12 Things I've Learned in Qatar: #12 - Walk, Ride and Drive at Your Own Risk

In a month I'll be a year old in Doha. I thought I'd look back and list the things I have learned the past twelve months in what I wittingly call: 12 Things I've Learned in Qatar.

#12 - Walk, Ride and Drive at Your Own Risk

A confession: the first time I rode a taxi in Doha, the driver charged me QR50 for a trip that, I later found out, would've cost only 15 bucks. It was one of those old yellow taxis. The good thing is that they're all phased out now.

After that incident, I began walking. City Center to Suoq: an hour and a half. Al Sadd to Bin Omran: 45 minutes. Al Rayyan to TV Roundabout: one hour. TV Roundabout to Corniche: 35 minutes. At first I tortured my feet but it didn't take long to build up my endurance. I've walked during the winter at 15 degrees, and midday summer at 45 degrees. The two main reasons would either be lack of money or lack of taxis.

As the months passed I realized that some private cars would double as cabs. It's tricky though; you have to know the usual fare to a particular destination because some of these guys overcharge if they smell tourist. Fortunately or unfortunately, there were some instances that the driver wanted a different fee. A kind brush-off usually does the trick and you get a free ride. There were also good samaritans, but I always get cynical when I think about those people.

I thought that with all the walking and ranting about Qatar's public transportation system I'd be begging for a car. Nah. At least once a week (and I'm being kind here) there's an accident in the city streets and chances are it's a major one. Hummers flying, Land Cruisers in total wreck, and smaller cars reduced to a tin can ready for recycling. The body count is constantly ticking despite the strong campaign on road safety (further reading on Qatar Traffic Accidents at Qatar Visitor). I've only driven once in Doha and it was a weird mix of freedom and certain death with SUVs impatiently beaming their headlights behind you, ready and perhaps eager to crush you unless you get out of the fast lane in three seconds. Once in a while, road-related statistics headline the papers, begging really, telling everyone to SLOW DOWN. That's not all. At the end of the day, you go online, run your plate number on the government's e-Service site and find out you've accumulated fines way past your monthly salary (of course I'm talking about my measly pay). Ouch. So, no thanks, I'll walk or take a crowded bus instead.

Qatar is a fast-developing country but maybe some drivers misunderstood the 'fast' part. The roads here are generally wide and well-paved but it seems that accidents are waiting to happen just around the corner. Those with vehicles should be luckier than us commuters, but somehow I feel safer walking than driving. If only Doha has a better public transportation system--LRTs, more taxis and buses, and better pedestrian walkways and shaded bus stops--going around the city would be more fascinating.

Now, if you're the kind of driver who has a death wish, please, kill yourself in the confines of your own home and help keep the roads of Doha safe.

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Charge Me With DUI

Thursday night. I'm down to my last hundred and last few ounces of sanity. Self-proclaimed fag hag Johanna called; said a girlfriend is celebrating her birthday at Qube and they need a bodyguard. I'm thinking Kevin Costner and she's thinking Jap. It didn't take long to persuade me. I'm broke but I've got a quarter bottle of cheap vodka sitting in my closet. I told Johanna I'll meet them at the club after I pre-party in my room.

Sugar-free Red Bull, 7-Up Free, and bottled water on my table. Not much of a choice. I took two generous shots of vodka 7-up, straight, barely mixed in a paper cup. I was smiling silly as I brushed my teeth and waved goodnight to Khalid. I crisscrossed my way to the bus stop and counted the amused knowing smiles of passersby. I waited for a taxi. I wished a private taxi would pick me up before I wore off my high. And just like a manipulative scene from the Ocean's 11 franchise a private taxi pulls up in front of me almost immediately.

10 minutes and 10 riyals later I'm standing outside Qube trying to figure out the new entrance. Enter through the hotel lobby, a voice from somewhere. I started to walk and caught a glimpse of another lost patron; told him to join me. Tall, chubby, buttoned-up Lebanese picked up my pace and handed me a Red. Thanks, but no. I took out my Lights and as I lit, I saw a tattoo on his arm--a sorry little "F". Nice tattoo, must stand for your name, huh? He misunderstood because he said it means 'I love my mother'. He moved closer and there it was, just below the "F", a faint line of Arabic script. When we got to security check, I unbuttoned F's shirt, told him to loosen up and wished him luck with the girls.

Johanna's troops weren't around yet so I decided to sustain tipsy, headed to the bar and had a beer in less than five minutes. Lights flashed and my smile widened. Who said I was lonely? No one could tell. The girls arrived, I counted four and I greeted happy birthday to two before I got the right one. Dance was their plan and with inhibition fading with each burp, I gladly strutted with them. We danced like a tribe, their big bags--in the middle of our circle--our bonfire. Almost an hour on the dance floor before the girls got drinks. They tabled me like a gigolo and gave me a beer, I'm losing it with each sip.

After another bottle of beer I was already laughing for no reason. Destination: dance floor, again, but I needed more fuel. I went to the bar and asked for Corona Extra. Loud music. Corona Extra. The bartender mouthed some words to confirm my drink. I said yes. I ended up with a big glass of vodka, some other alcohol and cola. Sweet! Back to the girls and go crazy.

Men from all over the world have already invaded my tribe and the girls kept chanting, brushing them off, the men got all the more challenged. This is where I come in, the reason why they asked me to go out with them in the first place--to protect them from men who won't leave Qube without pussy. Instead of pushing them out of our circle, I sexy-danced with each man who tried to score with my girls. They danced with me for a few seconds then moved away and decided to stalk another group instead. Lovely tactic, and everyone in my tribe is safe and happy. Everyone.

Lights on at 2:30 AM. The girls have left a little earlier. I barely made it to a cab, cursed every roundabout on the way home. Puke was threatening with each step to my room. I made it. Stripped, resigned to the spinning room, slept.

I woke up at 4PM, fresh, without the smell of alcohol (the wonders of vodka) and just minor cigarette stench. But I limped all the way to the bathroom. I probably tore a tendon from all the grinding, I didn't feel it while dancing under the influence.

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Out of Type

Sometimes I tend to box a person into a certain character. Once in a while, a never-before-seen trait jumps out of that box and it's either pleasant or disgusting, but it's always a surprise.

Like how Mustafa insisted that I let him drive me to Villagio even if it's far and out of the way. I was ready to wait in the sunset and spend 15 QRs on a taxi fare when Mustafa saw me near the office. He told me to get in the car without even asking where I'm headed, which made him either genuinely generous or downright stupid. He didn't flinch when I told him I'm going to the mall--the far one--but I think I felt that we both braced ourselves for a long uncomfortable ride. The trip wasn't bad. The conversation we had was trivial but it wasn't forced.

He was leaving that evening for Saudi Arabia for a sort of pilgrimage. He may be an ass sometimes but you got to give him props for being religious. I was mildly interested with the topic and found that I had enough questions for him until we reached Villagio. At the entrance, and in between religious discussion, he asked me which gate I wanted to be dropped off, without blinking I told him "Virgin". He smiled as if he smelt instead of heard the word.

As I got off the car I thanked Mustafa and told him that his driving greatly improved from life-threatening to minor-injury levels. I wasn't kidding either because it was the first time I sincerely felt comfortable with him as the driver. He said it was his pleasure, and it felt like he sincerely meant it too.

Meanwhile, I've discovered something dangerous about Edmar's character. I thought he's just annoying sometimes with his brand of 'small talk' that blindsides you just when you were thinking how lovely your day was going. I do try to ignore that, err him, and I can live with it no matter how hard he tries to magnify the mundane into a catastrophic problem (ie no sleep = cancer, too short haircut = chemo therapy).

But to make up stories about people? I think he has crossed the line from boredom to insanity. He told me that Mustafa and Hosam, had a brawl in their room one evening. My journalist instincts started to ask him questions, and while he couldn't answer most of my questions to save his story from the trash--how he saw it, who told him about it, etc.--I still believed it enough to be worthy of tabloid space.

So I told the same story to Khalid and he told me that Edmar had told him the story already but claimed that it was only a joke, something he made up. Two things bothered me: 1. Why didn't Edmar retract the story when he told it to me, and 2. Why would he cook up something like that in the first place?

He knows that Mustafa and Hosam are two figures in the office who are least liked. Pitting them against each other would make an interesting fight on MTV's Celebrity Deathmatch. Still, a 27-year-old guy doesn't make up such bogus story in a supposedly formal office setting. Unless, he has an agenda. Could it be that he only wants me to smile? Could it be that he wants me to react and quote me on that for the Egyptians?

His motive is still vague. For all I know, he might be bored. But like I said, maybe he has crossed that line already. He does have a history of drug use and who knows how far gone his brain cells are now.

It's surprising how you discover more and more about a person even after several long months of being around them. I wonder if I also surprise them, too. I'm sure some readers have been surprised about my posts or comments in this blog.

Maybe it's too soon to put a person in a box. You never really know a person until you really know him. What I hear, see, and read about a person is only what he wants to reveal about himself. But what I should be in the lookout for are those unguarded moments when more good or bad traits spring out of the character. Nobody's perfect, but it does make a person interesting. I'm writing about two guys, and you're reading about them. Yep, interesting enough even when they're acting out of type.

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Indian Invasion

Two cups of yogurt. Creamy, almost sour and cold. Layered with preserved blueberry and good bacteria. A minute of happiness when I eat it and 24 hours later, 30 seconds of blissful bowel movement. Two cups of yogurt were waiting for me inside a locked refrigerator to which only I held the key. Right after the Indian school dismissed their noisy students, I rushed to the peace and quiet of the second floor, unlocked the ref, peered inside, and found a light bulb and lots of chilled air.

I stood there and wondered what kind of monster devoured my precious. How am I supposed to defecate now? I looked at the bin and sure enough, the yogurt cups were there, along with my two cans of Pepsi Max and a bottle of milk all empty, cheap stuff I put in the ref to save me from a five-minute marathon to the store. I narrowed my suspects to the Indian school students (and / or teachers). The only other people who have access to the ref are Khalid and Edmar. It couldn't have been Khalid because our friendship has reached charity level. And Edmar doesn't like yogurt.

A quick experiment proved that the ref lock was as tight as Paris Hilton's vagina. Anything that fit in it did the trick. And those rowdy students could have done it on a dare.

This isn't the first time that Indians made their presence felt. I get my laundry done at the shop next door. Kala wrote about her experience with Indian laundry shops so I was already expecting their 'system' which is basically: dump your clothes and come back a day after tomorrow. No listing, no counting, no weighing. Just your name so they can bill you correctly. The rest of the business is put to good faith (and a couple misplaced socks every now and then). What I didn't expect though was that they'd label my clothes, not with my name, but with the name of the guy who handled my laundry. My wardrobe is now owned by a certain "VAN".

I can see it now, me spending extra time in the can because some Indian guy ate my ticket to a satisfying dump. So I sit there, longer than usual, staring at the seam of my pants and figuring out if Van is short for Vanesh, or Vanij, or Vanadev or Vanamalin.

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Forget Her

I wasn't sure if it was a full moon already. The park seemed aglow in florescent light, almost like dawn in fact, quite unusual for a place that's notorious for its dark corners. I glanced at the moon to be certain. It's not a perfect circle, its halo also premature. Still it was fine enough for a walk along Corniche--an escape disguised as an exercise. I found a spot and decided to master the lyrics to a new fascination: Jeff Buckley's "Forget Her". His voice is like no other. Too bad he's singing with angels now. I sat there watching the faint waves of the sea, singing in a concert in my head but A capella to the world. I wondered who broke Jeff's heart when he wrote the song. Now that he's gone, I'll never know. But for me, the lady in question is none other than Qatar.

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Forget Her by Jeff Buckley

While this town is busy sleeping
all the noise has died away
i walk the streets to stop my weeping
‘cause she'll never change her ways

Don't fool yourself
she was heartache from the moment that you met her
my heart feels so still
as i try to find the will to forget her somehow
oh i think i've forgotten her now

Her love is a rose pale and dying
dropping her petals and men unknown
all full of wine the world before her
was sober with no place to go

Don't fool yourself
she was heartache from the moment that you met her
my heart is frozen still
cause i try to find the will to forget her somehow
she's somewhere out there now

Oh my tears are falling down as i try to forget
her love was a joke from the day that we met
all of the words all of the men
all of my pain when i think back to when
remember her hair as it shone in the sun
the smell of the bed when i knew what she'd done
tell yourself over and over you wont ever need her again

I have to be honest. As my Qatar anniversary approaches, I'm more confused than ever. After my vacation, I don't know whether I should come back or move on. Maybe I'm just "fooling myself" into thinking that I like it here. But maybe I do like it here. I think I do like it here. Maybe I don't want to go through another adjustment period. There are so many things to consider, all pointing to a way out. The only thing holding me back is of a selfish nature--I'm holding on to the familiar, the expected, the routine. A year is quite short to be starting all over again. Should I really forget her?

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This Season at the Office

The cliffhanger (if there was any) for last summer's run of the office left my cult following at the edge of their rotating computer chairs. OK, sue me if I'm hyping my office like a TV series but I can't help it. And besides, things are heating up, ironically enough, just when the first mild chills of winter are in the air. Summer saw the entry of Edmar into the office. He provided the comic relief as Khalid and I stood our ground against the resident villain Mustafa. The season ended with Khalid flying off to Sudan, still uncertain of his return, while I was left to confront the newbie Hosam in an all out cubicle war.

This season, expect more twists: Edmar's character evolves and becomes more shady. He starts to befriend the dark side. Is he spying for the force? Is he a confidant of the villains? Or is he a bored freak who wants to see if we blend when he presses the pulse button?

Khalid returns this season. A bit of a spoiler since I already mentioned him in a previous post, and already, he and Mustafa are at it again. With Hosam and three other new Mustafa recruits strengthening the Egyptian team, it will be interesting to see whose dick has the most piss.

Office relationships will be stirred as Khalid will question Edmar's loyalty to the force, the boss will doubt which people are loyal to him, and a new Filipina secretary will be the object of desire for some of the men or man or Edmar.

Meanwhile, a new Indian driver, whose name is too hard to pronounce or spell, will provide the brief moments of laughter ie: "When wife and Edmar fight in street and mobile hit the head up and I am tension".

For subplots, Edmar's wife is four months pregnant, the Indian classes resume, and I'm down to my last 4 Gigs of hard disk space.

As for me, I will have a minor role, one that will focus on a new sideline. But I'm telling you now, even with that small role this season, I will set the cliffhanger as the series closes--will I stay or will I go?

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Riding with Strangers

A few weeks ago, I started to ride the bus. I avoided it for good enough reasons--I didn't know the routes and it didn't look comfortable since it was full most of the time. But my cash was depleting faster than the ozone layer so I swallowed my pride, marched to the long line which pretty much became an informal free-for-all wrestling match on desperate humid nights, and found out that riding Qatar's public transport wasn't as bad as I thought, especially if you have Elton John's Tiny Dancer on loop during the ride.

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It turned out that I can get a bus from the office direct to the end of Corniche, where I frequently go to anyway, and save 12 QRs - just enough for cafe latte at nearby Costa Coffee.

Going home was a risk though. Since I usually go out late at night, there's no way I can get a bus back to the office because the last bus leaves at 11pm. This means I'll have to take the cab, but, for some reason, all Karwa taxis disappear after 2 or 3 am. There's another alternative: private cars that moonlight as cabs. But this is tricky because you never know who's the driver or the pervert.


At around 2:30 am last weekend, a guy, probably in his late 40s driving an old SUV stopped beside me and asked if he could give me a lift somewhere. Pervert, I thought. I was certain about this because his longing eyes were short of a wink to be officially flirtatious, more so because it was his second time to stop and I pretended I didn't see him the first time that he did.

But I looked at the time and I knew this was my chance to go home. I asked him how much he'll charge me for the fare just to make sure he understood that I needed a ride and not an orgasm. He laughed it off and told me it's free.

"Where are you from?" he asked "Philippines," I said "and you?"

"Lebanon."

"I've recently found out that pure Lebanese people are Catholic, is that true?"

He made the sign of the cross and smiled "Well, 50% of pure Lebanese, probably. What's your job?"

"I'm a secretary. You?"

"An engineer."

"I thought so. Engineers have a way of dressing up. Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot to ask your name. I'm Jake," I lied.

"I'm Basil," he probably lied.

After a few roundabouts, the conversation became interesting and sensible. Small talk about family, work and fate. Small talk but talk nonetheless. And how I missed talking.

When we were near my office, I told him if there's anything I can do to repay him. I was hinting at shawarma or cold drinks beside the office, anything to keep the good company and conversation longer. He said no as he would hope that somebody would give him a free ride in the future should the need arise. Good man. Great heart. And he believes in Karma, too.

I asked him to stop a block away from the office. I told him thank you again and found myself stalling as I put on my headphones, all the while looking at him, this time with my longing eyes, to which he softly replied: You're welcome, good luck on your journey. Now you might wanna get out now so I can go home. (And that's why I believe in Karma).

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Monobully

When I'm on the road or at a coffee shop I sometimes check on my Yahoo! Mail account using my mobile phone (since I'm poor and can't afford a laptop). Anyway, last week, I saw an ad on the newspaper about QTel offering premium services for Yahoo! and Gmail starting at QR50. I didn't understand what the fuss was all about since Yahoo! and Gmail emails are free. That was until I tried to check my email two days ago. To my surprise, Yahoo! Mail and Yahoo! Messenger won't open.

The price of monopoly. It seems that QTel and its newly-launched Mozaic mobile internet service blocked access to these email giants in order to cash in on a service that's supposed to be free! And this is on top of the charges you get from opening these web pages on your mobile. Unbelievable.

The same is true for the taxi service. One ride could cost you up to QR20, almost equivalent to a car's full tank.

If this happened in the Philippines, expect to see mass demonstrations throughout the country the next day, or at least a flood of txt protests. But in rich Doha, the locals couldn't care less. What's another QR50 for the affluent anyway? Most of them have cars anyway. The underpaid expat is the one affected.

I can hear them say, 'then go home you silly expat, we don't need you here'. But I think they do. Who else would run out of the shops to get their orders when they honk? Who else would wash their clothes, making sure to separate the whites from the blacks? Who else would water the pathetic grass to make this place look less like a desert? Who else would answer their homework and take home exams? Who else would pour cement on their walls or detail their cars or pave their roads so they can effortlessly crash their cars?

That's right. Think about it. Without me, life will still go on for them because they are rich. But at least without me, that's one less customer for QTel.

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Bitch in Heat

Today was a good day to kill someone. After the adrenaline rush in my last post, I thought I was ready to write something light. But this morning, I was faced with yet another pisser that goes by the name Hossam. He confirmed for me, that a pile of shit with a necktie is simply a gift-wrapped turd.

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I proceeded with my day as usual, although I was already a bit on the edge because I wasn't able to sleep the whole night on account that I walked from Costa Coffee to the office which was a good two hours from 2AM till 4AM. Add my pinoy pal scratching the surface of my crankiness with his usual annoyances. In between that were the boss and Mustafa passing work like they're feeding pulp in a paper mill, expecting me to churn out glossy pieces of A4 from the stinking crap they come up with. By noon, I was ready to explode.

Hossam is a newbie to the office. Three weeks old but already a hotshot since he is Mustafa's best buddy. Hossam and I never really got along well. He has issues and they extended to me.

For some reason, I feel that he hates my guts. I don't mind, you can't expect everybody to like you. And he's the last person I'd want to be friends with anyway. As long as we kept to ourselves though, there wouldn't be any problems. But this morning, Hossam decided to cross the line, invade my space and claim it as his own.

Here's the scenario: I was busy working when Hossam barged inside my office and asked, and not in a nice way, for some letterheads. I proceeded to print five. At the table in front of me, my officemate Abdalla asked for help on his computer so I went there, leaving my post empty while Hossam waited for the printing to finish. After a while, Hossam started tinkering with my PC without even asking for my permission. He was unaware that I was already giving him the WTF look. He then left the room. A little bit later, he was back again, and said that he needed eight more letterheads so he used my computer, without asking me again and that was the time when I snapped, calmly.

"Hossam. Please do NOT use my computer without asking permission," I said slowly so he would understand simple English. His arrogant reply got me trembling so bad I wanted to punch him in the face the way Shia LeBouf's character in Disturbia punched that Spanish teacher. "This is not your computer, this is the office's computer, this is not only for you, this is for everybody."

What. The. Fuck. Is he sick? Obviously, the concept of privacy is lost in this dimwit. So I told him and not so calmly this time, "Hossam, is it so hard to ask permission? I don't go to your computer and use it at whim! I'm not forbidding you to use my computer, all you need to do is ask, I'm right here in front of you!"

"Hey, the boss asked me to do something. This is for the boss I'm doing, if you have a problem, talk to him!" was his reply. "Oh, I definitely will!" I said. And that was the end of our spat.

I think I don't need to tell you how I almost unplugged the computer, bring it to Hossam's table, and throw it on his head. I talked to the boss though and told him that one of his golden boys was stinking the office with foul behavior.

Hossam and Mustafa always seem to get props from the boss. In fact, when I told the boss how a piss-off his favorite rookie was, I hinted that he tried to defend the twat by saying that he "did ask Hossam to do some things for him," to which I replied "But that doesn't give him any right to use my PC without my go signal because we both know what kind of sensitive information we have in there," then I gave him the wink wink and I'm not referring to my porn collection either. The boss has emails that only the two of us know of. "Please teach your boys some manners to go with their suit and tie," I told the boss and left his office. God knows what the boss said to Hossam after I left, but I bet it's something short of dealing with a naughty baby--there there now, don't be naughty again next time or papa will get angry, OK?

For the Nth time, I don't really care about office politics and these guys simply don't get it that I don't want their jobs nor have I aspirations like them to become a boss. I just want my peace and quiet and a little respect (how pink is that?).

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Care For...

"Would you like to join me to care for?" Khalid asked me as I was filling up my bottle from the office water dispenser. I stopped half-full, puzzled by the question. "Care for what, Khalid?" I asked. I eventually found out that he wanted to go to Carrefour (karfur/karifor French for 'crossroads' ), the hypermarket at the mall. He needed to buy some things because he had reached his own crossroads and had decided to leave Qatar.

Like me, and most foreign workers in Doha, Khalid is fed up of promises that were never kept. Lured by the prospect of good pay and a secure job, we gave up a big part of our lives in order to help keep another country's economy running smoothly only to find out later that it's not worth it. Throw in nasty office politics and it completes the disillusionment.

During his last few weeks in the office, Khalid mastered the art of ranting as he spoke of the scheming others and how they're `taking over the office'--conspiracy theories that are slowly becoming real. When the thing that keeps you hanging on to a job is your concern for your boss, the last thing you need is a fit of jealousy. So when it was obvious to Khalid (and to everyone else) that Mustafa is the boss' golden boy, he decided that it was probably time to go home to Sudan.

Personally, I don't care about the office anymore and how these people are running the show. I've had my moment under the spotlight. I got my increase but they also tripled my work load so I'm basically the same overworked, underpaid expat. I've accepted my fate and I am patiently waiting for my contract to end so I can move on. I keep in mind that at least I'm better off now than my first six months here.

But ask Khalid and he'll tell you that he can't wait any longer. The sooner he's out, the more intact his pride is when he goes home. This office can take away his job and his salary but it cannot take away his pride.

I never got to join him at Carrefour, but I did see the things he bought. A new suit, shoes, and watch. And for the family, a blender (wtf?!) and a flat screen LCD TV. He needed to look like he didn't make a mistake working in Qatar. Dignity seems to count a lot in his country.






















The day before Khalid left, Edmar and I invited him to a Filipino restaurant. Had it been another officemate leaving (particularly those who hail from the land of pyramids), the boss would've taken the staff to a lunch buffet. But last Sunday, it was only the three of us. As it turns out, the two people I make fun of in my blog sometimes; the same two people who annoy me sometimes--are the same two people in the office whom I truly care for.

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Brain Rape

In the dream, I was headed to a video shoot. I knew it was a dream right away because how on earth would I be carrying Angel Locsin, playing the part of an angel with cheap crepe paper wings, while she, supposedly, tried to save Richard Guttierez from an inevitable career plunge? I was certain that it was a dream because I was carrying Angel but at the same time I was operating the camera and going for a crane shot--how else can I be in two places at once? I played along because dreams are not real anyway. Not unless it becomes too familiar; then you know it's time to wake up.

The shoot ended in a wrap party. Every one of my friends were there. I was so happy. So ecstatic, in fact,that even if they closed me off from the party in some producer's house, I walked home alone but literally jumping for joy. I realized later when I woke up that I dreamt this part because of a recent comment I made in Gypy's blog about having a job you love.

Then, as I was walking gleefully along the dark streets of Qatar (my only clue were the lightning fast cars on the road), a car chase straight from Grand Theft Auto ensued. Up ahead, an SUV flattened a dozen lamp posts before it crashed on an island.

The driver, dressed in black, got out of the vehicle and walked towards my direction. I sensed his ill intentions so I hid behind a palm tree that obviously only covered half my body. The guy in black approached me and pointed a gun at me (this is what I get from watching Zodiac the other night). I only got to plead twice before he shot me on my chest. I got angry and promised that I won't let him get away with it.

To my surprise, he chopped my head off and put it in a box then he went to a cargo truck which was loaded with the same box he was carrying. I followed him in spirit, meaning to scare him off with my ghost. When I tried to reach for him I found out that I wasn't following him as a spirit at all but as a headless body!

That was the time I woke up. With a smile. And the first relevant thing I saw was a pile of textbooks on my bedside table. Some Qatari student had asked me to do his research work. Although he's paying for it, I still can't help but feel a bit brain raped.

The metaphor was too clear to be dismissed. Believe me, there's a thin line between dreams and reality.

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Lost in Tarjama: Arabic for the Pinoy

As with any new language or dialect, the hardest part in learning it is not the new characters or letters, it's keeping a straight face when your teacher says a new word but translates to something bad or funny in your native tongue.

Like our ancient Baybayin, the Arabic alphabet reads like the alibata or the Tagalog abakada. There is no link between Arabic and Baybayin or Tagalog but coming from this language, it was easier for me to understand the concept.

The Arabic language does not have vowels in the standard alphabet which consists of 28 consonants. Words are formed as you would imagine an SMS message devoid of vowels to maximize the alloted space. For example the Arabic word for "girl" is BINT but since they don't spell out vowels it is only written in Arabic as BNT or بنت. It's confusing because the beginner might read the text as BaNaTa so to aid the student in sounding off the word correctly, vowels, in the form of orthographic signs, are placed on top of the consonants.

The Arabic language can sound scary to the uninformed ear but once you get used to it and open your mind and listen to native speakers, you'll find that it is beautiful and quite easy to learn.

One thing I had to remember early on was that the Arabic alphabet does not have a letter "P". I noticed this when I first arrived in Doha because my boss can't seem to decide whether to call me Jaffy or Javvy. He simply cannot pronounce the letter "P". In place of this, the "B" is sounded off thus, pen becomes 'ben' and paper becomes 'baber' and "Jap, please pass the pen and paper" becomes "blah". Check out how my nickname is spelled out in this particular thread at Qatar Living where Arab speakers even type "b" instead of "p" making my handle sound like a kung fu move.

And so I started learning the alif, ba, ta, tha, etc. I can say that I've mastered 80% of the Arabic alphabet (reading, writing and sounding off), with the exception of a few letters that demanded glottal stops a'la Regina Spektor or what the judges in American Idol term as vocal gymnastics. The ع ('ayn ), for example, looks deceivingly easy to pronounce basing on the guide but in reality resonates like somebody choking from between your legs.

To learn several letters quickly and be familiar with some words, my mu'allim taught me some words that were simple enough to write and read and remember. Other words though are unforgettable because of the inevitable crossover of languages. It's good if two words from different languages are almost the same in sound and in meaning, like bantaloon=pantalon (trousers), but what if it's something dirty?

I almost laughed at my mu'allim's face with a generous serving of spit when he gave me the word for the day. "Today, I'm going to give you a word that is very important to Qatar, it means 'pearl'," my guru said, writing the word in Arabic on a piece of paper. "Now repeat after me," he said. "Lu'-lu'". I almost died of stifling one of the best laughs of the year! "Lu'lu'" mu'allim said again because I have stayed quiet for a few seconds. With lips quivering, I repeated a fast "lu'lu'". (For those who don't get why I found Lu'lu' funny: Lu'lu' means masturbate in my Ilonggo dialect).

I thought the worst was over. "Now what if you say "the pearl"?" mu'allim asked. "Al Lu'lu'?" I guessed. "No, it's lu'lu'-ah. Again, lu'lu'-ah." (now he's just commanding me to masturbate him). I wanted to share to him this funny coincidence but I figured he might get offended since a lot of Muslims treat their language as Holy so I decided to keep it to myself...but share it to the world.

I'm now reviewing the Arabic alphabet and will be having my exams soon. Next month we'll probably be doing grammar and more words.





It's back to pre-school for me. Meet my classmate.

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Emergency Bonding Night

Mustafa, concerned of Edmar's condition, sped through the highway at 11:30PM. What should've been a five-minute drive to the hospital took forever because he kept missing the exit and we had to go all the way back and try Mustafa's sense of direction again. He blazed past speeding cars while Khalid, Ehab and I mentally wrote our last will and testament at the back seat. Finally, our novice driver got the turn right and I've never been so relieved to see the blinking lights of an ambulance parked outside the Emergency entrance of the hospital. We arrived safe albeit shaken.

Tonight was indeed the most unlikely of nights. Five guys—working and living in one office complex—who never really got along together, found themselves cramped and sweating in a car just so they can save Edmar, who was exaggerating a case of high fever (straight men can be the biggest babies).

We all got out of the car and marched slowly towards the Emergency hall. It was a busy night for the hospital. We went past several ambulances with medics unloading stretchers and bodies in temporary life support, and past teens with their loud mouths and car-accident injuries. We were all amazed with what we were seeing while Edmar made baby steps behind us. Before we entered the hall, Mustafa stopped Edmar and told him discreetly, "Rashid, you have to act sick, don't look too normal," and like a good actor on cue, Edmar trembled as we watched a guy, bleeding on a wheelchair, roll by us.

Mustafa accompanied Edmar in the waiting area. And we waited. For two hours. The rest of us waited at the lounge where we entertained ourselves with the different people that came in and out of the automatic sliding doors. At one point, out of either boredom or stupidity, Khalid asked whether the sliding doors are magnetic.

I was busy counting morbidly obese Qataris (who were probably getting insulin shots in the middle of the night) limping their way to the Emergency room when Edmar called on my mobile. "Pare, tagal dumating ng doctor. Pahingi naman ng tubig o."

After asking for directions from a Pinoy nurse who was trying to disguise his Ilonggo with awkward Tagalog, I made my way through the long empty hallways of Hamad Hospital in search for bottled water. On the way back, I thought about the public hospitals back in the Philippines. I missed buying from the street vendors because they always set up their stalls at the most convenient spots and these were never more than a few steps from the main entrance. I missed having to walk through hospital hallways and see patients instead of emptiness because then you could have casual conversation along the way like: "Lola, how is your TB?" or "Pare, did you get that gunshot wound from a riot or a stake-out?" or "hey, can I write my name on your cast?". I also missed the nurses who were always ready to give their diagnosis thus the cue for the doctor gets shorter and shorter.

I finally got back to the waiting area but I didn't see Edmar so I just gave the water to Mustafa then I went out to join Ehab and Khalid who found a nice spot on the freshly spat-upon grass. I handed them drinks and Khalid said something like: "The Sudanese…and the Egyptians (turning to Ehab) are the best doctors in the Middle East." I saw a Pakistani nearby raise his eyebrows. I wanted to throw my candidates in the hat but I could only think of one person: Manny Pacquiao. I couldn't possibly win the payabangan contest. Khalid's men save lives; my guy beats the crap out of Latinos so Khalid's doctors can practice their profession.

Ehab, who looks like a young Sylvester Stallone, was sweating like Rocky. The night was so humid. He revealed that he is a Jackie Chan fan and can't get enough of Rush Hour. He almost drooled on his tie as he enumerated reasons why he adores the action star.

We talked about films for a while and I asked Ehab if there are any good Egyptian comedy films he could recommend. They both delighted themselves in telling me a couple of jokes from a movie of a famous comedian Adel Imam, probably the Mid Eastern Mr. Bean since their jokes included a reenactment of a scene concerning Adel in a zoo, a lion, and an unlocked lion cage.

They both laughed at their own jokes while I laughed at them. I was going to tell them green funnies when Mustafa and Edmar got out of the Emergency room and joined us. Ten patients in two hours with only one doctor.

In no time we're at the back seat again but this time not as quiet as we were when we first arrived. Ehab boldly said that Mustafa is a careless driver. Khalid agreed. Ehab said that everyone else thinks so too. "Why do Qataris drive so fast?" Khalid asked. "Maybe they can't wait to go to heaven," I answered. They all laughed except for Edmar who's officially suffering from tonsillitis.

I guess I finally found out what kind of jokes tickled the Muslim mind.

But the biggest joke of the night was from Qatar. Because for an extremely rich country, it doesn't give a flying f#@$ about the health care department. Much like the Philippines but at least we get to have hallway parties in our hospitals.

We arrived at around 1:30 AM. Edmar felt guilty for bothering us but we all agreed that it's mafe mushkala. After getting inside the building, we disappeared into our own separate rooms. Bonding night is over.

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Tipsy

Six bottles of beer ago, I was shaving and pre-partying with an XL can of beer while listening to Robbie Williams proclaim he's the world's most handsome man. Pre-partying with Rob is highly recommended because his ego is contagious. Five bottles of beer ago, I was waiting in a long line of party goers to Qatar's worst club (but the only one I've been to anyway) Qube--at least the guys behind this bar know that Q is followed with a U...most of the time. Four bottles of beer ago, I was moving from one dark corner of the club to another, trying to get the feel of the place but mostly bumping into sweaty bodies. Three bottles of beer ago, a smile popped up on my face and stayed there. Two bottles of beer ago, my world turned, gravity lost its hold and rays of green laser light beamed for me and only for me and I felt each ray as it touched my skin. One beer ago, I was dancing but mostly bumping my sweaty body into people who have just arrived. Now, I am the universe, and I go to random guys and whisper to their ears magic words that will never be known (the way Brian Kinney must've done to patrons of Babylon), and they smile and we hug and dance and I proclaim 'I am tipsy', as only a drunk guy would admit to.

I went to Qube alone last Thursday and got slightly wasted. I may or may not have gone home with someone. I couldn't remember. But I did remember smiling, all through the night, and that's what's important. The place was crappy but paradise was just a few beers away. After almost a month of harder work, pay-off, no matter how cheap, was necessary.

There is joy when the only thing you think about as you go to bed is the flaming aftertaste of alcohol and you swear never to do it again as the room starts spinning and you fall asleep. I can't wait to go back and be numb again.

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Firewalled Friends

I remember some time ago when I was in Boracay, the topic of working there came up. "Wouldn't it be nice to work in Boracay?" was the thought that went around the group and for a while, I thought about the endless summer on the majestic beach, the glorious sunset each day, and thousands of people from different countries that you will meet. And then, I felt sad. Sure you'll meet a lot of people, but you are bound to go through the feeling of being left behind over and over again as tourists come and go and go and go. Everyone is moving. Nothing is permanent. Friendships are offered, accepted, but never kept. From that time on, I felt the sadness of the locals and those working on the island and how they must guard themselves not to be too involved with the tourists. Any friendship they can offer comes with an imaginary firewall thus, no one gets burned. Here in Qatar, the expat life is quite the same.

I'm the kind of person who is not quick to join groups or organizations overseas. For example, yesterday, I was invited to join an org for Ilonggos. I politely smiled but I doubt if I'll ever attend a meeting. A common dialect is simply not enough reason to group yourselves together. I still believe that one good friend is better than a dozen so-so friends.

Aside from my foster family and officemates here, I only have five friends, some good, some so-so. I've tried my best to further develop my friendships with the so-so friends but it's stuck. I'd like to think that I'm a fairly nice guy to hang around with and some people still answer my messages so I'm thinking that they still like me. But I can never get them to be good friends--the kind you can spend comfortable silence with, or someone who will finish your food for you when you're full, or you can be bitchy with when you need a punching bag, or sing and have him sing the backup vocals, or someone you can laugh with at the corniest of jokes, someone you can use, abuse and love.

Not in Qatar. Here, people stay for only one reason: to work. Without the oil, nobody would ever dare come here. And since most people here are foreigners, you would be apt to keep things temporary. Portable radios, DVD players and laptop computers. Inexpensive furniture, disposable wares, mid-priced cars. Lots of acquaintances, a dozen shallow friendships, and very few good friends. The less attached you are, the less hurt you'll be when people leave. And in this place, they do leave.

I can be unfeeling when I want to; heart hard as stone. I've had my own share of heartaches and it taught me how to build firewalls in an instant. But I don't want to quit. If I meet a friend worth keeping, I keep it. A lot of my friends (from around the globe) can attest to that. Distance is not a factor, time is not a factor. What counts is the love that you put in. And no matter how far apart, or how long you haven't seen each other, you are confident that the friendship has remained strong.

"[There are] no good friends, no bad friends; only people you want to be with.
People who build their houses in your heart." -from "IT" by Stephen King

I have my lumber, nails and hammer. I'll be building my house in your heart, but first, we'll have to do something about that firewall. Now where's that wrecking ball?

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Tied Up and Smothered with Blood and Gore

The lights went out at 9AM. I took a couple of candles from my room, brought it down to my office, lit one up for my boss and the other one I put on my table. By elevenish, we pushed through with the weekly meeting even though it was dim enough to lose Khalid in the dark. From last week's nine attendees our office staff count reached 17. Men in ties. Yes, including me.

By noon, I called up Johana, a self-confessed fag hag, for lunch and coffee. And finally, at the mall, after the blackout at the office, after the surprise population explosion, after a heavy meal at the Filipino restaurant, after a cup of mint mocha, and after engaging in heavy flirtation (bordering into sexual harassment, really) with a Lebanese working in a perfume shop, I went out of the mall, found a van, and got myself sucked.

Bloodsucked, that is. The Red Crescent (it figures why they don't use Red Cross in a Muslim country) was holding a blood donation drive. I have always wanted to donate blood but never had the chance to do so back home. I dragged Johana to the Red Crescent van and convinced her to do it with me. No, not sex but the bloodletting. Good intentions aside, I had hoped that they can classify my blood because I don't know what my blood type is. Unfortunately, they can't do it in their van. I went ahead with the donation anyway and watched as my blood flowed through the narrow tube and slowly filled the blood bag. Somehow I found this relaxing if not mildly erotic.

The next day, I thought I'd mellow down from the halloween motif--orange tie on black shirt--and grabbed an earthy color from the new set of clothes that hung from my disposable cabinet. When my boss saw me, he congratulated me again for finally looking like an executive. I smiled and told him that I'm glad I put a smile on his face, otherwise my 500-riyal shopping spree would have been put to waste. Already, I had supplied the proper tone to my new look--smartass.

It turned out I had every right to be grumpy. The accountant slash registrar slash cashier left the office for a month-long vacation and I was given two out of three of his tasks. They would have given me the registrar job as well if my Arabic was good. Thank God for small miracles.

The task at hand is daunting. The accountant was so old school that he did everything in scribbles on manually-lined graphing paper. I told the boss right away that I'm not up for the job. It's ironic that I hired an accountant to do all the gory stuff for my biz back in Davao while I'm here doing accounting for somebody else's biz.

The effects of multi-tasking are glaring. For one, I haven't attended to my blogging ritual. I also felt a bit of stress. It might be the tie. It might be the bloodletting hangover. It might be the horror of facing numbers. I'm celebrating an early halloween and they're not giving any candies.

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Put a Cam in Our Office and We'll Head to the Emmys

Khalid's idea of private talk is speaking to another person alone in a room and in a thousand decibels. "YOU KNOW, THESE EGYPTIANS ARE REALLY BAD!", Khalid said as soon as he settled in his seat inside my office. After his first sentence, I closed the door so nobody can hear us talk although it was really an act of hope.

For almost an hour, we sat there talking in the dark as Khalid had abruptly interrupted my nightly Youtube session with his nightly rant. I thought of suggesting to him about starting his own blog, but I figured he'd have a hard time spelling "www".

Khalid is the King of randomness. Anybody who has said in his profile that he's the kind of person who can talk about anything under the sun can talk to Khalid. He talks so randomly but strings it together in one breath that you start to erase your caffeine high speculation and confirm your schizophrenia diagnosis on him.

For your consideration, dear members of the Jury, presenting exhibit A: a section of the transcript of our conversation:

K: I hate these people, they are not good, they
are bad. You know, my brother-in-law called me this afternoon and they told him
that I was not around. But I was and they did not tell me.

J: Maybe
they didn't see you around and couldn't leave their desk to find you.

K: But they know that I am around because I went with them to pray to the
mosque. They are bad. I don't trust them. But I met with my brother-in-law
because I need to buy things for my parents. Me, I don't think I will marry
soon. Because women, they are the devil. I cannot be left alone with a woman in
a room because I will do something to her. It is the nature of man. And if you
don't do anything to a woman, she will think you are not a man. But my sister is
going to Sudan for a vacation, I'm going to send my parents something special.
Because you know, parents, they are second to Allah. If you disrespect your
parents, you go to hell. If you disrespect your mother, you go to hell. You
know, the mother, you cannot call her by her name, you have to call her mother.
If you call her by her name, you go to hell. This is because she cared for you
for nine months and after you were born, she fed you with her breasts. For two
years you sucked her breasts. Because a mother's breast is better than any
scientific formula because it is from nature, it's natural. And so, it has to be
for two years. But after two years you have to stop sucking your mom's breast.
This act is called...in English it's called....I can't remember it...

I wanted to suggest "perversion" but because the conversation was
starting to sound wrong and I had become uneasy, I tried to change the subject
back to Mustafa.

J: So, do you still talk to him?

K: These
Egyptians, they are all like that. They are bad. Don't you think?

J: Actually, I think that a person can be good or bad regardless of race.
If a Filipino stole from you, I wouldn't want you to assume that all Filipinos
are thieves. If a Sudanese did a bad thing to me, I'm sure you wouldn't want me
to generalize that all you people are like that. So, I think that race doesn't
play a part as to why he is bad.

K: Yes, I know what you mean.
You are kind, and sincere but you are a romantic. The thing is, it's in their
blood. Ok, goodnight, I have to evacuate.

Khalid left the room hurriedly but by 'evacuate', he really meant "to defecate". Hitting two birds with one shit, as it seems.

The next day (yesterday), we had our first organizational meeting. For the first time since I started work here seven months ago, we found all nine staff members cramped in my boss' office. I was excited since I suggested this bit of exercise. Unfortunately, they weren't going to speak in English just for my sake. I was outnumbered. So I pretended to understand anyway until it was my time to speak.

"I'm just happy that we have this meeting. And I'll be looking forward to this once a week so we can have a chance to air our suggestions and concerns. My only request is that each person should have his own office stationary set, from staplers to notepads. It's essential to make work faster by not running off to another desk just to get punched," I said and noted the nods and smiles everwhere. "That's all," I added feeling proud of myself.

Mustafa spoke last. And although I don't understand Arabic, I got the gist of his little speech. The mere mention of "New Horizon", our rival training center, meant that he was broadcasting his big plans for the future. I almost cursed myself for coming up with that stupid office stationary set request.

I said almost. As I looked around, none of the staff was smiling or nodding his head. I got the people's vote for most adorable officemate, yipee! And right then and there, I decided that in future meetings, I'll give any big idea directly to the boss--to whom it will matter most anyway--and air suggestions that will benefit the team on staff meetings.

Today, our accounts guy told me to get the office stuff from the nextdoor bookshop. Without looking away from the computer monitor, I asked him "now?" And he confirmed. So I told him "ok". Two hours later I'm still online. I guess everything's back to normal and running smoothly.

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On Middlemen: Somewhere in the Middle

Vince and Stuart were dancing to "Spanish Eyes" when Stuart said, "Fancy staying the night?". Vince thought it was expensive knowing that they were in a posh hotel but he decided that they might as well try 'threes' again. Stuart smiled and whispered "cut out the middleman." They then made their way out the crowded ballroom, past the hotel lobby until they reached the grand staircase. Then, they both went up to the hotel room.

The UK version of QaF (special thanks to my mom who sent me the complete 10-episode series) made up for what it lacked in length with heartfelt performance and touching moments. If the scene above seems vague, let's just say that two's a company and three's a crowd, thus, "cutting out the middleman". I've given enough spoilers so that's the farthest I can go. (UK:US, Vince:Michael, Stuart:Brian)

I went through all that trouble to arrive to this point: I'm currently a middleman, the straight kind anyway.

I've officially gotten involved into trading various products and commodities like Liquified Natural Gas, Crude Oil, LPG, MAzut100, Cement, what-have-yous. When my mom first introduced me to this world I was as confused as Ashley Simpson doing the hoedown.

Then we started communicating with my aunt from the US and it turns out that she is also into trading. I couldn't help it, obviously. I know that my boss is always looking for products and I have an aunt who's always looking for buyers. Like pieces of a puzzle falling into place, really.

Eventually, well, more like a day later, I found myself e-mailing people from all parts of the earth and sending information that I only have a vague understanding of. I never knew, for example, that ASWP meant "any safe world port" or that LOI stood for "letter of intent". I'm learning at least two new acronyms a day and so far, most of the alphabet is now covered. My illusion of trading, that it's as simple as buying chocnut from a sari-sari store, started to fade into a more serious reality--the right information in the wrong hands could be very dangerous.

Before all these though, I was already aware that some people think that middlemen are not necessary in any kind of business. Back in college, I had this classmate who felt strongly against job placement agencies that he decided to put up his own Security Guard Agency to help protect the common gardo versoza. He said, that unlike other 'parasite' middlemen, he'll make sure that his agency will not take advantage of the job-seekers. I wonder if he stuck to his strictly 5% cut up to this day.

I sympathize with him in that view, but I also understand that a lot of people won't trust a service worker, especially a security guard, unless he's from a certified agent.

I don't know. As a middleman, I can't say that I am a parasite. Okay, in trading, a middleman gets paid in ridiculously high amounts of moolah but my aunt's contacts wouldn't have known about my boss if I didn't give the extra effort to mention to her that "hey, my boss does oil too". I see it as being the right person at the right time with the right amount of conscience--said amount leaning towards negligible. And don't tell me you would naively say you'll settle for a hundred dollars when they're waving a six-figure commission in front of you.

It's an easy job, this trading thing. You sit in front of a computer, send and receive emails, act as a channel of communication. My aunt says that I can retire early if any one of these deals gets closed. But my boss was quick to say that there will be a lot of inquiries and only one out of a hundred will get signed. I'm 'channeling' three products as of the moment. So far so good, and if not, then there are still 97 chances to go.

Oh, and if you still can't take Vince and Stuart out of your mind and wondered all this time what they did after they went up to the hotel room, highlight for spoilers: they only slept. If you know QaF and want to watch the scene, follow this link, otherwise, don't bother.

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Edmar Is Here

I was trying to be comfortable on my bunk bed while listening to Kat's usual complaints and Van and Derf were exchanging jokes about Sulpicio lines, entertaining Louella and Arnold who resigned to the fact that we picked the wrong ship and decided to be typical Filipinos and laughed at the situation we're all in. After bitching about how awful Sulpicio Lines' ship was and agreeing that we have boarded a ghost ship for there were no passengers except us, we directed our attention to the PA system which, playing in mono, gave life-saving instructions that could be useful in case the rusty ship turned into a submarine; that's if the instructions were clear. Then, the last two Spanish words that survived the history of the shipping industry, "puera visita" blasted three times through the PA system, except that it came out as "pwira bisita, pwira bisita, pwira bisita" (you can tell that at this point, the announcer was proud of himself for speaking in Spanish, if Spanish had a Bisaya influence). We echoed the phrase until we got tired of it. Finally, as we settled in our bunk beds, we took turns reading vandalism from the walls of the cabin. One particular vandal became special to us and will always be remembered. You would, too if you've read it yourself. Written in bold letters, patiently scribbled using a blue point pen up to 72 pt size in what appeared to be Arial with Grunge Scratches, was this confusing declaration: "Edmar Is Here!".

What made it more funny was the fact that earlier on that trip we were convinced that we have boarded a ghost ship. There were only two things possible with "Edmar is Here": one, that Edmar skipped English class quite often, and two, Edmar's ghost was there (or is here, according to Edmar).

Dateline: Doha, Qatar. Edmar is here. Really here. He's the boss' maid's husband. He arrived three months ago and the boss transfered him here in the office for two weeks now, thereby stripping me off of my title as the only Filipino working in the office.

Edmar is the kind of Pinoy you don't want the other races to base their Flip stereotype on. It's not good to judge the book by its cover, but a couple of amateur tattoos can tell you a lot about the person. He hails from the northern part of Luzon. He's the kind of Filipino that Rex Navarette makes fun of in his routine--wer for where, soaf for soap, etc. Although Edmar is a blast to talk to in kanto-level conversations (ie "nakakain na ako ng tao" or "I have eaten a man" -- a statement that can only come from a post-fried brain), I'd avoid speaking to him when other officemates are within earshot for fear of being accused of racism. While it's casual in the Philippines to refer to blacks as negros, Edmar doesn't realize that the term became a #1 hate slur the moment he boarded the plane in NAIA, thus, I panicked when he talked to me in Tagalog but uttered the word "negro" in front of our Sudanese officemates! He doesn't hate the Sudanese, it's just that he doesn't have a filtering system installed.

On his second month, Edmar converted to Islam and has since introduced himself as Rashid to Muslims here in the office. Abandoning Christianity, however, doesn't mean turning your back on infidelity, smoking or thoughts of violence. Being the officeboy prone to abuse involving tea and coffee, Edmar gets to meet everyone working here and has already formed his own (so far accurate) generalizations about our officemates. Not a week goes by that I won't hear him announcing to me that he will punch this guy or bludgeon that guy.

"Jef, sarap sana tumira, ano?" ("Jap, delicious if hit, what?" would be an Edmar translation; formula derived from "Pareho ang numero = The same the number") Edmar said to me the other day, reminiscing his junkie days while he was preparing tea for some guests. Edmar is probably on withdrawal as I write this.

At one point, I actually asked Edmar if he ever boarded a Sulpicio Lines ship. He said no. I was disappointed. But that means the search is still on for the real Edmar. For now, Jap is here.

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Office Policy or Death of Freedom?

Two nights ago, I watched The Devil Wears Prada again and I thanked my angels that I am better off than Emily err Andy (Anne Hathaway). After watching it, I was inspired to write about "Jobs that pay the rent" but it all changed last night when Mustafa, the new recruit a.k.a. manager wannabe approached me and asked the thing that I dreaded most in a 9-5 job (8am-12midnight if you're me): "Jafer, how do you feel about wearing a suit and a tie to work everyday?"

My friends, put your seats back in the upright position and make sure you have your tray tables stowed (Tyler Durden's words out of my mouth), we're in for a bumpy ride.

But first, a little introduction to our new recruit, Mustafa.

Mustafa is from Egypt. He's around 25 years old, tall, good-looking, fit, smart. He calls himself engineer although I doubt if he passed a BAR BOARD (thanks to Yeric for the correction) of some sort. But there is no denying that he is good in his field which is computer (and IT) and he is aggressive, determined, albeit over the top. He dresses like a stockbroker and acts like one too. Cocky, demanding and manipulative (if any of these statements can be grounds for libel, I'm telling you now, my blog is often exaggerated that it borders on fiction).

However, last night wasn't fictitious at all. In all fairness to Mustafa, in the two months that he has been in the office, there were a lot of changes. For one, the clients (i.e. lazy Qatari college students who let other people do their book reports which poor Pinoys like me are more than willing to accommodate) doubled. The IT classes tripled (but then maybe because it's summer), and we got more printers working at the same time.

We should all be happy that he's around. As I've observed though, most of the staff were not happy. I have listened to everyone's qualms about Mustafa. Before the incident last night, I was quite neutral with the Mustafa issue because I was mostly unaffected by his actions. In fact, I admired him for bringing forth change in the office and I figured that my officemates are unhappy because they are simply afraid of change.

"Jafer, how would you feel about wearing a suit and tie to work everyday?" Mustafa said. My smile turned into an expression that said "are you kidding?" and I said, "are you kidding? No!"

Before you slap me with my own words and accuse me that I am afraid of change, let me point out a few reasons why I refuse to wear the Wall Street prescribed outfit to work.

1. I believe in freedom. The littlest policies can spell oppression and the moment somebody imposes their fashion on you then it's a revolution, baby. I am not a glam guy and my taste in clothes may not be runway material but my clothes speak of who I am, it's my personal expression.

2. I don't believe that a suit and a tie will dramatically improve my work. Brains don't come in polyester and cotton.

3. There are proper places where one can wear suits and ties. Were our office involved in trading stocks at the 48th floor of Mustafa Towers, by all means. But if your office address is at Suoq Al Kowari (Al Kowari Market) where your next door neighbors are photocopy centers and a bookshop, you ought to play it smart and get real.

4. Here's a management tip, happy employees mean happy clients (read the bit "On Hiring Experts"). I've already talked to the rest of the guys in the office. They too don't like the idea, they feel that wearing such heavy clothing will not be comfortable and will surely affect their performance.

5. We're in Qatar. It's bad enough that it's a desert here and Mustafa had to rub the heat in by suggesting we all wear winter clothes...in the summer!

6. If he's too concerned about how the employees look, then we should hire fashion models. To hell with talent and degree.

Agree? Suddenly I'm reminded of a scene from The Devil Wears Prada where Andy ranted about her work to Nigel (Stanley Tucci) to which he replied "you're just whining".

To Mustafa's "defense", a snippet of our conversation:

Jap: No, Mustafa, not a chance. You won't make me wear a suit and a tie. (To
those who know me, as early as this line, my lips were already trembling and my
eyes wide opened...it's the coffee).

Mustafa: Yani, (an Arabic
interjection, not the musician) it's a nice thing to wear to the office, yani,
one way we can look presentable.

Jap: Are you saying that I'm not
presentable?!

Mustafa: La, la, la, la, (he's not singing, he's actually
saying "no, no, no, no") yani, you see, we can get big companies to partner with
us if we wear suits and ties, it's one of their requirements.

Jap: Which
company? Fashion TV? I don't see how one can assume that good clothes equal good
service. I don't have to prove my worth by wearing your kind of clothes. I have
been working here for six months now and I have proven that I can do my job
effectively without a tie.

Mustafa: I've been working as a manager
alhamdulilah for ten years (is he kidding me? he must've been 15 then) and yani,
all people look up to somebody with a good appearance.

Jap: (I don't
even know why I continued with this conversation) I am sure they will prefer a
hard-working man over a good-looking one (unless it's Brad Pitt of course).

Mustafa: Yes, but we are professionals and we should dress accordingly,
and we can get more clients this way. Is it too much to ask if getting clients
would mean that you will be getting QR10k later on?

Jap: Ten thousand
riyals? Well, I'll wear a skirt if you want if I'm assured of that salary! But
I'm not getting even half of that amount. Are you saying that you're wearing a
suit because you're getting that much?

Mustafa: La, la, la, la (to the
tune of 10k?) I'm not getting that salary, but we can if we wear a suit and tie.

Jap: (Imagining how ridiculous the conversation was becoming, I decided
to end it) Look, I will not wear it. If for some reason I am not fit for the job
because I don't wear a tie, send me back home.

Mustafa: La, la, la we're
not sending you home, we'll talk about this with the boss. Yani, you can tell
him how you feel about this and we'll ask him his decision.

Jap: Ok.
(Walk out).

Right, bring up the boss card. I am not afraid. I have a speech prepared for the boss, it goes like this:

"A man's wisdom is not measured by the length of his tie. Respect doesn't come
with shoulder pads. Your good actions, values and principles--these are the
things that will earn respect. If you have these, you can walk naked and still
have dignity. But if you've done something bad, you can cover yourself up with
the most expensive clothes but people will still see your shame." Cue background
music. Fade to black.

That is why I am a self-proclaimed scriptwriter. It sounds cheesy but it's true.

I stayed up all night thinking about this damn suit and tie proposition. I am not immersed in my wonderful world of Jap. I know that some of you are thinking that I'm a big baby and I am not fit in the professional world, that I'm not thinking "professionally".

Alright, fair enough. The thing is, it is not even a rule...yet. It was just a suggestion, and that is why I'm airing my sentiments while I still can.

In the end, when the boss decides that I should wear the suit and tie anyway, I will, with a heavy heart, I suppose but I will.

I will wear the suit and tie, but I will choose which color. They will be sorry that they even suggested the attire in the first place. I will contact Kuya Germs and borrow from his wardrobe, I will also wear it all black to signify the death of freedom in the office. Watch out, Mustafa, the bitch is back.

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