This Is Qatar: Anecdotes from an Amateur Expat

By M. Star

Ever wonder what it’s like to live in Qatar? Well M hadn’t. He couldn’t have even found it on a map... then found himself there.

When M arrived in Qatar from London on his newly-minted expat assignment, he didn’t expect to be confronted with life’s most existential choices...so immediately.

And he dragged his girlfriend-cum-wife too.

“But I wanted to go to Singapore,” she said.

“We got at least half-way there!”

From job offer, to eloping in Las Vegas (because living together out of wedlock is haram), to having a kid - and back again, “TIQ” is a humorous, if not slightly exaggerated, acerbic account of an amateur expat’s trials and tribulations waaaay out of his depth in a country, frankly, he had never heard of.

If you’re about to move to Qatar, or if you ever thought you wanted to visit (you KNOW you want to), TIQ will help you frame (and perhaps even answer) some non-trivial questions such as:

- What would you choose with your marginal dollar - beer, or bacon?

- Is it OK to eat your lunch on the toilet?

- Who’s that scary voice on the radio every morning? and

- Are traffic signs really just...guidelines?

If you weren’t planning on moving to Qatar, or even visiting - the shock, laughs and jaw-droppingly ridiculous happenstances might just even move the needle (albeit slightly).

Way back when M  got his Hebrew tattoo, his mom, like any good Jewish-American, said, “Well, now you’ll never be able to go to the Middle East.”

M just scoffed and said, “Middle East? Me? Never.”

Who’s laughing now?

(And by the way: the answer is definitely never bacon.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9781528981767

M. Star

M. Star is an ex-consultant who works in the energy industry *yawn* but secretly has always wanted to be a ‘creative’. Living in London with his Finnish wife and three beautiful children, M had always yearned to do something a bit different. An engineer by background, but never practised; classically trained cellist, who rarely performs; accomplished songwriter, to a limited audience and a struggling triathlete, sometimes finishing races; after years of trying, M finally wanted to finish something and to share his account of his incredible Qatari journey. Previous works include—well, almost nothing. He did self-publish a book of poetry and songs in 2016, grandiosely called Thoughts from an Age: From Adolescence to Adulthood. If you’re smart, you can read it for free on Kindle. If you’re smarter, you’ll skip it.

Book preview

About the Author

M. Star is an ex-consultant who works in the energy industry *yawn* but secretly has always wanted to be a ‘creative’. Living in London with his Finnish wife and three beautiful children, M had always yearned to do something a bit different.

An engineer by background, but never practised; classically trained cellist, who rarely performs; accomplished songwriter, to a limited audience and a struggling triathlete, sometimes finishing races; after years of trying, M finally wanted to finish something and to share his account of his incredible Qatari journey.

Previous works include—well, almost nothing. He did self-publish a book of poetry and songs in 2016, grandiosely called Thoughts from an Age: From Adolescence to Adulthood. If you’re smart, you can read it for free on Kindle. If you’re smarter, you’ll skip it.

Dedication

To my wife—who survived the trip; to my fellow expats—who know EXACTLY what I’m talking about; and to the citizens of Qatar, my friends—for your sense of humour.

(Please) don’t take it personally.

Copyright Information ©

M. Star 2024

The right of M. Star to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

All of the events in this memoir are true to the best of the author’s memory. The views expressed in this memoir are solely those of the author.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528980333 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528981767 (ePub e-book)

ISBN 9781528980340 (Audiobook)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

"No matter where you go, there you are."

—Buckaroo Banzai

"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less travelled by,

And that has made all the difference."

—The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost

"People are idiots."

—Anon.

Introduction

2017–2019/2020/2022

If you get no further than this—here’s the story, I was expatriated to Qatar; my wife came with me (although she wasn’t my wife until shortly after we got there); it was a crazy, four-year whirlwind experience. Add a sprinkle of glamour, some ridiculousness and some fun as filler and you’ve got it.

That’s it.

And, of course, the recognition that this stretch of time was a collection of some of the richest and rewarding experiences I have ever had in my life.

Stories that I felt (and continue to feel) that should be shared. Potentially even enjoyed.

The result, this book.

The idea for this book came from two main sources.

The first was a book written in the nineties called If the Sun Doesn’t Kill You, the Washing Machine Will by Peter Wood. If the Sun…charts a similar journey of an expat going to Qatar and experiencing all the country has to offer—and more—just twenty or thirty years prior to my (/our) arrival. A benchmark if you will, of what to expect. My wife got me a copy as part of my ‘onboarding’ into the country a few weeks’ shy of my travel there. Before this, my understanding of the country was woefully abysmal; after this, I got the uncanny sense that things were about to get wonderful and weird.

The second was the storytelling. The specific experiences I had throughout my time in Qatar were not only humorous (in my humble opinion!), but also so poignant and visceral. I couldn’t contain myself. I just had to tell the stories…to really anyone who listened. In so doing, the stories got sharper, clearer and the experiences themselves began to stand in sharp contrast to what would have been my normal life prior to the trip. The stories just had to be told. If nobody reads (or listens)—no harm/no foul—but for those of us who lived to tell the tale and those who are curious—read on.

I started writing this, really, almost immediately after arriving. Before I left, without even knowing this would come about, two of my best friends gifted me a leather-bound journal, with the sage advice that using it would help me feel less lonely, but also to document the ‘journey’ so I would remember more clearly everything that happened whilst I was there. Potentially, as a form of therapeutic or cathartic activity, I could create a habit of writing something about the day, each day. I think the intention was to almost be a sort of ‘gratitude’ journal and serve a meditative purpose.

Little did I know that this would blossom into a series of anecdotes and would further sprout roots and branches and leaves and grow into this collection of stories, waiting to be told—or maybe I knew better. Given my natural cynicism and ‘strip it for parts’ sense of humour, I could have predicted that this journal would become a series of Jerry Seinfeld-esque observations on both the nothing and everything that happened whilst I was there.

It didn’t half take a while though. I did my journal writing—then it ‘evolved’ to microscopic post-it notes stuck in the journal on sporadic dates—then finally became emails to myself at even more erratic intervals (and in most instances in an impossible-to-crack shorthand. ‘Future M’s’ problem).

As time went on, I fantasised about converting these musings into something more formal, but I frankly never had the wherewithal to do so. I only then really started writing when I was back on terra firma in the UK. That was 2017.

Life happened. We had our second child. More life happened. More overtures and commitments that I would finish the book; more commitments failed.

The moral of the story—listen closely—is: If you ever wanted to know how to write a book, the answer is: you have to actually write it. And writing is hard. It’s often boring; it is never as you hear it in your head or how you’d say it out loud; and that’s even with the editing and process and improvement over time.

But, I made it. Four years in Qatar and even longer (basically five) on the ‘mental shelf’ back in the UK—and it’s done.

To help you navigate, some advice on how to read this book. In principle, it has a bit of structure to it. Some ‘framing’, if you will. I tried to book-end (see what I did there?) with key milestones in line with the rough chronology of my four years in the country, with a few exceptions. You will see chapters such as ‘Arrival’ which should be fairly (fairly) clearly signposted; that said, the supposed ‘linear’ nature of the book is interspersed with anecdotes and musings of key happenstances throughout our time there.

Considering all that, I’d suggest you treat this as an anthology. A collection of stories amassed across an incredible and unforgettable stretch of four of the craziest years of my life.

If you are lucky, you may also see and absorb some of the personal growth I went through throughout my time there. But that comes later.

For reference, and as a starting point—here are the stats of my life’s ‘starting position’ of where I was when I arrived in Qatar:

Top-Trump Vital stats: START

Come dive in.

Glossary of Terms

TIQ—’This is Qatar’. An expat expression used for emphasis when something (inevitable) goes wrong or is bizarre beyond belief. The expression reflects the utter ridiculousness of various happenings in QATAR (or ) as if to say, fuck me—can you believe it? or that the only conceivable/believable explanation would be, well, this is Qatar.

Khalas—Arabic word meaning ‘enough’. Used in everyday situations to emphasise when something is complete/has enough justification/needs to end etc. Basically, used at the end of almost every sentence. How are you feeling today? Khalas. When will this report be ready? When I’m done with it, khalas. How was your breakfast? Khalaaas.

QTF—’Qatar the Fuck’. Derivative of TIQ, but more crass. Similar to WTF (what the fuck)—but emphasises the Qatar element. Coincidentally, it also stands for Qatar Tennis Foundation and also is slang for the French, Que le fuck? Using it in a sentence, Why on earth would someone leave their pet lion cub in their Ferrari overnight? QTF. You get it.

Insha’Allah—most commonly interpreted by foreigners as something akin to the Spanish term, ‘mañana mañana’. In actual terms, typically meant (spiritually) as, This is a given, of course—unless the will of Allah prevents it. Pretty neat, huh? As an expat—seems like a bit of an excuse to me, as typically it precedes a promise made to be broken.

Habibi—literal translation: my dear (masculine). Used in the context of someone close to you, as a term denoting friendship or caring about someone—someone who would be close to you. Used in general to appeal to someone like Buddy—come ooooon or to point out something obvious (when you aren’t getting your way in a street market haggle), Come on, habibi, certainly these camels are only worth 5 not 10 bushels of barley (or whatever). Feminine: ‘habibti’. Use with caution—typically you don’t call a woman habibti (certainly not a Qatari woman) as this is reserved as a female term of endearment.

Khobus—translation: bread. Mentioning this here as I have seen it used as an instruction in a roadside mini-mart. Word picture: Qatari pulls up to market and honks horn. Indian man (shopkeeper) is expected to run out (but is busy with another customer). Qatari leans on the horn, gets frustrated and enters market begrudgingly. At the shop entrance he spreads his arms wide (legs akimbo) and announces, KHOBUSSS. Attendant rushes two feet from the man and hands him a loaf of (sugar) bread. Khobus, innit.

Yalla—come on, hurry up, let’s go, get on with it, etc. Yalla yalla habibi khalas. Khobus.

TIQ.

Chapter One

Prologue

September 2018

So I sit down after almost a year away from Qatar, finally trying to write something down and dust off my travel ‘journal’ for the first time in a very long time.

As a relevant side-note, this travel journal was a parting gift from dear-dear friends of mine (incidentally, the Godparents of our 18-month old)—a beautiful, rugged little leather-bound journal, which was diligently used for about 2 months until I got ‘bored’ of conventional writing and started sending emails to myself. This already says something about the ‘truth’ of these entries and/or my attention to detail. (I think it was my late Grandpa Len who always said, Don’t let the truth stand in the way of a good story. Words to—write—by?)

I open the journal and notice two things immediately:

First—my ‘working title’. ‘Qatar-logue’. LAME. Would you be reading this if it had that atrocious name?

Second—my first entry, as follows:

16 June 2013

London Ikea Trip: Need:

Small pan

Large baking tray

Plate

Ironing board cover

Iron

Looking for:

Bed

Sleeper sofa

Bedroom storage

Dining table

Is your mind blown? A roaring start. WTF? Surely my travel journal would start with more of a ‘bang’ than that. Also—this probably underwrites how grossly unprepared I was to move to Qatar. I apparently ‘need’ a small pan and baking tray, but am only ‘looking for’ pretty standard essential items like BED or DINING table. Also—one plate? Singular? I guess I am not expecting my (then) girlfriend (now wife, don’t worry) to accompany me. Baking tray? When have I ever baked anything? I definitely cannot be baked in Qatar, this much I knew upfront. Oh, wait, at least it’s a LARGE one.

A bad omen, as far as omens go. Let us begin.

Chapter Two

The Proposal

Some stories require others as scene-setters. For context, you know? Consider this a brief telling of one of those.

I guess the first thing you should know about my (/our) trip to Qatar is: we didn’t actually want to go; we kind-of just said, shall we? Yeah sure—fuck it.

OK—maybe that’s not really completely fair. I mean—we really, REALLY wanted to go to Singapore and technically, we shouldn’t sell ourselves short as we made it halfway. Right? Silver lining much?

My then-girlfriend (now wife, I remind you) and I were sick of London. Sick to death. Sick of the ‘pub culture’, sick of the endless inertia to do anything outdoors, sick of the creative limitation of the British to think of anything else to do at the weekend except (you guessed it) go to the pub. OK, maybe in the summer, an occasional outdoor drink on the one sun-shining day in the BEER GARDEN of a pub has some Notting-Hill-Hugh-Grant romance to it—except the fact that the literal whole of Britain is in the same spot jockeying for space. Also—expensive. Very expensive.

We were sick of it. Did I mention that it was always grey?

Enter: jobs. We both worked for a major Oil & Gas company that promised aspiring young professionals amazing international opportunities on luxurious expatriate packages in locations with minimal-to-none income tax—and setting our sights on the East, we began to try to convert our Singaporean fantasy into reality.

Enter: reality. Promises made to us as graduates were really lies. Expat jobs? Pfft—forget it, unless you want to be responsible for offshoring ‘sub-critical’ roles to the sub-continent and working split-shift hours somewhere in Manila (don’t knock it—some people love it). I mean, come on, who were we kidding? It was 2013. I was working in Finance at the time and an overseas assignment was possible but not for the both of us. The alternative: danger pay and an assignment to Nigeria, Kazakhstan or outer-Mongol Russia—the East side. Dreams die hard.

Enter: curve-ball. Having made my wishes known to ‘upper management’, our business CFO dropped me an email which read: You wanted Singapore? How about halfway? Qatar—was suddenly on the table. For one of us. Hell—I never even HEARD of Qatar, let alone place it on the map. Ignorance, I know, but honestly—it was waaaaay off my radar. I had no clue.

So, we began to discuss it. I didn’t even really entertain it; and as we spoke to colleagues (including those who were either ‘out there’ or who had been)—the fact that we weren’t married, meant it was kind of a non-starter for us to go ‘together’. Illegal to live together, illegal to ‘date’; impossible to move together with our company as we weren’t married in the ‘system’ i.e. were not eligible for ‘dual career status’ in the eyes of HR. Let alone the cultural differences (me, American; her, Nordic—couldn’t be less apposite) and of course, for her career prospects.

Enter: desperation. Easter, 2013; location: Paris. Weekend trip for a romantic getaway; left on a Thursday night and would come back Easter Monday night. That Thursday, I had an ‘exploratory discussion’ with the hiring manager, ‘just to get a sense of the role’—which went well. Turns out it was an interview. Without asking for it, I had been told I was short-listed and they would tell me on Tuesday if I had gotten the job—and to explicitly remember that the benefits/money/tax situation is AMAZING. Suddenly, our relaxing romantic weekend was filled with the heuristics of the opportunity. Not. Relaxing. In. The. Slightest.

We get to the Air BnB and unpack—it’s beautiful—and we set about our weekend tour. Overall—it was amazing, but marred with a sense of stress and both spoken and unspoken dread about the potential to actually fulfil a partial fantasy and go on an expat assignment—and what the impact would be for us, for her, for our jobs. We agreed there and then to ‘see what happens’ and take our time rather than make any hasty decisions; who knows—I might not even make it past the short-listing.

I remember this next part vividly, Tuesday after the long weekend, both of us working from home in my pokey little flat in north London, laptops back-to-back at my tiny kitchenette table. I get a phone call coming in (work Skype or what was known as Communicator back then) and it is the potential boss. We make eye-contact and in a well-practised manoeuvre, I unplug my laptop and walk with my headset to the bedroom for privacy. As I’m walking down the hall, I get a text saying, I’ll just hop into the shower, let me know how the call goes. Good luck.

M: Hello this is M?

Potential Boss (PB): Hi, M—is now a good time to chat?

M: Sure, how’s it going?

PB: "Yes, yes, fine—no time for chitchat. I am about to go to a meeting with the local VP to approve the workforce planning and