is no Toyota.

;-)

people even don't like to blog where I am living now.

As a German where the prejudice is that we're all driving Mercedes, wearing funny hats and trousers made of leather, and are always drinking beer I have to admit that sometimes, not very often indeed, I intend to drink a beer. During my time in Nigeria I made the experience of Goulder, Harp and Star. And I liked Harp best although I barely drank one bottle.

Now over here I thought I could try the local stuff. Non-alcoholic beer just for the taste of it. Whoever is a passionate beer drinker, this is a warning: don't do it. Don't even think of it!



Whatever is on sale in the big supermarkets hardly is allowed to carry the expression "beer". How can a drink that has been composed throughout centuries out of water, hops and malt be modified with tastes like strawberry, lemon or apple?

After having tried "Laziza regular" once, I know now why. Whatever they fill into bottles is just from the looks something like beer. Whoever has been living in the near environment of a beer brewery once (greetings to all guys living in Mannheim Wohlgelegen or Neckarstadt) knows the smell in the air of brewer's yeast (or barm) which almost makes you throw up. Lucky Mannheimers sometimes get the unbeatable mixture of chocolate smell on top.

So opening up a bottle of Laziza regular beats your nostrils with the same yeast smell. Pouring the liquid into a glass calms you down again, as the look is beer-like. But then the taste. Another attack on your already weakened body. Most probably this is the reason to add artificial flavours to the drink to avoid the body of going immediately on strike.

I did not taste the Holsten yet, as Holsten usually is known for quite good quality, but I think I'll have to offer myself to science to know if this drink will be as awful as the first one.

Anybody interested in 5 more bottles of Laziza?

I found this expat-blog-directory on the net, just surfing via one of my favourites. So I thought that now that I am blogging in English, I could join that community to share my every day's experiences. And they provide a nice little link:



Let's see how this will turn out. (Oh yes, there are still some stories to be written, about beer, for instance, and the flat. Including all the little things you'll have to look at when you move in. Even when it's brand new...)

Yet it was time to join the hairdressers here in Doha. For quite a while I haven't been to one, so I decided to get the experience over here. Looking at a proposed project duration of almost three years I would have to go anyway.

Directly next to the hotel there are many tiny shops, dealing with everyday's needs. Amongst them is a hairdresser, Indian owned, with three chairs inside. Opening hours are not published, on request you are told that they are available from 8am to 11.30am and again in the afternoon up to almost midnight. I asked if it was possible to get a haircut and was immediately invited to take a seat.

The first guy to take care of me had some problems to fit the paper towel around my neck. Somehow the adhesive parts were out of service. But different to Europe, over here they take the collar of your shirt and fold it to the inside to prevent cut hair to nest on it and be a pain in the neck afterwards. He then watered my hair with a spray and combed it completely.

Then the figaro himself, the Indian boss, arrived. He re-fixed the paper towel and the cape the first guy tried to fix. Then he offered me a tea. With milk and sugar. No chance of refusal. Before he could begin his work, his mobile rang. "Oh, call from India, New Delhi", he said, answering the phone in hindi. After ten minutes the call was finished and he started working on my head.

Ok, my right ear in fact. For a good 15 minutes he cut the hair around it, trimming like I was a film star, always trying to improve his last results. In between he had to answer two more phone calls, this time the landline. Also the news on tv had to be increased in volume. Anyway, at some stage he also reached my left ear, cut here and there but not my skin and left a quite nice looking guy in the chair.

Then he offered me a face massage which I tried to refuse. No chance. At least he did not start shaving, but this was offered, too. Guy number three then was assigned for the head and face massage, which included also parts of the back and both arms. All done without looking at me, because the news in hindi were more interesting.

When it came to the point of paying, I asked how much it was. "Whatever you like" was the repeated answer. And this is the part I don't like. How much do you give for this service which is heavily extended to what you experience in Europe? (Or at least what I normally experience?) The more you give, the more you spoil those people. The less you give, the more you insult them.

So I decided to pay 50 Rials which is most probably far too much, but compared to Europe still very cheap.

I was not beaten when I left the shop.

So far I haven't got a flat yet here. So I am still staying in the hotel. It is not bad, but quite expensive if I'd take the daily breakfast each morning for 25 Rials. Instead I bought a one kilogram container of cookies for less than 12 Rials and await the boys in the office for tea then. Easy living.

Now I had a look at the box. Luckily I saw the hidden warning on top:



Maybe written with a small mistake, one "h" and one "t" is too much, but at least you cannot take the producer to court.



Inside the box there's luckily a short interruption to constant eating: the cookies are sealed so that you can also take them to a different place without leaving a lot of crumbs in your pockets. The idea is good, but as I know myself, most of them will not make it to a different place at all.

As other people blogging are doing this, I will also add cat content to my blog.

It is there, in the basement. The small car park, just sufficient for maybe ten cars in the hotel. Every morning when I leave the cat is there. Lying around, eyes closed. Most times below one of the cars, sometimes even in the middle of the driveway.

In the afternoon, when I return, still it is there. I think that during daytime it will take action to get food or so. Everybody knows the cat, the security leaves it living there

And yesterday I saw it there, taking care of the cars...

Spring time? This does not exist over here in Qatar. Not in the way Europeans are likely to know it. Ok, temperatures reach above 30 centigrades a day, still falling to 22 at night. Maybe this is what is called spring over here.

One small disadvantage of the area is the availability of sand around the city. Although big spaces are solid ground, dried out surface and rock hard, the nearby deserts carry a lot of dust, fine sand, blown up by the mostly north-western winds. This dust keeps covering everything, cars, buildings, it enters even sealed buildings like most of the towers in West Bay area.



So when I have a look in the morning out of my hotel room and I see something like in the picture above, I know that the coughing period will start again. This dust is so minute, you don't feel it in between your teeth, you just notice it when you wipe your desk. Or the windscreen of the car. It enters your lungs and causes a dry feeling in your throat, causing you to repeatedly cough.

I am here now only for a short time, but I will see how the weather is going to improve. I've already been warned that in summer it will be up to 50 centigrades with a humidity up to 80 per cent. Hopefully the dust will be absent then.

Und es kam mal wieder einer dieser Tage, in denen Blogg.de nicht wollte. Aus welchen Gruenden auch immer. Vielleicht lag es daran, dass ich im fernen Ausland weilte und der Blogg.de-Server sich an meiner IP verschluckte. Vielleicht hatte aber auch der Filter der oertlichen Telekommunikationsfirma seinen boesen Tag und liess meinen Inhalt nicht passieren - wer weiss das schon.

Und so machte ich mich auf, mein Ersatz- und Diasporablog aufzusuchen, um hier weiterzumachen.

Mit den Geschichten aus Qatar.

Nein, solange ich mich erinnern kann, wollte ich es nicht.

Anfangs war es ein Problem, die Sprache, die Verständigung. Kinder lernen leicht neue Sprachen, wenn sie noch klein sind. Das Gehirn ist wie ein trockener Schwamm, aufnahmefähig. Eine leere Festplatte, die Informationen sammelt und speichert, ohne sich um Ressourcen kümmern zu müssen. Doch es sprach niemand in einer zweiten Sprache mit mir. Es war nicht notwendig.

Später dann, mit etwa 11 Jahren, der erste Urlaub im Ausland. Italien, Rimini. Ein unangenehmes Gefühl, so viele Menschen, die sich, mir völlig unverständlich, miteinander unterhalten konnten. Mich nicht verstanden. Mir das Gefühl gaben, ausgestoßen zu sein. Anders. Ausländer. Die zwar den Versuch machten, sich mit mir zu unterhalten, aber auf Unverständnis stießen. Und mich so immer tiefer in mein Schneckenhaus drängten.

Später dann die Schule, der Fremdsprachenunterricht. Der mich kaum interessierte. Die Vokabeln, Grammatik, die ich nie verstand, Prüfungen. Grausames Sprachlabor, Trockentraining ohne Anwendungsmöglichkeit. Und ohne Anwendungswillen. Abwahlmöglichkeit genutzt.

Dann, nach dem Studium, der dritte Job, der die Sprache forderte. Der ungeliebte und unverstandene Grammatikübungen hervorzauberte. Um verstanden zu werden, um erklären zu können. Ein Herantasten an dieses andere, so fremde Leben.

Der Durchbruch dann im vierten Job, ein Jahr England, ein Jahr fremde Menschen, die zu Freunden wurden. Das Eintauchen in eine Sprache, die so viele Nuancen bot, Redewendungen, Ausdrücke, die nie im Unterricht vermittelt wurden. Das Anlegen eines Kostüms mit Annehmen der Sprache, das Schauspielern und Agieren auf einer Riesenbühne. Die Interaktion mit Menschen, der Zugang zu Menschen. Das Verstehen.

Jetzt ist es Teil meines Lebens. Fremde Länder, fremde Menschen. Es hat lange gedauert.

Meine Bekehrung.

...der Rest steht ja immer noch hier!

Und wird des Öfteren erneuert.

...bin ich jetzt stolzer Besitzer eines Ein-Zimmer-Blogs. Mal sehen, wann ich umziehe.

Aber erst mal muss ich hier renovieren, die Wände streichen und so...