Quadblogger

It is a beautiful Doha morning, and I am waiting for a ride to the airport.

I am not flying anywhere. I am (I hope) renewing my visa. It expires tomorrow.

Which means, amazingly, that I have been here exactly a month. It seems at once not nearly that long, and much longer.

So. A few things I have learned . . .

First: There are people here from everywhere. Which means there is always a new kind of clothing to see, a new language to hear, a new custom to learn about. There is no single culture. And there’s no feeling out of place, because the majority of people around you are out of place themselves.

And while you might expect this jumble to lead to some tension, I have seen none. Everyone is cheerful and friendly and kind. Even on the roundabouts, truthfully – despite all the stories – I have seen nothing worse then the occasional glare and light honk.

A note on the weather in Doha: It is weird. Gale-force wind and soupy fog can exist simultaneously. The landscape is desert, but the air is often heavy and wet. Most of the time, though, the sun shines – and February in Doha is, overall, spectacular.

Sandstorms, on the other hand, are simply miserable. Wind can be strong to the point of scary. Gusts come from all directions, so bracing one way means you’re likely to topple over.

And the wind can persist for days, and days. And days. Frazzling nerves (mine, at least) and coating every surface, including corneas (corneae?) with a thick layer of grime.

Meanwhile, the sand around Doha and the north part of Qatar (it’s different in the southern part of the country, I hear) is not the familiar sand of, say, Florida. It’s heavy and adhesive: add water, and you have thick, pasty goo.

It is handy material for, say, making bricks. But it is impervious to standard dusting techniques. (This didn’t stop at least one robed man from going over his Land Rover meticulously with a feather duster. Alas, I didn’t have my camera.)

A third thing: Qatar is not the West.

This may seem obvious from the images: women in shailas and abayas, men in thobes (white robes), mosques instead of churches; open markets (souqs) selling perfumes and sheesha pipes.

But there is evidence of Western encroachment everywhere, too. Shopping malls and Starbucks; sleek modern office towers, indoor ice rinks and SUVs. The latest Doha mall, the Villagio, boasts an indoor re-creation of the Venetian canals, complete with gondolas and gondoliers.

And once you get used to the varieties of dress and language – and this happens quickly – you start noticing far more similarities than differences.

This is a good thing, of course. It’s one thing to know, intellectually, that people are really all the same everywhere. It’s another to feel eternal gratitude for the kindness of a complete stranger in thobe, ghutra (headdress) and sandals who – when you are at your wit’s end over your stubbornly uncooperative computer – takes half an hour of his own time in the electronics store to help you figure out what kind of computer cable to buy.

(He does not, in the end, know how to fix the problem. But in a small way, the interaction is the solution to a much larger problem: He leaves you thinking about how, had you not had the conversation, you would have looked him over and assumed – incorrectly on all counts – that he would not speak perfect English, or know about cable modems and ADSL lines; or be down to earth and sensible and sympathetic to the woes of a frustrated American tourist.)

Which leads to the paradox that English professor Alan Weber mused about last week.

“When you come to a very different part of the world, you realize that people are basically the same,” he said. “But at the same time the cultures are very different.” And unless you accept the cultures – and enjoy them – you’re probably in for a lot of headaches.

It’s an easy enough concept to understand – like a kind of serenity prayer for ex-pats. There will be things you cannot change. Your only options, if you choose to live here, are to accept these things or go bonkers.

The real test comes when you have something at stake – something that seems like it should be infinitely easy but in fact is not. An Internet connection that won’t connect, for example, or a driver’s license that’s just out of reach, or a rapidly approaching deadline that has no hope of being met.

“A lot of people get flustered because they want things done exactly the same way they’re used to in the U.S.,” says Khalid Machaca, a molecular biology professor in the pre-med program at WCMC-Q. “If you come from that perspective, you’re going to be upset most of the time.”

As he was, too, he admits, for his first couple of weeks in Doha. (Machaca is originally from Lebanon, but he taught medicine in the U.S. for 20 years before coming to WCMC-Q.) “It was very frustrating,” he says. “But then I decided that this is an experience, and I’m going to make it a fun experience.”

So, on that note (and to follow up on my last blog) … I still have no Qatari driver’s license. But I have a funny Nepali driver named Dibas. We have long conversations in which each of us understands about half of what the other says.

Dibas wants to come to America. I want to hear about Nepal. He teaches me Nepali words, then giggles when I mispronounce them. It is much more fun than driving alone.

(Photo by Patrick Shanahan/Cornell Sports Information)

The Big Red men’s basketball team clinched the Ivy League conference title — and an automatic NCAA tournament bid — on Saturday night when they ran Harvard right out of Newman Arena, 86-53. QB was there, looking official and taking notes, but inside, jumping for joy!

By the way, do you know what it’s like to nearly get trampled? QB now has the dubious honor. Despite valiant attempts by black-clad security officials and Cornell police officers surrounding the arena as the final seconds clicked down, there was no stopping the mob. The students jumped over the front bleachers, leaped through the media row, and rushed the court just as the buzzer rang. A security guard unsuccessfully tried to bar one male student from doing so, in the process toppling over QB, who had already put the cell phone and all breakables away.

Anyway, it was a night to remember. Congratulations to the team, and best of luck at the Big Dance.

(Photo from the Cornell sports information site)

QB loves a good story: full of drama, action, heartache, emotion, sweat and tears. Nawp, we’re not talking about our latest Netflix adventure. We’re talking about college basketball.

It’s almost March, folks. And you know what that means. MARCH MADNESS. For the uninitiated among us, it’s the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament, a.k.a the Big Dance, a.k.a. the most exciting three weeks of sports that QB looks forward to every year.

And in case you haven’t noticed, the Cornell men’s basketball team may soon be punching a ticket to the Big Dance.

That’s right, you hockey fans out there. While you’ve been shivering in Lynah Rink, the Big Red men’s basketball team has been slowly inching its way to a shot at the NCAA tournament — a chance to win it all.

With only six games remaining in the season, the Big Red stands atop the Ivy League at 8-0, with an overall record of 16-5. Last weekend, the team derailed both Harvard (in a heart-stopper) and Dartmouth, widening its lead in the league.

This weekend’s slate of games, against Yale on Friday and Brown on Saturday, could bump them up to as high as a four-game lead against the other Ivies. The game against Brown is especially huge, given that Brown is in second place, only two games behind Cornell.

One, and only one, Ivy League school gets to represent the conference at the Big Dance. QB is cheering hard for Cornell.

Now, granted, nothing is a done deal yet. There is still the remote possibility that Cornell could relinquish the Ivy League title in the season’s 11th hour. In fact, some of the commentators on Pete Thamel’s NY Times blog on the Big Red are shushing and begging against a jinx.

It’s a good thing QB isn’t superstitious.

The last time Cornell men’s basketball played in the NCAA tourney was in 1988. This year would be just its second appearance since 1954. So let’s go, Big Red.

The weekend (Friday and Saturday):

The weather is perfect for taking long walks. So that’s what I’ve been doing when I’m not at work. Besides, other than the drive to and from the office, I don’t have any other way of getting around.

But I have been given strict warnings about walking around the city, especially at night. Crime is not the problem; bad driving is. “The pedestrian always loses,” says Sylvia.

So do small cars, according to signs like this one sprinkled around the city. (The vehicles of choice are white Toyota Land Cruisers with red and brown emblazonings along the sides.)

Still, I have seen remarkably little in the way of unusually poor driving. Maybe I’ve just been lucky. Or maybe (someone suggests) this says something about my standards, which is possible.

Anyway. I am sitting on a stool in the tiny studio of a Kodak Express outlet in the mall near my apartment. I need photos for visa applications and an international driver’s license. (I have not yet decided whether to tackle the traffic but I’m getting the photos just in case.)

The photographer is shy but gets down to business. He tells me to sit properly. (I’m leaning more than sitting). He shoots a few photos. He stops.

And waits. “Please,” he says.

I ask what’s wrong. “Please, ma’am, your hair?” he says. “Please, comb your hair, so looking most beautiful for driver’s license?”

I brushed my hair just before coming in to the studio, feeling sheepish for being vain. I take my brush out and repeat the process. I can’t resist asking: I need to look beautiful for a driver’s license photo?

He does not answer, or smile. Gently, he steps forward and arranges my hair until he is satisfied. Then he steps back, takes a few more shots, and smiles. “I will choose the one most beautiful,” he says.

Wednesday:

The Doha traffic office is near the medical school, but unlike the buildings of Education City and the shiny towers downtown, it is old and dusty and squat. Bare concrete shows through chipping paint. The parking lot is sand.

After tomorrow I will no longer have a ride to and from work, so I have decided to take the plunge and rent a car. But first I need an international license. I’ve brought all the necessary items: passport, visa, New York license, most beautiful photos.

The driver who brought me here leads me through a series of doors – inside, outside, then inside again – and through the mass of people congregated around the counter. Except for the burkha-ed women behind the counters (they are all black ghosts, with only eyes visible) and the lack of computers (I don’t see any), it is remarkably similar to a DMV office anywhere – long lines, fake wood paneling, fluorescent lighting, chairs along the walls. The difference is motion and sound – here there is much more of both.

I follow my driver past the lines to a small office near the back. Behind a desk is a man with long beard, military-ish navy blue garb. There is a line of people waiting for this man, too, but my driver steps to the front and talks to him in (I assume) Arabic. The bearded man shakes his head. There are a few more exchanges, but it is no use, and finally my driver leads me away. I need a letter from a Qatari sponsor, he explains. I should find someone to write such a letter, and he will bring me back again next week.

Note to readers: it is February in Ithaca, and Quad Blogger has abandoned ship in search of sun.

Actually, not all of QB. Just the part that is Lauren Gold.

(In case you missed it the first time, you can find out more about what and who QB is on the ‘About’ page.)

Anyway. This is all a clumsy attempt to switch voices mid-blog from the third-person-ed QB to the first-person-ed Lauren. QB may continue to post from Ithaca (or wherever he/she/we may be) – but blogs from Doha will henceforth be by me, in the first person singular.

Whew. Now for the background. On May 8, 16 medical students here become the first graduates of Weill Cornell Medical College-Qatar. They will also become Qatar’s first homegrown physicians.

With all these firsts, the group would be forgiven for being a bit weary of publicity. But I’m here to give them (and the school in general) more of it. If things work as planned, we’ll have a special issue of the Chronicle magazine out in time to be distributed at their graduation.

Blog material has been collecting in my head since I arrived in Doha on Sunday, but Internet issues have gotten in the way of posting. So, (sorry!) this first post is likely to be a long, disjointed mess.

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Is it the Little Mermaid? The Virgin Mary? One of millions of teensy tiny little Martians that the rovers Spirit and Opportunity are rolling over and crushing every day?

No. No. And … need we say it? No.

Just to make sure, we mentioned the picture – which was taken in November by the rover Spirit’s panoramic camera and only recently singled out in the media for a centimeter-sized speck on its upper right side – to Jim Bell, associate professor of astronomy at Cornell and leader of the Pancam team for NASA’s Mars Exploration Rover mission.

“Oh, no,” he said. And sighed loudly.

What’s going on? Why is a tiny patch of windblown soil getting so much attention?

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QB never realized how beautiful the inside of this cubicle is. Stuff like that comes into focus after spending a few days in conditions for which we’re not quite prepared.

We’re back, all 23 members of the AguaClara project team and guests, including yours truly, from deep in the heart of lovely Honduras. If you recall, QB was invited along with the team of Cornell engineering students on a trip to scout out and visit drinking water plants.

We actually arrived back home Sunday morning, but the last 72 hours have been marred for QB by a painful gastrointestinal ailment that we can only assume was contracted while traveling. While we’ve been taught to assume nothing, we’re pretty safe on this one, given that 20, yes 20, out of 23 travelers came down with some sort of illness while on the trip.

Early on and during the trip, it was repeatedly stressed to stay away from water unless it was bottled — after all, ironically, the students were in Honduras to help bring clean, treated water to the people who really need it. But here’s the tricky part: avoiding water is easy enough, but avoiding food is another matter. Separating waterborne and foodborne pathogens is practically impossible, given that so much cooking is done with water, and oftentimes the team didn’t know exactly how food had been prepared. And we were hungry.

So gamely did we clutch our stomachs, and with nary a hint of detraction from the cause at hand. But boy, did some of those kids suffer.

“I feel like a bomb went off in my stomach,” QB recalls one hapless student lament, as he stood doubled over in a parking lot.

Another student recounted politely cleaning his plate at a host’s home. He spent a harrowing night with projectile vomit so violent that it secondarily caused his neck muscles to spasm. This only became funny after he felt better.

“I am 99 percent sure it was the chismol,” the student said, referring to the delicious spicy chopped vegetables that accompany many Honduran meals of rice and beans.

So while we wish those memories to fade to black, other, happier moments outshine them. Seeing the Ojojona plant finally change hands to its rightful owners, the community. Visiting the site for a new plant in Tamara, and helping to lay the first foundation stone. Sniffing the rich aroma of roasting coffee just brought in from a nearby plantation.

Not even projectile vomit can take those things away.

It’s difficult for QB to write this. This page won’t be blank for long, we suppose, but the words that fill it will barely break the surface tension. We’ll leave it to Joseph Conrad to sum up: “It is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one’s existence…” It’s impossible to convey – only to try. And that we will do.

QB is sitting in the dry sun of Marcala, Honduras, at the moment. QB, along with University photographer Lindsay France, was invited on this annual trip with the AguaClara project team. Led by civil engineering senior lecturer Monroe Weber-Shirk, this group of 18 Cornell students has dedicated some of its engineering skills last semester to helping design water treatment plants for communities in rural Honduras. They’re here during the tail end of winter break, Jan. 4-20.

They’ve teamed up with local Honduran organization Agua Para El Pueblo to do so. Weber-Shirk, along with his wife, Juanita Weber-Shirk, have brought these students here to allow them to see some of the seeds of their labor, and more importantly, to see what a small piece of the world’s water problem is really all about. And that is where, for QB, this experience has been less about water, and more about what humans really need to live.

Yeah, along the way we picked up some info, like what the bleep is a sediment tank, and why slow-sand filters don’t work as well as flocculation when the water is turbid. These are engineering students, after all.

But how about this for an education:

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The Vietnam years at Cornell must have been a challenging time for “official” photographers. They were part of The Establishment — the authorities not to be trusted, and, QB recalls, often for good reason.

Photos taken by Cornell police of anti-war students occupying Carpenter Hall in spring 1972 (to protest defense-related research by the faculty) were displayed, like wanted posters, on the walls of Barton Hall. (Instead of ratting out their fellow students, who had taped newspaper over Carpenter Hall windows and stayed there for a week, some displayed their own snapshots of Cornell police. No one would identify anyone.)

That was the climate of paranoia Russ Hamilton “retired” to, after a rough-and-tumble quarter century as a Philadelphia newspaper photographer. He joined Cornell’s Visual Services department in 1970 and found students reluctant to pose for his camera. If the celebrated photo of gun-toting students leaving the Straight in 1969 was an example of what official photographers did, many students wanted no part of that.

Russ Hamilton, who died at age 89 on Dec. 16, changed all that. The jocular, bearded, Santa-with-a-camera character charmed his way to pictures no establishment figure could manage. One of his best-known shots – the long-haired, bell-bottomed student in the lap of the Arts Quad’s A.D. White statue – raised official eyebrows in Day Hall. Cornell’s sacred statuary was not for sitting, any more than the flag was for burning.

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It is good to see the Big Red Bear atop the No. 9 Ladder and Engine company in Collegetown once again looking so ferociously robust.

Like many passersby in C-town, QB always double checks on the bear. Last winter, the bear took quite a hit in a windstorm and was hibernating in broad daylight for a while.
At the time of filing this blog, QB was uncertain as to the exact origins of the bear. IFD firefighter Jim Crowley said he is not certain either, but the bear was most likely acquired as a mascot by the Cornell bunkers some time in the last two decades. The station was completed in 1968.

QB also has learned that, like Cornellia the Cow, the bear once was kidnapped.

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