Sleeper's Run

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

The Qatari government issues tourist visas on arrival for the residents of thirty-three countries including France. This visa is valid for two weeks; more than enough time for me to acquire a local ID and get lost among its people. The plane ride from Corsica to Qatar was long. Doha was no longer a vague memory of a city with simple white buildings a few stories tall. What lay in front of me when I step out of the busy and ever-expanding airport—constructed just eight years before my family moved there—is a modern metropolis with ambitious architectural projects towering over the oceanfront landscape. All this is fuelled by the country's oil and natural gas wealth.

The harsh, arid heat from the desert sharply contrasts with cool autumn breeze of Nice, but I'm used to this weather. In a strange way, it's like returning home. I had been at Udeid Air Base—barely an hour away from Doha—at different times during my multiple combat deployments, but there's a more overpowering flood of memories of happier times. They are few and mostly vague fragments; I was only a child. I remember riding camels with my parents on the very dunes that still surround the city. Not even the reckless drivers in the constantly changing network of roads and highways crisscrossing the small city could shake me from my reverie.

The taxi leaves me at the newly-opened W Hotel with its trendy décor, and magnificent view of the Arabian Gulf. I walk into the dim blue lights of the Crystal Lounge with its prominent Baccarat chandelier. At the bar, I order a beer, which I don't intend to drink, and then sit at a table to hack me a nice suite.

With the exception of France, there are no extradition treaties between Qatar, the United States and Venezuela, so I have little to worry about from the local authorities. This is probably the safest I've ever been since I escape from the US embassy in Caracas. I know the customs and the language, but I know Doha offers other advantages as well.

In the morning, I go shopping for some local fashion. Doha's demographics are atypical from other Asian cities. Qataris are a minority here; South, East and South East Asians comprise the largest population, along with North Africans, Eastern Mediterraneans, some Europeans, North Americans, Australians and South Africans. Blending into this place will be a snap.

I take a cab to the City Centre Mall. Like everything here, the shopping building is colossal and meant to impress; the tall glass walls under a roof with three peaks remind me of a tent from a distance and a spread of leaves up close. Inside, there are multiple floors of shops, restaurants, cinemas and even an ice rink. A true American oasis in the desert. I buy mostly clothes and a few things I'm going to need during my stay. Guns might be a problem to procure, but nobody would raise an eyebrow at someone buying a dive knife.

After a quick stop back at my hotel, I dress in a short-sleeved shirt, jeans and sneakers; garments common to some residents. I also cover my head with a taqiyah—the round cap worn by Muslim men—and some shades. I duct tape the diving knife to my back right above my wallet for easy access. I hide it nicely under my shirt and take off once again.

When the cab driver hears where I want to go, he tries to dissuade me as he offers more "visitor-friendly" choices, but I'm adamant. The concerned cabbie complies, but still tries to scare me with all sorts of stories about the place. As we leave the city behind, an intimidating throng of tractors, pickup trucks and heavy machinery invades the now abused road.

The taxi drops me off by one of the laborer's camps on the fringes of the city. A wall surrounds the rather extensive area. The crammed and dirty buildings are cheaply made and painted in a depressing pale blue that has been faded by the sun. Only the endless rows of drying clothes hanging from balconies and windows break the monotony of the color scheme.

Just like anywhere else, most expatriates in Qatar are looking for a better life. Attracted by the country's oil wealth, they come to work as laborers and domestic servants, but some end up exploited, and a few are trafficked for sexual services. Since foreign employees require a sponsor to legally work in the country, this leaves them vulnerable to a range of abuses including threats, job switching, lack of payment, unlawful charging of benefits, and withholding of passports, travel documents and exit permits. Those working in factories and in the massive construction sector live in camps on the fringes of Doha, along with all garages, industries, plants and anything that might ruin the city's splendor.