Petroglyphs-Part 2

Of the nine riders headed north, five made up a core group of expats that had ridden together for years and had bonded over the loss of friends as a result of both contract completions and untimely death. Carl, an intense, look-you-straight-in-the-eye no nonsense, dark-haired native Californian led the group on the ride. After riding in Qatar for five years, he knew exactly where the petroglyphs were located despite a monotonous terrain where everything looks the same. Carl, at the time of the ride was looking for a new job and a way out of the country. By summer’s end, Carl would be gone.

Finn, a quiet Dane with a slight frame, crystal blue eyes, a gentle nature, and a thoughtful mind has lived in Qatar the longest – 12 years – and when not called off-shore, will often lead rides when Carl is not around. Although yearning for home, Finn can probably work in Qatar for as long as the oil and gas flows through the pipelines and into the massive export tankers.

The only not-quite-middle-aged member of the group is a Dominican from the Bronx whose worldly exploits have brought him much experience and a calm, "it's all good" nature. Inside his Cheshire Cat exterior, Felix’s empathic heart pumps with kindness. He is our sweeper, trailing behind, tending to the safety of the riders ahead. He has a growing family in Qatar and it is unlikely that he will leave before the end of the US wars in the Middle East. But, the wars will end and he, too, will leave.

Peter is a barrel-chested Scotsman with a wicked wit. Although once a dedicated expat rider, the demands of his life prevent him from joining the group except on the rarest of occasions. But, when he does, everyone, after giving him a bit of a razzing about abandonment, embraces him as if he was the prodigal son whom finally found his way back to his family. All contracts come to an end and at the time of the ride, Peter’s was almost up. The petroglyphs ride was his last. He would be gone before fall arrived to calm the intense summer heat.

Last of the core five was a petite, dynamo of a woman raised in Rhodesia with proper manners, impeccable English, and a lust for living, partying, and riding motorcycles. Dinky, named so because of her tiny stature, was and is the soul of the expats. She provides stability to the group because everyone but her has an exit date. Although also in Qatar for career and money, Dinky truly loves living on the thumb-sized peninsula off of Saudi Arabia’s hand. She has no intention of ever leaving and every intention of keeping her riding tribe happy and together for as long as possible.

The remaining four riders consisted of two first timers with new bikes – two businessman, one with roots in Lebanon and the other from the southern US – another Dane in oil and gas whom has ridden for half a season, and me, a teacher, falling somewhere in between the new and the old.

We were nine riders with different backgrounds, with different jobs, and with two things in common - motorcycles and the desire to make enough money to support ourselves in a manner that was sometimes impossible in our home countries. We were temporary inhabitants in Qatar, which was nothing more than a way station along our lives’ journey. When our contracts end, hopefully most of us will remain friends, but we will all move on to the next adventure: the next job.

Petroglyphs-Part 3

At 7am, the temperature had already hit the mid-30sC/90sF. Hot, but doable. The Al-Jassasiya site was not more than an hour from Doha – Friday morning, back roads, and traveling at about 110-120ks – an easy ride. No sign posts or markers directed us, only Carl’s knowledge of where to turn on road, sand, or rock surfaces got us to the carvings. Reaching the glyphs required a little off-roading. Always an adventure on motorcycles as the integrity of desert sand is not to be trusted. Tires sink into the soft sand and the hard compacted, crusted surface is rife with rubble and stones that pop and ping through the air at the slightest disturbance. But we managed to park without trouble and followed Carl on foot to the limestone outcroppings that loomed on the near horizon.
No gates protected the remains of the forgotten culture, and no warnings about walking on, touching, or otherwise defacing the petroglyphs were to be seen anywhere. I wondered if, because they are part of Qatar’s nomadic history, they are not worth worrying about, let alone preserving, as much as the country’s propitious present and future in the excavation and exportation of oil and gas.

Petroglyphs-Part 4

The petroglyphs appeared without fanfare. In fact, a few of us walked on them before we realized that we had arrived at the mysterious leftovers of another time in history. Surprisingly, they were well preserved and quite vivid in detail. Series of little cups in organized formations were dug into the rocks and scattered throughout the sight. Some formed double lines and others looked like daisies.

The most predominant petroglyphs etched into the stone took the shape of various types of sailing vessels; most with oars jutting far out from the body of the boats. They resembled primitive fish with fanlike fins. A caravan of scorpions seemed to march their way from one side to the other of a large jebel. Just about everyone offered an opinion about what the carvings represented – a game, pearl or fishing boats – but no one really knew. Even archeologists cannot say for sure who or why they carved pictures into the coarse limestone surfaces. And most of us had nothing more than a mild curiosity about the legacy of the artists. Newcomers in the group needed to feel welcomed and known, friends had catching up to do and after about a half an hour, our curiosity about the petroglyphs and each other succumbed to the rising temperature, sending us back to our bikes for the sweltering return to Doha.

On the ride back to Doha, with the heat chasing us, I considered the creators of the petroglyphs. Did they know that they were leaving behind a clue as to who they were and where they came from? Did they care? Or, were they simply passing the time carving symbols that represented their lives while exploiting the country’s resources by fishing the seas, diving for pearls, or settling in for a season or two until they achieved what they needed and the wickedness of the desert drove them away? We will never really know for sure.

I considered, too, as the heat rose and the wind swirled, what might the legacy of the expats be in Qatar in 700 years? We are all in the country for one reason – oil and gas. If Qatar was devoid of natural resources, we would not be here and only the indigenous Bedouin tribes would wander about living the pastoral life of herders and fishermen. But, for now, there is oil and gas. Armies of men from a hundred different countries, invited - some say bought - by the Qatari government, use their expertise to mine Qatar’s abundant natural resources. And hundreds of thousands of us are here to support the oil and gas industry employees. Merchants, secretaries, educators, maids, restaurateurs, manufacturers, medical personnel, pilots, hotel and hospitality staff, and any number of other western professions are in Qatar solely to make the lives of the oil and gas men and their families easier. Along with glorious salaries, we are a bribe to make sure the extractors have everything needed to endure the desert so they can successfully exploit the country's precious commodity with colossal machines, that during the day resemble a Mad Max world and at night, when backlit by artificial light, resemble the futuristic scenes in Terminator: Rise of the Machines.

Petroglyphs-Part 5

The creators of the petroglyphs left their simple etchings in isolated corners of Qatar – barely noticeable to passersby and of minor importance to historians. And, what will be left by the expats to investigate by residents 700 years from now? What will they discover? Deep holes sucked dry of fossil fuels and hydrocarbons, for certain.
Land rigs sunken into an earth drained of life, partially covered by the desert, rusted, decayed, and blistered by the brutal wind and sand. Kilometers of pipelines, once the arteries of unimaginable wealth, become nothing more than homes to sand spiders and scorpions.

Flare stacks, the fire breathing portals of excess gas, lean willy-nilly in all directions creating what might resemble ancient desert art. Poking out of the landscape of the future will be the decrepit remains of derricks, elongated steel pyramids from which monster-sized drills relentlessly bored into thick layers of rock to capture Qatar’s life blood, lie long abandoned, collapsed, and buried in the sand as the desert returns to its natural landscape.

And what about the legacy of the other million plus expats that lived and worked in Qatar during the heady days when just about anyone and anything could be bought because the money flowed like the liquid natural gas siphoned from its bowels. Hundreds of schools, the ubiquitous malls, hundreds of thousands of villas and apartments built quickly and shoddily will have suffered the same fate – desertion by the masses because when the last ounces of fossil fuel have been excised in 40 years or in 200 years, a quiet apocalypse will converge on Qatar with the diaspora of the expats, because, as Finn says, “ . . . we are something the locals can purchase,” and when the resources are gone and our expertise is no longer useful, the Qatari government will rescind our invitation, we will be erased from their history books, and we will leave what will again become an irrelevant peninsula, handing it back to its Bedouin fathers, barren and used up, and ready for the desert to reclaim.

And, like the petroglyphs my expat rider friends and I investigated in May of 2010, the abundant artifacts we leave behind, the legacy of our long gone transient culture, as evidence of our tenure will remain a mystery, a perplexing puzzle to wonder over, to whatever primitive culture finds its way to Qatar 700 years into the future.

West Road - Part I

West Road - Part 1

Doha is surrounded by crusty, beige desert that is unendurable during the summer months. But in the late fall, winter, and very early spring, it lures me - a stranger from a place with winding roads canopied by verdant trees, crisp air, and an unlimited number of roads to travel - with its silent, unconditional acceptance. Riding in the desert is a divine solitude comparable to how EB White once described New York City as a city that can, “ . . . bestow the gift of loneliness and the gift of privacy." The desert, too, can bestow such gifts.

Roads to ride on the Qatari peninsula are limited because of its tiny size and by its border with Saudi Arabia to the west and the Persian Gulf to the north, south, and east. My favorite road begins after I have already traveled 80 or so kilometers past construction site after construction site, at the northern most tip of Qatar at the village of Al Ruwais.


Al Ruwais is the home of several Arabic Bedouin tribes, some still living the pastoral life, others choosing employment in either oil & gas or construction. After fueling up at the only gas station in the north, I turn west and ride for about twenty minutes, passing long forgotten and crumbled ruins - evidence from a simpler time, - until I see Zubara Fortress, once a key port and pearl trading location before the discovery of oil and gas beneath the surface of the land. Once there, I turn south and follow the western road closest to the Persian Gulf, which separates Qatar from Saudi.


After Zubara, I rarely see life; an occasional Qatari setting his falcon to flight, other little birds and sometimes camel herds. Men, workers I am sure, stand or squat on the side of the road, waiting for something – I am never sure what, but I think that they are waiting for some kind of transport into the city for a night out in Doha. Mostly, it is just me and the wind and all of the hidden desert creatures that sleep during the day so they may prowl at night. But it is daylight and their silent breathing only adds to desolation. They are there, but not. All landscapes on earth have life. The desert, though it may sometimes feel as far away from the world as the moon, is not the moon.

Wind is a friend and an enemy when riding in the desert. When it is so hot the tar oozes to the side in the wake of motorcycle tires, the wind can seem cool – well, not cool, not even refreshing, more like an invisible towel that mops up the sweat before it drips down to burn the eyes. But, there is also a fierce wind – a shamal wind. It sweeps in from the northwest, down through the gulf from the mountains of Turkey and Iraq. It is a wicked wind filled with sand at its least, bad omens at its worst. Shamal winds have the power to knock me off of my bike, to whisk away the garbage on the side of the road, or the garbage inside my head. Either way, when the wind hits there is only one thing to think about – getting out of it as fast as possible because it is sure to stir up trouble though it is difficult to escape when in the middle of nowhere. The shamal can be a screeching, howling wind or a moaning wind – how it sounds depends on my mood. Forlorn moaning wind searches for answers; the howling wind looks for trouble. It is the lonely, private wind of the desert.

Camels

Outside of the city the roads are surrounded by desert; it is a merciless landscape. As far as the eye can see sand, rubble, and stone surround the road. Occasionally an oasis of trees pops up from behind a stone fortress; a Qatari farm perhaps. Or, less likely, a weekend home built as an escape from the urban sprawl of Doha. After all, it would never take more than an hour to get to any border, Saudi or the sea, from Doha. I often see camels off in the distance grazing along the horizon. It is quite a sight to see a herd ambling along on a small knoll against the desert horizon. Their silhouettes moving slowly along the sky like Bedouin whom occupied the same acres for hundreds, thousands of years. They seem aimless, but the desert knows their purpose and it is because of the desert that they survive. Sometimes they cross the road right at the point when I arrive. I slow down, hoping not to alarm them as they saunter by and surrounded me. At the sound of my engine, one or two, often one of the little ones, might become frightened and their saunter is kick started into a lopping, nearly directionless run. I worry when this happens as they are apt to get very close to me and I hope they don’t run over me, or spit on me out of fear. But, that has never happened. Mostly they get their bearings, the herd passes to the other side of the desert, and I am on my way.

Nightlight

Darkness shrouds Doha like gauze over a wound.
Geometric spires form gauntlets of hazy blue light along major thoroughfares hiding the scarred scenery set to the left or to the right.
Buildings lit from underneath cast ethereal shadows, softening the steel and concrete skyline.
But, the most magnificent transformation occurs as the moon rises.
Ubiquitous mosques scattered around Doha like way stations of faith become beacons of beauty.
Minarets glow as if Allah, the merciful and compassionate, were inside calling for the unconditional devotion of his flock.
The pure light silhouettes the holy architecture against the darkness, veiling the otherwise tormented landscape.

The Wind

The desert wind devoured me today and now I am in love.

It was a tricky old wind – an experienced wind, the kind I should have tried to outrun before it was too late. But it swept me up in its disguise, arriving first as a benevolent breeze, there to rescue me from the sun, cooling my skin, allowing me to cruise along thinking everything was perfect. And it was – perfect - for a time.

This tricky old wind traveled with me, deeper and deeper into the desert, luring me farther and farther away from the safety of the familiar, seducing me with the promise of a perfect ride. And it was – perfect - for a time.

I trusted this tricky old wind as it whispered possibilities and as I rode faster and faster along the deserted landscape, seeing only the road ahead, seeking the horizon, hearing nothing except the wind’s promises. And, for a time, it was a perfect ride.

But, the tricky old wind changed and the cooling breeze became charged with hot desert sand. The breeze, no longer benign, confronted me on all sides, swirling around me like an invisible roller coaster threatening to upend me; to sweep me up into its swells, turning my perfect ride into a thrill ride.

When this tricky old wind turned into persistent gusts, I was still too naïve to be afraid. Instead, I fell into exhilaration and prepared myself for the adventure because I am strong and brave and eager for the thrill of a new and dangerous ride.

The tricky old wind strengthened its hold as it whipped me from side to side. I leaned to adjust with each burst, but felt my control slipping away. I loosened my grip knowing I was in for trouble if I wrestled the wind and so I let it lead me on a thrill ride.

As the hot desert partnered with this tricky old wind, the air exploded with a billion particles of sand transforming my world into an amber glow as if backlit from heaven - only I was not in heaven. My sight obscured, I began to feel vulnerable to the tricky old wind’s whims and so I stopped, deciding to take control of the thrill ride.

To protect myself I covered my body with layers so I no longer felt the bite of this tricky old wind. Putting on extra protection, covering every thing, leaving nothing exposed was the only way to survive because if this tricky old wind burrowed through to my skin I might have surely lost my way.

Moving again, I followed the line where the road meets the sand; my only choice. And still the tricky old wind seduced me, refusing to release, coiling up and around until my outer layers became nothing more than a façade of thick skin as this tricky old wind crept under my covering, worming its way through my skin and into my soul.

But, still I was not lost. I moved forward, the wind attached to me like a stalker, and made progress toward home and safety. I felt its itch as I rode and it was horrible, but I was alive, riding faster forward until I was certain I had outrun this tricky old wind as it waned where the city met the desert, returning again to a benign breeze, but never left totally or completely.

I stopped my bike and breathed, wondering where the tricky old wind might be hiding.

And I know it is hiding still - waiting to erupt again because it knows that I will return to the desert and when I feel the tricky old wind surround me my heart will pound, my engine will roar, and I will have no choice, but to ride toward the . . . possibilities.

Ad Doha

Cement walls surround compounds, villas, empty lots
Huge, random gaping holes; windows to the city’s aspirations
Towering piles of heavy stone and rubble
Angry at being blown to smithereens after eons spent in undisturbed slumber
Surround deep gashes in the landscape created by hungry monster machines
Determined to build foundations for bigger, better buildings
That attract businesses and tourists; translation
Money and Global prestige.

Holes, rubble piles, dust, huge, land-crushing machinery
Ominous at night silhouetted against artificial light
Vivisection of an ancient land struggling to become
Modern, hip, chic, up-to date, up-to-the minute
Every acre holds an obsolete piece of architecture
Razed now to make way for something new
Untouched for generations under attack by avarice
Virgin lots raped of innocence to bare magnificent capitalism

Dark skinned armies of men build the Monarchy’s vision of their city
Packs morphed together on buses
Enter the outskirts of the city in the early morning; before dawn
Dressed in migrant worker uniform; dusty, blue coveralls
Headscarves hide everything but eyes
But, when even eyes are covered with dark glasses
They become doomed Tuscan Raiders of Tatooine
In a low-budget version of Star Wars

Sometimes the wind blows in from Saudi Arabia
Turning the sky the color of dull gold
Sand fog so dense the rubble, the buildings, the workers
Disappear, consumed by the desert
Mother nature coming to reclaim the city
That refuses to stop encroaching on her territory
A reminder that she has the power no matter
How much money is poured into the expansion of DOHA

Daylight

Cruel reality to the ancient woman trying to stay young
Surface surgically lifted with heavy metal tools
Dig, Drill
Pull, Pile
Tug, Tuck
Fill, Fill
The lines, the scars, earned over a life – no – a millennium

Eliminating unkindnesses brought about by
Scouring shamal winds and scorching sun over a life – no – a millennium
Harsh recovery to the ancient woman trying to stay young
Deconstruction, construction, reconstruction
Stitching, Swelling
Bruising, Blackness
Discoloration, damage
Pain, Pain
Smoothness hides scars earned over a life – no – a millennium
Once untouched, concealed now by a concrete facade of beauty
But the scars remain; dryness waits to erupt
When the scouring shamal winds and the scorching sun devour again what is theirs.