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.