3. Hot but not bothered

It’s difficult to believe that this is just the annual hospital awards beano. The venue is massive, shaped like an enormous tent with a high central dome, a stage at one edge and seating for eight hundred people around white linen-draped tables, each seating ten. The VVIPs with gold tickets are in the front two rows of tables, the VIPs slightly further back and the rest take their chances. The whole place is bathed in a silvery light with lasers flashing across the room and stilt dancers, clad in fantastic white glittering costumes, parade around. A dancer in a bubble moves around the tables and the whole scene is reminiscent of a winter wonderland. The temperature outside is thirty-seven degrees Celsius, but inside the air conditioning is working overtime.

We are treated to an amazing light show depicting images of the hospital as it seemingly emerged from the desert and our guide for this is an eagle who appears to be flying with us. Beautiful and extravagantly done, though the ensuing awards are somewhat lacklustre. Maybe such things always are, but it occurred to us that some champagne would have fizzed up the proceedings more than lemonade or mango juice.

Traditional sword dancers bumble around on the stage accompanied by drummers. Swords are being waved about with abandon and not for the first time, it occurs to us that ensuring our necks are well out of the way of such dancing was a judicious plan.

Frothy and superficial with entertainment galore for the glitterati - but where are the ordinary workers? Have they been invited to this extravaganza? Sadly no. A few representatives from the winning teams are hauled onto the stage from their tables at the back of the room. Most of the hospital staff can only dream about attending such an event.

Meanwhile there is day-to-day work to do. And it all seems very normal. There is a chairman, a secretary taking minutes, an agenda and the usual accompanying paperwork. We sit around the boardroom table and the meeting starts. Anarchy could not begin to describe the ensuing scene. Admittedly people stay in their chairs but the dialogue is vivid, people talk across each other, the chairman is completely ineffectual and at one stage I spot the lawyer adjacent to me reading his papers backwards, because they are, not unreasonably, in Arabic.

The problem starts when he quotes from those papers (in English) provoking a vociferous challenge from another Arab. “Read it in Arabic,” he demands, “then we will translate”, the sub-text being that he clearly does not trust his lawyer colleague.

The body language is florid, with hands waving, worry beads jangling and the men constantly fiddling with their headgear. The ghuttra is the long flowing white, or red-and-white chequered, headdress which is held in place by a black aghal or rope ring. There are numerous ways to wear this and the most traditional is in the style of little boys playing shepherds in the school nativity play.

However there are many alternative styles with asymmetric coiling of the ghuttra, with maybe one edge hanging nonchalantly over a shoulder; sometimes the aghal rope is covered by multiple pleats and the men constantly fiddle, in the manner of teenage girls tossing their flowing hair, as they readjust their look.

Overall the look is so uniform that individuality is reached through such variations plus differences in beards and cufflinks. A friend who teaches English to young Qatari men reveals that their conversation revolves around three Cs: cars, camels and cufflinks.

The meeting ends in disarray as everyone simply stands and leaves and the poor Filipina secretary has no idea what to record. Frankly, I cannot help. I confess that I probably added to the confusion, by also talking at loud volume and waving my arms around. It is the only way to get a point across, even if there are no decisions ultimately made. Maybe I am settling in more than I realise.

It might be expected that relocating to a new country would involve a certain amount of personal admin and although it seems excessive here, we have to keep reminding ourselves that foreigners moving to Britain might share our sentiments. The first hurdle is the Residence Permit, without which nothing can happen. We are fortunate because we receive this within four weeks along with a multi-exit visa, as hoped for.

This latter piece of documentation is particularly important as without it, permission needs to be sought from your employer for every trip out of the country. Also, should we go abroad without our Residence Permit then on our return it would mean starting the whole process again from scratch, assuming we were let back in.

The other perk granted to us as senior people in the organisation is that we are allowed to take holiday within ten months of starting work. A basic grade nurse, say from India or the Philippines, is not even allowed to leave the country within the first ten months.

Lionel, in his role as chief executive, is phoned at night by an immigration official to check that he approves one of his staff going home to visit a sick relative. Imagine the trepidation of a staff member waiting at the airport wondering whether she will be blocked from getting on the plane unless this has been clarified.

We assume the Residence Permit is a mere formality but subsequently understand that it is only granted after intense scrutiny by the Criminal Investigation Department branch of the Ministry of Interior. This varies depending on nationality. As Brits, it probably is cursory but for others, especially Shia Muslims from neighbouring states, it can take months. Qatar, like its neighbour Saudi Arabia, practises the strict Wahhabi form of Sunni Islam. Thankfully, the legal system and punitive methods are much more lenient: there are no beheadings and mutilations here.

A mobile phone is very necessary and we purchased ours on the first day. All business is done on it, including banking which is excellent (in spite of the shaky start), with text messages arriving instantly after every transaction. This can be galling for a wife if she shares a joint account with her husband as every purchase she makes is immediately communicated to the husband via his mobile phone. I am very relieved that we decided against joint accounts, though I am amused to learn that Lionel has been given an extra credit card.

“What is this for?” he enquires.

“For your wife, of course,” comes the reply.

Interestingly, I am not given an extra one for him. We receive a very personal service from our bank manager who even comes to our hotel one evening to get a signature, but only because things haven’t gone smoothly, for unexplained reasons. The rule of three here means that if you get a result within the first three attempts that is considered a stunning success.

Curiously, the coyly named Distribution Centre is the place for buying booze and in order to do so it is necessary to have a less coyly named Liquor Permit (a permit to drink alcohol, and therefore also to buy it). The amount spent per month on alcohol is strictly controlled and is related to salary, so the better paid are allowed to drink more, or so we’re told. We’re both allowed permits and the clerk who processes mine exercises inordinate care over taking my photograph. At last he is happy as he presents me with the permit. My image is appalling. I look like I need to be in rehab. It is enough to drive me to drink - perhaps they set up the photo shot like this to increase sales?

Another curiosity here is the ruling about traffic offences. If there are any outstanding parking fines or speeding tickets you are not allowed to leave the country. I can see that is probably fair enough, except that no one tells you that you have committed an offence. Therefore before travelling it is essential to visit the Traffic Violation Website, log in your car registration and see if you have offended. Lionel did this for me last week as a joke and was highly amused to find that I had been done for speeding. Needless to say, I swiftly paid the fine, which was administratively a doddle. Worked first time!

Now that we’re ‘official’ with our Residence Permits, driving licences and bank accounts, our farmhouse in the English countryside seems a long way away.