Pulp Friction – a short story from Qatar.

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In the summer of 2001 I boarded a near-empty Qatar Airways flight to Doha. Reuniting with my family who’d recently moved there for my father’s new job, it was my first time living abroad.

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I’d been kicking around Doha for a good six to seven weeks by the time I finally decided my life needed some purpose. Not that lounging around the pool or making my umpteenth visit to the markets wasn’t pleasant. But I was starting to get fidgety and funds had begun to run low.

Taking inspiration from an old school friend who’d recently come to Doha to teach, I decided to enroll in a TEFL course (Teaching English as a foreign Language) at The British Council. This, I’d been told, would be my key to the world! A chance to make Qatar the first of many international adventures.

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Khalifa Dreams – a short story from Qatar.

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In the summer of 2001 I boarded a near-empty Qatar Airways flight to Doha. Reuniting with my family who’d recently moved there for my father’s new job, it was my first time living abroad.

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It was another boiling hot afternoon. Ducking out of a taxi into the insane heat, I made the short dash over to City Center, Doha’s premier shopping mall, where a latte awaited me in a café on the fifth floor. I was sitting with a hot jumbo-sized mug in my clutches reading a magazine when a voice called across from a nearby table. ‘‘Hello friend, you are soccer fan?’’

Looking up, I saw two Qatari men dressed in traditional white ankle-length thobes, their red and white headdresses fluttering in the overzealous air-con. Momentarily confused, I realised the man had been referring to the blue and white hoops of my Q.P.R. shirt.

Smiling, I confirmed I was indeed an avid follower of the beautiful game, a revelation that saw the two men swiftly transfer the contents of their table to mine. ‘‘You know… Qatar now play qualify for World Cup. For South Korea-Japan” said the taller of the two, the owner of an impressive chest-level beard. ”You should support them!’’ 

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Ashraf – a short story from Qatar.

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In the summer of 2001 I boarded a near-empty Qatar Airways flight to Doha. Reuniting with my family who’d recently moved there for my father’s new job, it was my first time living abroad.

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Beverley Hills Gardens, Doha.

My first weeks in Doha were about as pleasant and stress free as I could have hoped for. I lived with my family in an expat compound called Beverly Hills Gardens, a fifteen minute drive from the city’s commercial district. Row after symmetrical row of terracotta villas, it had everything young unemployed me could have possibly needed. A gym, saunas, squash courts, a small shop and a gargantuan swimming pool complete with wooden bridge. Not to mention an illuminated waterfall that came on in the evenings.

Then there was our home, a massive space that easily housed my parents, brother, sister, dog and I, without ever feeling restrictive or cramped. Whenever I felt the need to escape this suburban bubble, I’d grab a lift into town with my dad. Or hail one of the many orange-white taxis driven by Indians, Pakistanis and Sri Lankans.

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