In recent weeks we've noticed times when you have no idea you're in a foreign country with a different culture. We've been eating, chatting, shopping - lots of different places, and we may as well be at home for all you notice of being in a foreign country. This might be a good thing, I'm not sure.
There are other times that you most definitely do notice you're in a foreign country (and I don't mean when you're having a meal out and fancy a drink!) One of those "I'm in a very foreign country and just have to roll with it" moments happened when we registered our car at the traffic department.
Maybe I've been insulated by my work sponsors in my other dealings with government bureaucracy, but I haven't really had to deal with processes and people quite like the traffic department before. You know this place is going to be intense based on the number of Arabic speakers who congregate loosely outside the office, bidding to help you with your business inside - for the appropriate payment. Fortunately to date I haven't required one, as my work kind of guides me through these sort of processes.
Once inside the buildings your next encounter with officialdom is the very burly gentlemen in official uniform who checks your documents and provides you with a queue number. I have no idea what their uniform represents (police?) but their whole demeanour is very authoritarian, and they clearly don't take schmick from anybody.
Having joined the queue, you wait. And wait. For pleasant reading there is a news rack with various paperback books. The Koran (in Arabic), a book discussing "The True Life of Jesus" (which is in English) was my choice. This book sets out to discuss the old and new testament and present a case for how the bible is not entirely based on fact. As a compulsive reader of anything - and bored by the wait, this was my choice.
Unlike the usual multi cultural nature of Doha - I'd estimate 70% of the people waiting in the traffic department are males wearing the traditional white robe - a thobe. This draws your attention to the fact "You're not in Kansas any more".
Eventually your number comes up and you find your way along the 80 metre long counter to the right staff member - hopefully before the staff member requests the next number is called (we only had a small argument about that). Of the 30 counters, only 5 are staffed, all with ladies dressed in an Abaya. The lady behind the counter; eyes only on display; looks at your documents, and then throws them back to you "This document must be in Arabic". Fortunately it was the sellers document. How his "fixer" - who he picked up outside the building - didn't know this I have no idea.
So the next day, we repeat the same process, this time sans seller fixer, and with a bank clearance letter in Arabic. Having negotiated an equally scary, equally authoritarian uniformed man we wait for our turn. Another wait, some more reading of "The ture life of Jesus" (sic - yes that was the label on the side of the spine). Another lady dressed in an Abaya calls us over - we hand over insurance documents, transfer documents, bank clearance documents, ID cards, registration card, photocopies of ID cards. Every document is in Arabic. She tells us to sit. We sit. After a further wait, we're presented with a plastic card, with my name on it. I've now paid a significant amount of money and am the proud owner of a plastic card with some Arabic writing on it.
So to summarise, I believe we own a car, but maybe I've just got a specially printed card from a mysterious lady.
There are other times that you most definitely do notice you're in a foreign country (and I don't mean when you're having a meal out and fancy a drink!) One of those "I'm in a very foreign country and just have to roll with it" moments happened when we registered our car at the traffic department.
Maybe I've been insulated by my work sponsors in my other dealings with government bureaucracy, but I haven't really had to deal with processes and people quite like the traffic department before. You know this place is going to be intense based on the number of Arabic speakers who congregate loosely outside the office, bidding to help you with your business inside - for the appropriate payment. Fortunately to date I haven't required one, as my work kind of guides me through these sort of processes.
Once inside the buildings your next encounter with officialdom is the very burly gentlemen in official uniform who checks your documents and provides you with a queue number. I have no idea what their uniform represents (police?) but their whole demeanour is very authoritarian, and they clearly don't take schmick from anybody.
Having joined the queue, you wait. And wait. For pleasant reading there is a news rack with various paperback books. The Koran (in Arabic), a book discussing "The True Life of Jesus" (which is in English) was my choice. This book sets out to discuss the old and new testament and present a case for how the bible is not entirely based on fact. As a compulsive reader of anything - and bored by the wait, this was my choice.
Unlike the usual multi cultural nature of Doha - I'd estimate 70% of the people waiting in the traffic department are males wearing the traditional white robe - a thobe. This draws your attention to the fact "You're not in Kansas any more".
Eventually your number comes up and you find your way along the 80 metre long counter to the right staff member - hopefully before the staff member requests the next number is called (we only had a small argument about that). Of the 30 counters, only 5 are staffed, all with ladies dressed in an Abaya. The lady behind the counter; eyes only on display; looks at your documents, and then throws them back to you "This document must be in Arabic". Fortunately it was the sellers document. How his "fixer" - who he picked up outside the building - didn't know this I have no idea.
So the next day, we repeat the same process, this time sans seller fixer, and with a bank clearance letter in Arabic. Having negotiated an equally scary, equally authoritarian uniformed man we wait for our turn. Another wait, some more reading of "The ture life of Jesus" (sic - yes that was the label on the side of the spine). Another lady dressed in an Abaya calls us over - we hand over insurance documents, transfer documents, bank clearance documents, ID cards, registration card, photocopies of ID cards. Every document is in Arabic. She tells us to sit. We sit. After a further wait, we're presented with a plastic card, with my name on it. I've now paid a significant amount of money and am the proud owner of a plastic card with some Arabic writing on it.
So to summarise, I believe we own a car, but maybe I've just got a specially printed card from a mysterious lady.
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