Doha Days: Not Quite a Fairy-tale Ending

Being jammed in the office for literally the majority of the day isn't something new or unexpected, considering the line of work I've chosen and chosen to pursue, but though I've recently had to spend several hours with someone with a name out of a Disney fantasy, it's been anything but.

Those who have been keeping in touch would have heard of some of my troubles and complaints, and I do understand that not every place is as ruthlessly efficient as acronym-crazy Singapore, but there are limits to decency and sensibility surely, limits and thresholds and breaking points that many of us here have seen shattered and surpassed.

Firstly, it is still quite a joke that a number of staff here have not gotten their IDs, and in some cases work Visas yet - being in effect illegal aliens - with one of my colleagues having been submitted to such treatment as being asked from HR why he didn't get his passport stamped with the right stamp (in Arabic) after he had given it to them for that very purpose. And paid for it. Twice.

Our real estate agent was flabbergasted a couple of months ago when we told her we didn't have them yet, as we had been in the country for well over six weeks, and according to her the process took all of six days. When we did eventually get it, of course, it was quite simply one of the defining moments of my (admittedly brief) time here so far.

Quarter to two on a Tuesday afternoon, the gallant hero braves the elements to enter the gauntlet of bearded men and veiled women, armed with nothing but a temporary staff pass - because HR has not issued actual cards after two months - to try and claim an artifact of great power. A Qatari ID.

Past sentries and gatekeepers, and finally standing before a harsh face behind a shield of crystal.

And here is where fantasy ends and the nightmare begins (restarts?).

Me: Good afternoon, I'm here to collect my Qatar ID...
Man Behind Glass: Wait. (Talks to colleague and shows him a photo on his phone.)
Me: (Waits)
MBG: (Assumed translation from Arabic) Look at this picture of a a Land Cruiser, I am thinking of getting it.
Friend of MBG: I thought you already had one?
MBG: Two, but they are so cheap and I earn so much, haha!
FoMBG: Haha!
Me: Hi, can I just collect my ID, I have work to do?
MBG: Wait.
Me: (Waits)
MBG: (Arabic) Do you know where I can buy a watch?
FoMBG: I think there is a shop beside the ice-skating rink.
MBG: Of course my friend!
FoMBG: Yes, if you want you can buy a leather hand-bag to put it in too.
MBG: That's a good idea.
Me: Excuse me?
MBG: What?
Me: I need my Qatar ID.
MBG: It's 2pm.
Me: Yes, I've been here for 15 minutes.
MBG: Two o'clock close.
Me: What?
MBG: No more.

And the two dweebs roll away on their little office seats to continue their inane conversation while I am left without something that I should have gotten 6 weeks ago, something that I needed to set up a bank account, phone line, wire my home for internet and TV (more on that later), and basically evade arrest from handcuff-happy local police.

You can imagine by aggravation at this point. But there is little else I can do to combat such reckless disregard for responsibility, and so I return the next day, as ordered. This time, with backup.

With my room-mate, the trek to HR was no less arduous, and we arrived with no more hope for a decent outcome. He went first, and was literally on his knees asking the dude behind the glass to open his drawer to at least look to see if our documents were there. After haggling for several minutes, the guy relented and looked into the black hole of his heart - or drawer - and lo and behold, there was a bunch of Qatar IDs and passports.

Now, seeing as how I am kind of the obvious answer if you play a game of "one of these things is not like the others" in this department, the bright orange Singaporean passport sticks out amongst the less garish British ones that nearly everyone else has. And so, even with my rather cycloptic sense of sight, I spotted the little thing and hope flared in my heart.

Me: Hello, I am here to collect my Qatar ID.
MBG: No.
Me: What?
MBG: No here.
Me: I saw it.
MBG: No.
Me: You were holding my passport literally one minute ago.
MBG: You just want passport?
Me: I want my passport, ID, everything else that comes with it.
MBG: Not here.
Me: Open your drawer.
MBG: Not here.
Me: Open your drawer.
MBG: No.
Me: I am not leaving until you open that drawer and give me my things.
MBG: (Heavy sigh) Okay, here.

That isn't an exaggeration or dramatization either. In fact, it is condensed and abridged, and the entire exchange featured longer and increasingly heated pauses and me having to deal with the unblinking gaze of someone being blatantly and willfully dishonest for no other reason than to impede the life of another.

I wish I could say that that episode (2-part episode?) was something unique and anectodal, but it isn't. If anything the days where I have yet to encounter a case of blinding incompetence or even worse malicious intent are few and far between.

That last line was originally supposed to read "are the days I remain firmly entrenched at home" but that's not the case either.

The house/villa is rather amazing, spacious and quite stunning for a rent well within our means - leaving more than a bit left over - but despite being there since the middle of September, we are still without amenities like a phone, cable television and home broadband.

Now, I know what some might be thinking, that they are luxuries and not exactly essential for human survival, but if you also consider that this place is painting itself as an upcoming hub for business, culture, and life, looking to host the World Cup (slave-controversy aside) among other things, this is truly a joke.

It is no stretch to say that we have called, E-Mailed, or physically been to the Oreedoo/Qtel store close to thirty times since moving in, and there is no resolution in sight, despite the house already being wired for fiber optic broadband - as evident by the presence of a modem/router that indicates a network already present - and three visits from technicians who have each given us a different answer to the same question:

When can we get this sorted?

Once we were told to call a certain number, but only with our own Oreedoo number. Despite the actual job being to get an Oreedoo number/account.

Several times the crew has not arrived on the days they said they were, instead picking times we specifically said we would not be home.

At least three times we have been answered with "I don't know" when we asked about things that should be protocol.

Worse than being at the end of our tether, we've been lost in a sea of uselessness, with no help in sight. I'll be amazed if I'm able to play FM14 or catch up with Arrow and The Walking Dead before Christmas, at this rate.

But life here is not so different from living in a world where the horde is out to get you (on an unrelated note, Warlords of Draenor?), where the minority struggle to survive surrounded by entities that seem intent on shortening your odds of success, going out of their lumbering, plodding, close-minded ways to - for lack of a better term - fuck you up.

All this along with constantly malfunctioning office hardware, questionable tap-water, daily gridlocks, the lack of anything resembling chilli, and the continued misfortunes of Manchester United and Milan make me a rather sad bloke.

Bloke? I am also slowly adopting British speech patterns.

That's gash, mate.