Kuwait 2000 #4: Sunset in Doha

It was Saturday, so I went to the US embassy to pick up my passport. I didn’t have any problems, and left determined to drive up to Doha village just for the heck of it. It was a thirty-minute drive north of the city, and I had no trouble getting there – or at least to the general area. There was an army checkpoint manned by both Kuwaitis and Americans.

Past that, the road forked. One went towards Entertainment City, a local amusement park and the other I assumed, towards Doha. “That whole place is filled with American soldiers and is probably restricted” was what one of dad’s friends had told me. I could see a huge walled enclosure to my right that I took to be the US base. On my left was the electrical plant I had seen on the map, spewing out the grayest of smoke. I later learned that it burned crude oil to generate electricity. “Dubya” would love being President of Kuwait.

I went up the road, and even though I couldn’t read Arabic, the signs seemed to be screaming at me to turn back. There was a checkpoint at the very end, and there was a sign in English that said “Authorized Vehicles Only”. There was a break in the median, and I made a quick U-turn and headed back to Kuwait City. It was just 10:30 in the morning, and I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever get to do anything interesting.

Mulling over this lack of exciting happenings, I spied a western tourist carrying the exact same map I had in my car. Finally, here was someone I could compare notes with. Maybe he’ll tell me if there was anyplace interesting I could go to. I stopped and asked him if he needed a ride. He said he was on his way to the British Embassy and got into the car. Then he asked me if I was American. If only those that made fun of my Indian accent could have seen me then. I replied “No, but I live there” as Americanly as possible. Well, he turned out to be just another expat. I went home. I hadn’t taken a single picture.

After lunch I was in better spirits and decided to explore the northern shore of the city. I parked in what looked like a public lot and started walking along the shore. Suddenly, there seemed to be people everywhere. I was in a fishing port and the men in the boats were speaking a language that sounded vaguely like Hindi. I walked past fishermen mending their nets and kids speeding around in tiny motorized scooters and rollerblades. I walked past women covered from head to toe in burkhas and men wearing traditional Arab clothes. There were a few ancient dhows (Arab fishing boats) and I saw a water scooter speeding on the surf-less sea. There was a loud roar as some speedboats gunned their way out of the harbor.

I walked towards three affluent looking Kuwaitis who had some expensive cameras on them. One of them looked at my Canon and gave a faint smile. I stopped and said hello. We started talking and he asked if I was from India. I said yes and added that I lived in the US. There was an immediate change in their attitude towards me as they became more friendly and started peppering me with questions about the US and where exactly I lived. Their English was very good. I asked if they’d mind posing for a picture and they gladly obliged. One of them told me that I should go across the road where I could get some interesting shots of a mosque. I thanked them and continued on my way.

“These people are so friendly” I thought to myself, wondering why
my parents and their friends seemed wary of being sociable with the Kuwaitis. Of course, the camera I had on me, plus the fact I was from the US, may have influenced their attitude towards me. But I do firmly believe that most people are friendly if they are approached right. Surely, it isn’t fair to brand an entire country or race as “unfriendly” or “snobbish” without making attempts at knowing them better.

All these rather “deep” thoughts occurred much later. I was too busy taking in the surroundings to be concerned about World Peace and International Brotherhood just then. I came by a bridge that had two gazebo-like structures at each end. I crossed this and another road, and then started walking back towards the car. The sun was still a bit too bright, and I took some pictures of an old mosque. By then I’d decided to take my fellow photographers’ advice and go further north, past the “tent-like” parliament building and take some pictures there. This place was packed, with hardly any room for parking. I used all of my experience from driving in India to squeeze through impossibly narrow spaces and found a barely legal parking spot.

I walked past a small children’s park filled with swings and merry-go-rounds. Each swing held about 10 kids and had two men pushing it, and once it began to swing freely they started the accompanying “music” by clapping their hands and tapping their feet on a loose sheet of tin. What made this memorable was that there must have been at least twenty such swings, each with two operators-turned-percussionists; the cacophony they made mixed in with the delighted screams of the children reminded me of similar times in rural India.

I took a shot of the parliament when I felt someone touch my arm. A wrinkled old man asked me something in Arabic pointing at my camera. Though I didn’t understand a word, I guessed that he wanted me to take a picture of his family.

He’d looked at my camera and tripod and decided I was the resident photographer at the park that took family portraits for sale. I would have taken his picture but did not want to disappoint him by not giving a print. Instead, I shook my head and said that I don’t speak Arabic. Previously, I had noticed three Indians speaking in Tamil nearby and they were now looking at me, so I asked them if they’d understood the old man. They seemed a bit startled that I spoke Tamil, but recovered quickly and told me what I’d guessed at. I spoke to them for a while-turned out they all worked in restaurants.

As I continued my walk I ran into my three Kuwaiti friends again. They seemed genuinely happy to see me, and said they were waiting for the sunset and that I should wait with them. They’d all taken a three-week photography class and were working on improving their technique. We compared equipment and prices, and the general consensus was that things were cheaper in the US. One of them gave me what he termed a “sunset” filter and told me to try a few shots with it. I’d never used a filter before (other than the standard UV) and fired a few shots. I was happy they’d made me wait until sundown. I returned the filter and took some “sunset” pictures. This was the most productive day of the entire trip, photographically at least.

I was talking to them about the abortive trip to Doha that morning when I realized that I must have ended up in Doha harbor instead of Doha village! Surely, the village itself shouldn’t be off-limits. I decided to try again the next day since I was leaving late Monday night and didn’t have much time left. I exchanged email addresses with one of them, and left. The sun had now completely set.