“Pops, why aren’t the shops open? It’s only 4 p.m.,” Christopher wondered. As we passed through Doha Airport, the terminal seemed like a town in a Western movie before a gunfight. No one walked the corridors, the regular bustle replaced by an eerie silence. The shops may not have been boarded up as in a Western, but their doors were locked, their windows barred. The tannoy system seemed to have died. Any announcements of arrivals, departures, and last calls for boarding had all been silenced.
“Perhaps it’s only in the transit area. We’ll find something in the main terminal.”
But everything was closed up.
We sought an explanation at the visitor information counter—the sole kiosk open.
“What do you mean nothing’s open?” I asked in disbelief.
“Sir, it’s the first day of Ramadan,” the male—and only—attendant responded. “No shops will be open, no food or drink served until sunset at 7 p.m. You won’t get a taxi until at least 9 p.m., because the drivers will be breaking their fast before they start working again.”
Damn! I had booked a trip through Arabia without checking the dates for Ramadan.
I turned to Laura, almost in tears. “This Ramadan is a total disaster for us. We have three whole days in Doha. What are we going to do? Stay in our rooms all day and starve?”
Eventually, we found a Filipino driving a stray taxi, who deposited us at the Sheraton Hotel.
Miracle upon miracle, our two normally surly teenagers loved Ramadan. They could sleep all day and stay up all night without a murmur from their parents—the malls were open until 1 or 2 a.m., the boys’ idea of heaven.
The spirit of Christmas paled beside the generosity of the local Arabic faithful. Large charity drives were held for refugees in Gaza or for building schools in Afghanistan. Literally millions were raised each day by the two million citizens of Qatar. Newspapers were full of coloured photos of a child in a wheelchair or a school needing funds to survive. Booths and tables were set up in the malls to encourage donations. Goodwill spilled from shop owners, tempting customers with every discount and gift.
Iftar, the breaking of the fast, was practised daily for a month. It was a scene straight out of Scheherazade. Our Sheraton erected a circus-sized tent, housing tables and chairs to host 400 guests. Tables were resplendent in white starched linen and sparkling silver cutlery. The best china was provided—the buffet, a magnificent blend of traditional Arab and European haute cuisine. It was as though an extraordinarily large family had gathered to celebrate. Kids of all ages and heights ran loose, helping themselves to sherbet time and time again.
The mirage of Scheherazade stretched on as we walked through the ancient Souq Waqif. What looked like a 1,000-year-old edifice had, in fact, only been built recently. It was an exact replica of the ageless, venerable souq that had stood on this ground for centuries, right down to the gravel paths crunching beneath our feet as, husband and wife, we walked on, hand in hand.
It was now 1 a.m., and still, the jubilant family crowd refused to leave. I shot a glance at Laura. Not a line of worry on her face, no sign of caution walking in the dark among strangers, delving into silk stores one moment, goldsmiths the next.
Suddenly, a man came up and deliberately nudged me.He held a medallion in the palm of his hand.
It was Alex’s. He had dropped it.
