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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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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Malu Fernandez is Not a Pig

Thanks to my friend Martin who forwarded the email containing the now famous Malu Fernandez article entitled "From Boracay to Greece" (page 30 and page 31 of People Asia Magazine), I am in the mood for some ranting. Quite timely for my NC-17 Rating anyway. But I suppose I should say something, being in the Middle East and all, even if I'm one of the last people to know about this outrage.

Before I actually react to Malu's article, let me say that (even before you point it out to me) I am aware that, like Malu, I have written humorous posts at the expense of others. But, unlike Malu, I am not a paid writer (not even a pro blogger) so I don't answer to an editor or to sponsors.

It is not to say though that I am irresponsible. I have a good idea of what is acceptable and what is not--stick to the truth, avoid generalizations, minimize attacks. And one thing I always remember: when I point out the silliness of people in my posts, I make sure that they don't get to read it.

So what's the difference between this:

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.
-Jap@Like Clockwork Orange (a lousy blog)

and this:

The duty-free shop was overrun with Filipino workers selling cell phones and perfume. Meanwhile, I wanted to slash my wrist at the thought of being trapped in a plane with all of them… On my way back, I had to bravely take the economy flight once more. This time I had already resigned myself to being trapped like a sardine in a sardine can with all these OFWs smelling of AXE and Charlie cologne while my Jo Malone evaporated into thin air.
-Malu Fernandez@People Asia (an International Magazine)

Admit it, the former is funny while the latter is simply insulting. Therefor, I claim my right to rant about Ms Malu Fernandez.

Malu is not a pig. A lot of bloggers and vloggers have called her Ms Piggy or Oink Oink, but I refuse to call her a pig because even though she resembles one, she is still human. The issue here is not why this jet-setting socialite flies economy and cannot afford a much-needed liposuction so she can fit in a sardine-can airplane. The issue here is how she addressed millions of Overseas Filipino Workers (OFWs) and millions more of their families back in the Philippines.

I guess she has her reasons. But I don't get why she should be embarrassed to be trapped in the same space as OFWs. I'd be embarrassed to be trapped in the same space with Paris Hilton wannabes who think that Jo Malone EDTs and a few visa entries stamped on their passports can get them goddess status in Greece.

Before she made an apology, she had the audacity to justify her article:



In the end, Malu Fernandez 'resigned' from her jobs at Manila Standard and People Asia so we're supposed to feel sorry for her.

I actually feel sad for Malu, because no matter how much perfume she sprays on her body, no matter how many designer clothes she buys, and no matter how many air miles she flies around the world, she is still a Filipino--born in a third world country. If she wishes to be of another nationality, maybe we should gladly accept her renouncement of her citizenship.

I just hope that for Malu's sake, fate won't let us share a plane ride because I have a feeling I will accidentally spill hot soup (and the rest of my in-flight dinner) on her face.

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Thanks for Rubbing It In

Tactless people annoy me. Sometimes, this is the downside of friendship--tactlessness. So when my Pinoy pal told me that I'm spending way too much time in front of the computer, I knew he has entered the comfort zone and there's no turning back. He'll forever terrorize me with reality like Boy Abunda's mirror glaring back at me whichever direction I face.

Edmar, our office/tea boy, is fond of pointing out the obvious, only in more exaggerated terms:

I work as a sercretary/media & communications officer/ accountant thus the computer is my best friend. Edmar barged in my office and said "Pare, lagi ka na lang sa computer a!" (Buddy, you're always in front of the computer!). I smiled and said "Yes, that's true". I wish I could barge in in his kitchen and tell him that he's always making tea and coffee.

One time I was in the kitchen talking to Edmar and I stretched. Then, with a ghastly reaction, he alarmingly said "Pare! Ang laki na ng tyan mo!" (Buddy! Your belly is huge!). I smiled and said "Yes, that's true", although I find it unfair that he has the same expression saying that line as how he would react to a natural calamity. I mean, I never come up to him and say "Pare, ang pangit mo!" like it was the apocalypse.

I drink a lot of water and he says "Pare, water therapy tayo ngayon a!"

I wake up early and he says "Pare, ang aga mo naman!" (Buddy, you're early!)

I wake up late and he says "Pare, late ka na nagising a!" (Buddy, you're late!)

I eat late and he says "Pare, mamatay ka na nyan sa gutom!" (Buddy, you'll die of hunger!)

I eat on time and he says "Pare, lalo kang lalaki nyan!" (Buddy, you'll get bigger!)

Man, I'm annoyed but there's nothing I can do. "Pare, na-iirita ka na ata a...at wala kang magawa!"

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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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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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Raise the Alarm

It's 5AM, in the Middle East, a foreign land for you and you're awakened by extremely loud noises, what goes into your head? Still half asleep, I thought of the very images from war-torn countries I frequently see on CNN. Could it be that a tank has just blown up the restaurant outside? The defeaning blare went on. Perhaps it's a large machine gun with bullets the size of Coke cans tearing away rooftops. But there are no people screaming so maybe it's an out-of-control dump truck that keeps on slamming the gigantic steel bins by the sidewalk. At 5:10 AM, it dawned on me, the racket came from a bulldozer/driller digging on hard ground.

Five minutes later, I was already up. I couldn't stand the noise.

The funny thing was I just bought a digital radio alarm clock--the ones that you can program to wake you up with your favorite radio station (QBS 97.5 FM cause it's the only English FM station in Doha--it sucks, but what can you do?) blasting instead of the usual irritating, throw-in-the-bin-if-you-must battery-operated alarm.

That night, I set the alarm for 6:00 AM. The next morning, I realized I didn't need the damned thing that cost me 100QR. Why? Because the owner of the vacant lot right beside our building decided that it's time to start construction...on the day I bought the alarm clock, and an hour before it even did its job.

Six consecutive days now I've been an early bird. I have planned to do so anyway hence the alarm clock. But I also planned to wake up in a nice way with a smile on my face.

The boss is pleased with my early-bird status. Unless I get used to the banging and clanging, I'll be up and about at 5AM, whether I like it or not.

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The Shuffle

Tonight I got out of the office at 9:30. Before, I would've felt guilty leaving my post while the boss is still around. But now, I don't care. The office has been a crazy place since the very start. Its lack of organization or even the simplest system results to disgruntled employees (yes, including me--surprise surprise ey?) who can't wait to get away permanently or temporarily. That's why it was a good decision to walk to a distant cake shop to get sapid sweets while listening to Orange W (for future reference, this is what I'm calling the Walkman phone from now on or better yet, OW). OW was on shuffle mode and it got me thinking, how does shuffle work? What brilliant technology is behind it? Is its randomness an act of fate or simple mathematics? Then, back to reality where our own shuffle in the office has happened yet again.

I've been a victim of the famous iBoss Shuffle a few times and I know how it feels. Without any advance notice he'd just tell me to go to the internet cafe and take the shift there. His employees are just songs on an iPod, play, pause, skip, stop. Tonight though it was somebody else. And I feel sorry for this Nepali guy, our office boy, because he gets shuffled just cause some smart a$5 at the internet cafe needed some detention.

Yep, the office also doubles as a boot camp. Got some staff that needs spanking? Send them to us, free of charge. We'll even send our best office boy in place of your man while he cleans toilets in our office. The shuffle lasts for a week or a month depending on the damage done by said staff. And while the boss thinks he's got it all figured out by taking disciplinary action, we get our schedules disturbed and tasks doubled because we need to "train" the piss-offs.

When I got back to the office, the boss had left and I found the next-door PC guy (guy who works at the computer shop next door) lounging on our side of the court. Two nights straight now I would find him sitting in my comfort zone so I had to ask. "I'm working here now" he said. See? The office's "system" is so random that you never expect what's going to happen next--a secretary goes AWOL, a PC guy gets recruited--and the boss doesn't even bother to explain the turn of events. We figure it out for ourselves.

Then PC guy told me the whole story, from his whole miserable year under PC Boss to how my boss saved his career two days ago by offering him a job here in our office. "So how's your boss as a boss?" he asked me finally. I had a lot to say but didn't. I didn't want to spoil his fantasy job. And besides, my story needs a case of beer and sizzling sisig and PC guy, being Muslim, won't even tolerate a Non-Alcoholic Bud much more a minced pig's head on a hot plate.

"I noticed that you like to read, yani, so what do you like to read in, yani, particular?" PC guy said nodding at the book I was holding. I know where it's headed, he's going to convert me, he wants me to read the Quran instead, I thought. But I'm glad I was holding the right book, one that has a deceivingly friendly title but with an attitude: Love and Other Near Death Experiences. I almost laughed when I showed and read the title to him.

He talked a little bit more but in my mind I already pressed the mute button and spaced out. If the boss can do it, so can I. I watched PC guy's mouth move but there was no sound or maybe I refused to accept any sound. Tonight, it's my shuffle working. Stop, play, pause, skip.

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ONETOTEN: The Ten Cons

It's been going through my head like an incessant house loop: I should move out of here and stop the abuse.

Today, the boss gave me yet another task and I don't know if I should be flattered or frustrated. The task involves, ironically enough, handling money. So before I do a Psycho split and take the money and run, I need to figure out things first.

If I'm really important and trustworthy, then why the small pay? But if I'm expendable then why do I get all the more important tasks?

With my mom positively offering me a job in Hong Kong, the battle between Pros and Cons gets even stiffer. Here then, to make life easier, is my list of Cons for Staying in Qatar.

10 I should move out because I hate sharing my room with two obnoxious (but extremely kind and cutesy friendly anyway) Chinese guys who sleep naked and stink the depressing windowless room with their unwashed butts, while they savor the Kim-chi-like stench of their own breaths to dreamland.

09 I should leave because even though I only have one boss, in reality, I work for a lot of people like my boss' associates, partners, guests, and clients (yes, this is why I sometimes refer to this as an abuse). I work for the immediate family too: wife, brother, kids. But I don't mind working for the family, it's not mandated, it's expected and they've been kind to me so there, don't flame me Lee LoL.

08 There's no point in staying when at the end of the month the Chinese masseur at my boss' health clinic earns more money than I do and that's all he ever has to do—massage some bodies (then he'd happily announce that he got "five ten ten ten" (QR500) as a tip from the Emir).

07 It would only be stupid if I stay because my mom has to send me money just so I can survive here. Can you imagine a guy working abroad and he's the one receiving money when he's supposed to be the one sending it? So in other words, my mom helps pay for my existence here so I can work myself to death.

06 I should take the next flight out because this job does not make use of all my skills and brain.

05 I should quit because I recently categorized my blog and discovered that all posts which were tagged as "work" were also tagged as "rant".

04 I must resign because my business needs me...or as it seems, I need my business.

03 I need to leave because my heart is aching and longing the company of my family, friends and loved one.

02 I have to move on because I'm gaining weight and I'm seeing clouds of depression hovering over me.

01 I should find a happier place and job because the one I have now is turning me into a closet smoker.

The Pros will follow soon, it won't outnumber this list because it will also be a "ONETOTEN" list LoL but we'll see which side is heavier.

But, number one—damn! I was in the closet and now I'm

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Quality vs Quantity

Otherwise known as the 1800 Abs, 300 is a movie that not only shows the battle of Sparta vs Persia but also of Quality vs Quantity—a battle that transcends time and that now exists in almost every office in the world.

I had a long weekend. A minor rebellion on my part because the boss spoiled my once-a-week off with one of his last minute symposium. Just imagine a Friday in Doha—lazy, like the typical Sunday in other places, quiet, save for speakers everywhere blasting once in a while reminding every Muslim that it's Al Juma'a—then all of a sudden, the boss drives me to the office and tells me that in two hours, at least 30 guests will arrive to attend a presentation.

I had to help set up everything from preparing the Powerpoint and moving furniture to preparing snacks and drinks. Not quite the rigorous training of a Spartan warrior but nonetheless a task that demanded every bit of skill I had to offer.

Work claimed my afternoon holiday so before it owned my evening as well, I decided to escape the boss' clutches. Only a handful people showed up, mainly because of short notice. I got my release on the grounds that I don't understand Arabic and the whole presentation would not make sense to me.

I rushed to the mall and watched Letters from Iwo Jima, a film that featured bad Japanese acting, predictable musical scoring and cliché staging of scenes. I normally adore Clint Eastwood but this one is easily not his best. I'm beginning to think that Marty deserved the Oscar after all even though The Departed wasn’t his best work either.

Anyway, I went home (to my boss' house) at around 1AM and was glad to find out that he wasn't home still. The next morning, when I was supposed to go back to the office, I stayed in bed and took the day off, hence the long weekend. In the evening, I went back to the office only to drop off my bag and headed to the mall again to watch 300.

It blew me away—the abs, the texture, splendid cinematography, heart thumping editing and superb yet subtle special effects—it was almost immaculate…until Xerxes showed up. He looked like an S&M drag queen without a wig. RuPaul could easily play the part and with more spunk and pizzazz too! 300 was a bit like Letters from Iwo Jima in the sense that both films narrated the struggles of a small army. The scene where Persian ships docked by the thousands was similar to the invading battleships of the US Navy reaching the shores of Iwo Jima. But that's the only similarity. Iwo Jima bored me a bit, 300 kicked ass, Persian ass.

So essentially, 300 is a battle of Quality vs Quantity. The same battle I face in the office. My boss would get pissed if I sometimes report at 10AM because he expects me to be in as early as eight. I work for 16 hours on most days and it's safe to say that I average at 12 hours a day. He'd get angry if I'm late. He's counting the hours and not the quality of work I put in.

Well he can complain all he wants. As far as I know, and I'm making this a semi-official announcement, my days here in Qatar are numbered. I believe six months is a long enough show of patience and resilience. I don’t aspire to become a millionaire but I only want what is fair. Like Spartans, I have my pride. And it doesn't matter if I lose this battle, what matters is how I fought it.

I'm moving out on May 27th, unless a tasty offer miraculously comes up. I will probably try it out in Hong Kong before going home to Davao. It's still a long way back but my spear is sharp and my shield is strong. Damn right I don't wear armor because I have immaculate abs. OK, I'm dreaming.

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The Aftermath

It would be silly not to move on, but I have to admit, my little misadventure last week has started to turn feelings of hurt into hate.

Last night I felt ill just by being around the office. I had to get out. So I took off, on foot, and an hour later I found myself at the mall, drenched in sweat. I gathered myself in the washroom before retreating to my favorite spot at the coffee shop where the kind people (kabayans) allowed me in, despite the fact that they were already doing the closing ceremonies. They probably noticed my lost-and-confused look so they provided me the sanctuary I needed. The waiter didn’t even bother giving me the menu. He just asked me "the usual?" and to which I nodded in answer before the question even made sense to me. When it did, he was already at the counter mindlessly summoning the espresso factory. I felt glad to have finally found a place that served me "the usual"—a feat that took more than two dozen consecutive cups of White Café Mocha Grande before they labeled me as one of their predictable patrons (the last time I had "the usual" was at Basti's Brew in Davao).

"Bakit ka mag-isa sir?" the waiter who looked like his name was Noel or Nestor or Hernani asked when he served my coffee. Sometimes, people don't know the polite way to say "what a lonely life you have". But he can't corner me. "I'm always alone when I come here," was my lame retort. Noel/Nestor/Hernani excused himself. He probably didn’t want to play bartender to the bummed out drinker.

I sipped my coffee faster than usual. They cut off the music, there was no time to read a book, and as the last customer, I got a lot of "hurry up"-glances from the crew. What a sad night, I thought. I was ready to just sulk in the coffee shop chair and wallow in my misery. I was ready to suffocate with self-pity. I paid 18 Qatar Riyals to do just that. Then, I started to feel impatient. I started to think random things and how I hate being alone in the coffee shop, or how I hate being there in the first place. I went there because I couldn’t stand the office. I couldn’t stand the office because Arabs kept coming in and out. Then just like that, it occurred to me, I hate Arabs.

One Arab man attacked me and he turned me into a racist. They could all be the same underneath the white clothes—all violent, harmful and camera-grabbing men.

I hope this is just a phase. I don't want to be the racist in a place where I'm part of the minority.

I took a taxi home. No surprise, the driver is Indian. It's becoming a habit. I should stop it soon.

I arrived at the office and started writing this post while the Chinese talked loudly to each other. The Chinese shout when they talk, even if they're just millimeters apart. It seems to me that the Chinese either have really bad hearing, have no respect for other's ears, or they simply have cockroaches crawling up their asses that every so often they feel the urge to scream.

Maybe I'm just being overly sensitive. It's because I'm a Filipino. See, even to myself, I'm a racist. It freaks me

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Turn the Other Cheek

I almost thought that Qatar would kill me with boredom. That was until last Thursday, when a pissed off Arab decided to shake me from my humdrum existence and threatened to place me in Doha's most wanted list just for taking pictures of a truckload of furniture.

Since this is my blog, and I am biased to what is generally right for me, I point a finger (not the finger) at my boss for placing me in deep shit.

Early Thursday morning he called me up and told me to proceed to the industrial area for a special assignment. I got there with four other men. I saw my boss already waiting on the parking lot outside a big warehouse. He handed me a digicam and told me to secretly take photos of a truck which was loaded with furniture and clinic equipment.

I only had a vague thought that maybe the owner of this warehouse didn't like the idea of people taking pictures. I started snapping secretly. It was not easy to do since a dozen eyes were trained on me wherever I went. It was just a matter of time when someone would alert the authorities.

I decided to take my last shot. I knelt behind a car and aimed my camera at the license plate of the truck. Click—the blinding flash of light slowly dissolving to reality. I previewed the shot, smiled and was satisfied. My job is done.

I was starting to get up when I saw a big man charge towards me. I have barely stood when he hit my arm, grabbed it, forced the camera out of my hand and pushed me. It was only then I knew the full extent of the secrecy clause.

The assault took less than 10 seconds. All I could afford to mutter was my boss' name. Then I found myself pointing at the man who attacked me. In an instant, my boss was already running towards the man and hitting him like crazy. People from both sides of the team converged on one spot in the parking lot. It was hard to make out who was winning. In my mind I pictured out a cartoon brawl with nothing but clouds of dust and outstretched arms and legs. I just stood there and did nothing, holding my hurt arm like a true wimp.

Finally, the fight subsided and they all went inside the warehouse to settle some things. I waited outside, worried as hell because of my clumsiness. I blamed myself for causing the ruckus. After a few minutes, one of our people came up to me and told me that we should move it right away because the police were on their way to arrest the guy who took the pictures (ie me).

My mind panicked while they drove me to a nearby restaurant to "hide" me. If I were to be given only one phone call, should I call the Philippine embassy or my mom? If I dropped the soap in prison, should I pick it up or let it slip? I was also searching for a word in the midst of all these. The word only made itself known when I finally got my bruised self safely back to the office. The word is unfair.

It is unfair that I'm bruised when I'm overworked and underpaid. It is unfair that I'm placed in a situation that could endanger my life (what if that man decided to pull a trigger instead of a punch?). It is unfair that after all the trouble, what I hear is "I should've fought back!".

And for a while I thought that maybe I should've fought back. Maybe I should've held on to that camera, took a nice square punch on that man's face, stomped on his feet, smashed his head on the car windshield, threw dust on his bleeding forehead, pushed him on the ground, jumped on top of his stomach, ran over him with a car, and took a picture of his deformed face as a souvenir while he bled to death.

But I grew up singing to Kenny Roger's Coward of the County (my Dad's idea of parenting is making me memorize folk songs), the lyrics of which goes something like:

Promise me, son, not to do the things I've done.
Walk away from trouble if you can.
It won't mean you're weak if you turn the other cheek.
I hope you're old enough to understand:
Son, you don't have to fight to be a man.

The Chinese swore they could've defended me with Kung Fu if only they were there. I don't doubt they could. Even the boss fought back. I guess it did him good because he got his camera back with the pictures still on file and he got rid of the police.

I showed my bruise to my boss and he said, not to worry, because he made that man's lips bleed. I should feel better, I suppose. But I'm sure he only did that because he was more concerned about getting his camera back.

My boss asked me the other night why I didn’t fight back. I couldn’t answer him at that time. I just smiled at him and shrugged.

But now I know why I stood still. It may sound like a sissy boy excuse but I don't care. And in one satisfied tone, albeit bruised, here's why I refused to fight back and decided to turn the other cheek: My mom raised me well.

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Hally Pott and Other Chinese Tales

Last night, the somehow new Chinese guy, Yang, called my attention. He wanted to show me some pictures on the Internet. I looked at his monitor because if I refused he would eventually twist my neck anyway and won't stop until my eyeballs were firmly aimed on the screen. He showed me a picture of Yao Ming and asked me if I know the guy, I mean, who doesn't, right? Yao Ming was in mid-air. The basketball that he held touched the ring while his balls found a warm spot on another player's face. Before I knew it, Yang was already pointing at random pictures and asking me if I know "Ren" (Rain) or "Hally Pott" (Harry Potter). I knew it could take forever so I went up to my room and slept, escaping his wrath. Little did I know, the Chinese curse was far from over.

For Being Thoughtful, I Got a Scolding

I woke up with a throbbing headache and a fever. I took Panadol and still went to work because it's payday. Around 10AM, the boss' wife (Chinese, just so you know) arrived. I greeted her with a wide smile because I was excited to hear her praises for a job well done on the restaurant menu she had asked me to lay out. Last night, I thought it would be nice to give the finished menu to her husband (my boss) so she could use it right away. Then, she asked for the menu. My smile turned from genuine-glee to I'm-f*ck#d. I realized that the boss probably forgot to hand her the menu, and it's probably sitting in his car somewhere in the desert, probably at the northern tip of Qatar!

Before I could say "I'm sorry", she already had a head start on a scolding. Mild but still on the totally-pissed level. She let me go with a stern warning. I took another Panadol.

For Being Helpful, I Got an Ultimatum

By noon, more Chinese came. Both the daily ration of Chinese buffet leftovers and the business people guests. I don't eat the food they deliver anymore. Like an expert on mahjong tiles, I already know what the lunchbox holds just by feeling the cover.

Abdul (Chinese, just so you know) asked if he could have some documents printed. I'm always willing to help Abdul because he's kind and generous, that is, if he's not busy and cranky. Today he had a mix of all four adjectives. Anyway, he handed me a flash disk and I told him "you already know that my computer is allergic to flash disks", because for some reason my PC cannot read the g*dd*mn things.

I found a solution for him though. Even if he didn't get to use my computer, I showed him how to print from his station using the network printer.

Glad that was over...(one)...(two)...(three), Not! Soon, the boss called me in to his office where he was just wrapping up a meeting with the Chinese. They all looked at me like they already knew what the boss was going to say. "Is there a problem with your computer?" the big guy asked.

I looked at Abdul because I was certain he had something to do with this, "there isn't a probleh.."
"Change it." the boss snapped.

I tried to argue, but the boss wouldn't let me win, especially not in front of his guests. So I just surrendered. He gave me until the weekend to change the computer to the "best" one in the office. What he really meant was change it to one that does not have a flash-disk allergy.

For Being Friendly, I Got a Youtube-News-WTF-Factor-Worthy Video

Finally, my day was ending with no more troubles. Then the guys (Chinese, just so you know) from the massage clinic arrived: Yang, the somehow new Chinese guy and Wang, the really new Chinese guy.

Wang installed a new chat program on my computer that automatically translates English to Chinese and back again while you chat. Coolness. For the first time since he arrived a month ago, I got to hear Wang's thoughts on soccer, music and more soccer which made me glad that it took him a month before he found a way to bore me. But he's sweet because he said that he is thankful that I became his friend.

And for that, he handed me a VCD, and told me to play it on my computer. Lo and behold, it's Wang's personal photo-video album--set to music, featuring pan flute versions of John Lennon's Imagine and Elton John's Sacrifice, the kind of musical scoring you can only hear in Pinoy porn.

At first I was amused to see myself in one of the photos. But after three minutes, I looked at the time left and gasped when I saw the total running time: 21:31!

Incidentally, and I'm not making this up, I was going through Rotten Tomatoes' Worst of the Worst Movie List, before Wang tortured me, only to find myself watching the most dragging video I have ever seen. Each picture stayed there for 6 seconds before slowly dissolving into another picture. It would help if the pictures were interesting. But most of the pictures were self portraits of the artiste in different downloaded frames (name of source website included on the frame).

It took around five songs (from out of nowhere, one was the theme from "Chariots of Fire") to complete the run of photos in his collection.

It was clear right then and there that I was under the Chinese Ju-on. Or maybe it was Chinese Karma for poking fun at Hally Pott and Ren.

So, as punishment, I sat through the whole 21 minutes and 31 seconds, yawning discreetly, humming through Sacrifice, and crossing my fingers wishing that such day will never happen again.

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WB, Dad, Tyler's Been Looking for You

As if disconnected from YM and signing back again, my dad, whom I haven't seen since New Year 2000, suddenly emails me again after a five-month silence. Everytime my dad comes into view, I could only think of this passage from Fight Club, and boy, isn't Tyler Durden right?!

"This is the first generation of men raised by women. Me, I knew my dad for
about six years, but I don't remember anything. My dad, he starts a new family
in a new town for about every six years. This isn't so much like a family as
it's like he sets up a franchise."

[My dad, in a nutshell. Welcome back, dad. Tyler's been looking for you.]

Exactly a week before graduating from high school, our Christian Living teacher thought it would be nice to write a letter to our parents. Since my mom was in Hong Kong at that time, I had to write one for my dad. I didn't see the point because my dad did not live with us anymore. But I wrote the letter anyway thinking it would be only for God to read. The next day, I was surprised to see my dad at our class' year-end retreat. And when we were instructed to read to our parents the letter we wrote, I knew I was in deep trouble. I only made it past the second sentence, after that, I broke down. My dad ended up reading the letter by himself. I almost felt ashamed I wrote it. He explained to me his side of the story and after that, for the first time in my troubled teen life, everything was clear. Nothing changed between me and my dad after that letter except that I have found respect for him and finally understood his actions. A year later I moved from Bacolod to Davao without him knowing. And three years more, my dad flew to the US without me knowing.

December 31, 1999. I was standing on the vacant lot beside my dad's duplex in a low-class housing community, observing that in the city outskirts, the stars seemed brighter. My dad found me in the dark, and before I could throw the cigarette I was holding, he asked for a light. He puffed and told me to quit smoking already (insert laugh track here). He thanked me for buying two cases of San Miguel Beer. We talked for a bit. He apologized for not being the ideal father for me and my brother. I thought it was the alcohol talking but I told him everything was cool anyway. He hugged me and just like a good TV moment, my two younger half brothers came running toward us and said that we're counting down to the new year in a few minutes. After three days, I flew back to Davao and didn't have the chance to see my father again.

For the past few years my dad has been emailing once in a while, mostly to greet us during birthdays or holidays. He would call once in a while, mostly to give Western Union details, and each telephone conversation would always end with "thank you" and "I love you"-- heartfelt, believe it or not.

But five months ago he stopped communicating with us. And in his recent email he said that he just got his internet connection back, but that does not explain why he hasn't called. I wrote him back and told him that what his almost-thirty-year-old son wanted from him, more than anything, was a father-figure (in terms he would understand, of course). It was quite a long email, a feeling of deja vu while I was writing it. I told him that I am now based in Qatar. I told him updates about my brother. I told him to give me a call, Western Union or no Western Union.

His reply was two lines long with three periods and a question mark. My mention of Qatar did not even seem to matter to him. I gave up analyzing his reply and decided to look on the bright side. At least he's still alive. [I heard his franchise has gone global.]

Basically this entry explains why I love Fight Club. Or maybe I'm just saying that I'm glad I finally heard from my dad. Whichever the reason, I'm still closing this post with another passage from Chuck Palahniuk's debut novel:

The mechanic says, "If you're male and you're Christian and living in America,
your father is your model for God. And if you never know your father, if your
father bails out or dies or is never at home, what do you belive about God?"

I found out that this doesn't apply to American males alone. Whatever, at least He's still alive.

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It Can't Be True, Can It?

"Charlieeeeeeee, candy mountain, Charlie. Chaaaarrrrrrlieeeeeeee," eerie unicorns persuading Charlie, the other unicorn, to go with them to candy mountain. If you haven't seen this popular piece of youtubeness (joyness), watch the video below. But if you're the impatient type, just read the spoiler.




So Charlie went inside Candy Mountain cave, was attacked in the darkness and woke up only to find out that his kidney was stolen. An old urban legend but made especially for kids or for those in need of a good LoL.

I remember a few weeks ago, the Chinese guys in the office dragged my unwilling arse to the dinner table and made me join their happy little picnic of kiwi fruit, mandarin oranges and fake beer--the NA on the label means Non-Alcoholic but until now I don't understand how beer can be NA when it's supposed to be A. It's like decaf coffee. What's the point, right? But wouldn't it be nice if they came up with Non-Deadly cigarettes? Getting off track. Back to the mandarin oranges and fake beer--which I thought was just a drunkard's worst nightmare but turned out to be true. Getting off track again! ARGH!

Fake beer. Can we just talk about this? No? OK. The Chinese guys were so sweet but a bit dumb. They wanted me to join their little picnic but, despite the foreskin, they didn't have enough foresight to see that I'll be OPed in five minutes.

I delighted myself in peeling the kiwi (not the foreskin!) and thought how many brown-skinned fruits were actually green inside. Not too many. Then I focused my attention to Yang. Everyone else was listening intently as he pounded on each Chinese word he spoke. I saw Chinese characters float in front of me and for a while I thought about Rosie O'Donnell. The tale sounded intense and dark. And like Lola Basyang, he ended his mesmerizing tale in a shroud of mystery that left his audience silent for a minute.

"Uhm can someone translate to me, please?" I broke the silence, kiwi in hand.

"It's about this guy," Jimmy, the only Chinese guy around who can speak English, started to explain, "whose kidney was stolen because," he stopped short because I interrupted.

I told him I already know that story. It's an urban legend. It's not real. It's possible it can happen but not under those circumstances. I wanted to explain to them that the story is too complicated for a kidney heist. I wanted to tell them that kidney robbers would not look for victims in bars because chances are, bar-kidneys are drenched in alcohol and they're better off looking at NA places like Qatar. I wanted to convince them that it is so not true but I decided not to burst their bubble and just shut my mouth and ate my kiwi.

Two days ago Lee showed me the Charlie video and afterwards insisted that the urban legend was true because his father told him about the kidneynappers when he was younger. Oh well, anything to keep the kids in the house.

The man-in-the-iced-bathtub-sans-kidney is probably the mother of urban legends. But there's another one that's popular for Filipino overseas workers, especially those working in the Middle East. It's "The Rape of the Clean Shaven Man". It tells the story of a Filipino who went to look for an honest job in the Middle East and was raped by an Arab man in the desert for no reason. The moral of the story? Grow a moustache. The thicker the moustache, the stronger your protection against rape.

It can't be true, can it? And don't tell me that a friend of your friend has first hand experience.

Just to be clear though, why I shave has nothing to do with this urban legend.

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Tag, I'm It

The best revolutions are the ones that are spontaneous, but even those have considerable underground planning.

Freedom is a tricky thing. For me, it came in the form of a plastic ID card. It's ironic, the government has tagged me and they now have me in their database and yet I still feel free. I say that because now, I have the option (and freedom to move around) to find a job that actually fits me and, not to mention, one that would pay me well.

In two days, I will be three months old in Qatar and so far the oracle has yet to be completed.

I am still waiting for other things to happen as promised. I'm giving it a month. If nothing happens then a revolution might strike soon.

I cannot sit here forever (or until November 27, 2007) and be stressed out by some of the most annoying people I have ever met. I am aptly tagged and I am IT. It's my move. My turn to run and catch an elusive Qatari career. It's time for a revolution. But soon. Soon. OUT.

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Seriously Considering Fags Again

If smoking kills, then I propose that smokers be called murderers.

I'm sorry friends. I used to smoke. You all know that right? No, that's not quite accurate. I used to chainsmoke. I stopped cold turkey with no help from you. I don't mind that some of my closest friends still smoke but I would appreciate it if they smoked away from me.

I am so pissed off tonight. I've stopped smoking for more than a year already but tonight I can't help but feel that my abstinence was but a joke.

First, two people I know died. They didn't smoke yet they died because their system gave up on them. It tells me one thing. Smoking doesn't kill you. It's only destiny that kills you. If dear old D says your time's up then you wave goodbye.

Second, tonight, my boss asked me yet again to watch the internet cafe for him. The internet cafe is a dark, dank and dreary place. It's called Active-X internet cafe and so far the locals seem to take the X part literally because all they use the internet for is to surf porn.

Anyway, my boss is Muslim and he hates it when any of his staff smokes. But Active-X welcomes smokers. In fact, 99% of its clientelle are smokers. And with poor ventilation, Active-X doubles as a self-service gas chamber. I find it ridiculous that my boss would forbid me to smoke but would ask me to take a twelve-hour shift in a smoke-filled room. Would somebody please tell him about second hand smoke?!

You can't blame me if I seriously consider smoking fags again. It makes no difference really. You smoke, you die. You don't smoke, you die too. At least you know how you'll die, right?

I try to stay away from it, but what do they do? Shove me in a place where I'm most prone to have a relapse.

I swear, I'm so close to buying a pack of fags and if somebody does so much as to blow one stinking puff of smoke my way, I am going to say f#%k it and light a tasty menthol, American Spirit or not! OUT.

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They're Watching Us

The thing with our office (Al Ustaz Educ. Centre, see pic, click to enlarge) is that our internet connection is hooked up through LAN via the computer shop next door. So while the speed is fast, the internet connection also observes office hours. When the computer shop closes, all of my LimeWire downloads are put on hold. And that is why last night when the PCGuys decided to close early, I watched Richard Linklater's A Scanner Darkly, one of the movies I have previously downloaded.

I have been excited about the movie since I heard about it last year mainly because of the animation (a style called Rotoscope ie A-ha's Take On Me Video where actual film footage is traced over to create an animated effect). It has been done before (like Linklater's Waking Life and even in some Disney movies) but I think it's the first time that big stars were cast in this kind of animation style.

I did not have great expectations for the movie because I had no idea what it was all about. So when the film bluntly gave the storyline in the first sequence I was all ready to be blown away. Drugs in future Los Angeles and in Rotoscope.

I was so glad the movie didn't become a Hollywood cliche, rather it stood its ground and just let the darkly funny narrative flow. It was so sarcastically witty and wildly comic that it's almost hard to tell whether you're supposed to laugh or genuinely feel sorry for the tragic characters.

The actors were so good you could almost forget they're animated. As usual, Keanu Reeves was at his best because his character only required so much from him so there were a lot of "whoas" and "hummms". Robert Downey Jr and Woody Harrelson stole the show for the most part and Winona Ryder stole jewelry. Aw! She needed to work but had to disguise herself in an animated film so people won't recognize her from the wanted posters. Aw! Seriously, I'd say Winona already redeemed herself when she appeared as a flamed actress in Simone and with Darkly, she's off to win our hearts again or the Heart of the Ocean (jewelry again? Aw!). Ok enough Winona jokes.

Before this post turns into a full blown review allow me to change the subject. I only meant to say I watched A Scanner Darkly and I loved it. It made me wonder if the paranoia that the characters displayed in the movie were because of drugs or if close surveillance is bound to happen in the future. Wow, six paragraphs before we got to the topic of the post. Sorry I got carried away with Darkly.

Anyway, in the movie, Keanu Reeves played a cop who monitors junkies Big Brother style with people caught on cam trippin on a new drug called "D". I thought man if this was possible I'm already listing my channels now. Channel Cruise and Holmes. Channel Pitt and Jolie. Channel Oprah, oh wait, she's already on Star World.

The idea of people watching your every move is scary...and perhaps a little kinky (the exhibitionist in me! =) so today I tried to look for GPS thingies and the best one I could get my mouse on (freeware of course) was Google Earth (http://earth.google.com/). It's not a live cam thing so don't run out of the house just yet and wave at the sky. Yes Google Earth shows pictures of the earth from space such that potholes from your street can be seen. It's a cool program and I've already located my places in Bacolod, Davao and Qatar. Aside from viewing an actual map of your locale you also get to see what kind of trash people keep on their rooftops, and yeah it brings nostalgia to the homesick OFW because you get to see your street back home.

I hope someday soon we could get live streams from around the world for free (or if it exists already would somebody please tell me how to do it?) that way we, people who are far from home, will still get to see our neighborhood in action.

Somebody out there is watching us. The junkies of A Scanner Darkly were not just being paranoid.

After pinning locations on Google Earth, I decided to take a quick walk. I stared at the night sky and tried to look for the camera among the stars. The world is so big. How did it become so small? Yes, somebody out there is watching us and He knows the answers to all our questions and He's not battery operated either.

But the answer did not come tonight so I decided to go back inside the office. Just when I was about to get in, the PCGuy from next door called me and asked if I had been downloading stuff from the internet because it was slowing their connection. I stared blankly and said "no". I thought to myself, Oh boy, looks like my LimeWire days are over. He smiled and said "Oh ok. Just as long as you're sure." and jokingly added "I'm watching you." I smiled, went inside and resumed my download for Saw 3. Watch me. OUT.

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Are We Racist?

"Davao is
a melting pot of cultures. "

I've written that line in several scripts and I'm officially taking it back now. Now, it's "Doha is a melting pot of cultures."

Only over a month and already I have met people from all over the world. It's hard to determine if it's a person's cultural background that forms his character or simply the handiwork of his parents like how he was brought up during childhood. But when you get to meet two or three guys coming from the same cultural background and who are not necessarily relatives it is easy to form a stereotype. I don't care, I'm human. And for whatever it's worth, one bad stereotype for Filipinos living in Doha is that they're gay.

I felt the urge to write about this after several funny events that occurred this week, thanks to my good friends, the Chinese from mainland China. One has to stress that they're from mainland China because you don't want to get the Hong Kong Chinese to get offended.

My boss employs around a dozen Chinese men and women. Most of them are above 30 years old so one would think that they're fairly intelligent. Not.

Case Number One: The "Have to Eat" Episode
I took a shift in my boss' internet cafe when the supervisor called in sick. I didn't mind taking the job for a day because I am familiar with how the inet cafe works anyway (remember Ventana?) and I already know the people working there including the Chinese cook Bin Chang. I don't want to explain why they serve Chinese food in an internet cafe so let's move on.
Bin Chang can't speak English. His English vocabulary consists of under 10 words including Hi, Oh and Haha. So when someone orders food from me I have to point at pictures from the menu and show them to Bin Chang so he'd know what to make. Yes, he's pretty smart when it comes to that. But lunchtime came and some people wanted to order. I told Bin Chang to make some tea for a couple of customers and he smiled and motioned something that seemed like "No way, Jose, it's lunchtime and I need to eat. Making tea for customers will take up 2 minutes of my time and I can't afford that delay for my lunch."
Oh my gawd. Is he stupid? If I were the boss I would have fired him already. Jeez. He's not making tea just cause it's his lunch hour. I mean I've heard of unions in the work force but this guy is just being inconsiderate. I think he's just stupid for saying that.

Case Number Two: To Billiard or Not to Billiard
I share a room with two other Chinese men Yang and Chun Yang. Jimmy, our Chinese driver, came to the Education Center the other day and asked me, Yang and Chun Yang to go with him to the internet cafe because the boss apparently told him to move some computer tables upstairs and move the billiard table to make room for the computer tables. Sounds simple? You wish. And by the way, don't bother asking why, aside from serving Chinese food, they have billiard tables upstairs.
The second floor of the internet cafe is divided into two rooms. The billiard hall (that has two pro billiard tables) and the internet room. Basically, what the boss wanted was to move the computer tables to the billiard hall. They took me there for the extra hand. I just lifted whatever they wanted me to lift. I can't join in with their discussion because it's in Chinese (how did you guess?) So when they started taking apart the billiard table, I just said to myself "wow, what a waste." They wanted to destroy the billiard table, take it into bits and pieces so they could move the whole damn thing into the other room. But guess what. When we finished moving it, the boss called and asked for updates. I told him what we have done, I said we moved the billiard table to the next room. He asked how we did it granting that the door is too small for that massive thing. So I said we deconstructed it. And he said "WHAT?!" And I just thought "Oh my gawd the Chinese are in deep shit!". Whoever said three heads are better than one ought to make some exceptions.

Case Number Three: The Early Bird Catches What Exactly?
Last night Jimmy told me I have to wake up early today because I'm joining three other Chinese guys to go to the Criminal Evidence Department to verify our records and for fingerprinting (it's a Qatar ID thing). So I got up promptly today. I'm just following these guys because I'm new here and they should know better right? So we went there early as planned and when we got to the gate the guard told us to come back on Sunday because it's the freakin weekend (Thursdays and Fridays form the weekend in Doha)! Early for nothing because someone didn't stop to think what day it was. Yeah, including me. So I guess it rubs off. Arghhh.

Suffice to say that because of these latest events from the Great Wall, I have to say that the Chinese, well, particularly the ones I'm working with, are dim witted. I know I am wrong. I know that there are probably more smart people in China than there are stupid ones but I'm just talking about the guys in my backyard.

Am I racist then because I formed a stereotype based on what I have personally experienced? Is it only racist when it's a negative stereotype? If I said that the Chinese play Mahjong really well, am I not being racist then?

I'm spending the night at my boss' house because it's the weekend, and so I'm staying in my boss' son's room. Although tonight, I'm not sharing the room with his son, but with this black kid from South of Sudan (a guest). He's extremely black. And my boss' son and daughter freaked out. My boss daughter said she's not racist but the guy's just too black. Could one say that he's not racist and then remark that someone is too black all in one breath?

As I am writing this, the black kid is on the bed behind me. I don't mind being around him. He's black but I don't think it's abnormal. It's just how he is. He probably thinks I'm too pale. Anyway, I guess I'm not really racist, just someone with enough bad luck to be surrounded by stupid people. OUT.

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