Doha is the quietest of the Gulf boomtowns. With a dry elegance unlike bombastic Emerati burgs Dubai or Abu Dhabi, the capital of Qatar lingers almost intimately along the shore of the Persian Gulf. Through the desert haze, the sun rises white and sets yellow, never growing in shape or form beyond that of a perfect flare-less orb, similar to the disk depicted by the Ancient Egyptians. The temperature crests 110°F every day by noon and tightly sealed, climate-controlled cars course through the streets with low rumbles and dark plumes of exhaust.
Wooden dhows, the ancient watercraft of the region, glide smoothly across the bay, between the Corniche and the cluster of futuristic glass towers looming solemnly on the other side. The roar of the occasional powerboat or jetski breaks the silence.
Whenever I catch a taxi or an Uber in Doha, the driver will have muted the radio before picking me up. I always ask him—it was always a him—to play the music that he listens to when he has no customers. Sometimes, he tunes it, automatically, to the electro-pop station playing whatever garbage auto-tunes are the international hit du jour and I reiterate, with some coercion, that I want to hear what he listens to. And with occasional reluctance, the drivers play Tamil music from Sri Lanka, South African reggae, Keralan love songs, and Bollywood film scores.
On my way back from drinks with a friend at one hotel to the hotel where I was staying, my driver hums along to his music, remembering—I’d like to think—budding romance and steamy nights back home.
Have you ever been to Qatar?