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.