“No, hit the ground running. New Year’s resolution,” Sam confirmed.
“Well, we’re all jealous.” None of the good friends they had made in their three years in Qatar had repatriated home as yet, and the thought of returning to Sydney appealed strongly.
The evening and night progressed with great food, red wine, and cigars, which Sam and Dink loved. The crux had been in the departure from the restaurant when, heavily inebriated, Dink decided he was driving home. It wasn’t that late, his red Hummer H3 awaited, and he had to work tomorrow morning. These were not valid excuses. Kylie had pleaded with him to use their driver, as she was doing. Regrettably, alcohol had severely compromised Dink’s decision-making. His wife’s desperate pleas were not enough to dissuade her obstinate husband. Grog had got the better of his senses and Dink started out at the wheel. Only minutes later, as he entered a roundabout, a black SUV passed by and braked to exit. Dink’s Hummer rear-ended it smoothly with a glancing swipe. The shrieking shiekha that exited the BMW X5 was righteously angry. Her shrouded black presence was ominous and vengeful. Police intervention sealed his fate.
There were no injuries and minimal damage to either vehicle. Despite this, Dink’s transportation to the Medinat Khalifa police station and subsequent blood testing were concrete evidence of the crime. As a Wahhabi Islamic Republic, Qatar’s blood alcohol limit was zero. Dink was well in excess of that. He was not an overly irresponsible person by nature but wasn’t a clean skin either. One drink in good company could easily turn into two, and then too many. ‘Go hard or go home. Sleep when you’re dead!’ was his ethos. As it happened, Umm Salal prison was the unfortunate consequence.
No sympathy is required in these situations, just a recording of facts. Judgement is reasonably expected. Life had changed suddenly and irreversibly. In a quirky twist of fate, Dink and Kylie left Doha before Sam and Lisbeth. All as a result of enjoying their farewell party too much.
The following morning, Dink was taken by police transport to the Department of Public Prosecutions. He admitted to drink driving in one simple statement. The prescribed 2,000 Riyal fine was paid with the cash stashed in his underpants, and he was released from custody. With his belt on, he had used a bathroom cubicle to retrieve the money. The strangeness of this circumstance amused Dink.
His red Hummer had been impounded the night before so, after the morning’s legislative events played out, he had called a driver to take him home. One of the regular Bangladeshi drivers had picked him up and was sadly aware of Dink’s predicament. Raheem was in his early twenties and knew Dink and Kylie well. The unfortunate irony was not lost on him. “The one time you don’t call me!”
Raheem and Dink had an easy and jovial relationship, with a warm mutual respect. In fact, Raheem often referred to Dink as ‘Dad’. On this occasion, Raheem took the long way home. Dink questioned the circuitous route, but the explanation was simple, “Dad, you have been in prison, you need a burger.” Thoughtful and correct, they shared a sombre yet joyful meal at a local café before going home.
When he did, sheepishly, return to the villa, Kylie was relieved. She embraced him like a lost child. “You fucking idiot! If you ever do that again, I’m gone!”
Dink was fine with the term, and the terms. He did not plan on repeating the experience and absolutely did not want to lose Kylie. She was rightfully angry and disappointed at his stubborn stupidity. The situation was easily avoidable. And the true ramifications were yet to play out.
Chapter 6: Kylie
January 15th, 2010
As Dink and Kylie passed Doha airport immigration, the series of burnished metal barricades and turnstiles loomed ahead like a treacherous obstacle course. The predominantly automated system decreased the face-to-face dynamic but not the certainty of outcome. The fingerprint scanner blinked green, they passed through the waist-high swing gate, and Dink and Kylie breathed a huge sigh of relief. It was likely a visible visceral relaxation but, with their adrenaline spiking, they had little control over it. They were fleeing Qatar. The stress was intense. Being a Friday morning, the start of the Middle Eastern weekend, the airport was busy. Dink’s sphincter RPM was at peak capacity, and Kylie was obviously nervous.
Yesterday, knowing Dink’s recent charge, the hospital human resources director had bluntly stated that, although Dink’s exit visa was current, he was going to flag this with the police. You could not exit Qatar without your employer approving the visa. Dink was fortunate that he had pre-approved annual leave so no undue suspicion was aroused.
They had now passed through immigration and the flight to Dubai was boarding within the hour. “Do you want a cuppa?” Kylie asked rhetorically. She was a compulsive tea drinker and drank a hot beverage at any opportunity. Dink concurred although a stiff Scotch would also have sufficed. “Nearly there,” he reassured.
“I think the tough part is over. The visa worked so we should be fine.” Ever the stoic optimist, Kylie was both a social butterfly with a kind heart and a hard-arse when required. She could certainly deal with most situations and she was proving this in testing times. They had agreed to flee Doha predominantly at Kylie’s direction, and a coin toss had fatefully confirmed their choice. A large curved sword inscribed on one face of the Qatari coin was the omen for departure. Whilst a hefty fine and further prison time was a strong chance, deportation was mandatory for drink diving offences. As Ramadan was imminent, flogging with the leather lash was a distinct possibility. If Dink had been Muslim, then lashes were almost certainly the punishment for drink driving.
“We’re leaving!” Kylie had stated adamantly as the disconcerting coin face declared itself, and Dink felt no compunction to argue the toss.
“I don’t fancy forty lashes and an economy flight outta here. That’s gotta be the worst option!” Dink was trying not to imagine the biting, searing pain that a flogging would inflict on soft flesh but had not been entirely successful. Why do people do that for sexual pleasure, he thought, randomly. Not for me, thanks.
Kylie organised packing up the house. Dink booked the shipping container.
“I’ve already spoken with Donna and she’ll store the boxes,” Kylie advised, as they couldn’t arrange the shipment in time, or in their name. Kylie was in her organisational element and Dink deferred to her proven expertise.
“You’re a marvel,” he said, and meant it. Dink was aware how kind this was of Donna to do this for them. He would thank Dave when he got to work. In private, whilst outwardly pretending that everything was fine. Business as usual.
Donna and Dave Broughton were lively British expats they had met, initially, through work. They had become close friends and, now, trusted allies. It was critical not to talk openly about the decision to flee Qatar. Expats generally accepted that state monitoring of communications occurred both at work and in private life, certainly with online communication such as emails but also likely phone conversations. This was not paranoia, just a fact. Qatar is not a democracy and if you are not a Qatari citizen then legal rights are limited, and confusing. Whilst these institutional intrusions were more likely to monitor political or social insurrection of the ruling family and the government, no one could be sure of the extent of targeted programs. A stray comment may be noticed coincidentally. It was wise to be on your guard. Further complicating the picture was that, within the Riviera Gardens compound where Dink and Kylie lived, many work colleagues resided in surrounding villas. Most had to drive directly past the front of their house to enter or exit the compound, and Dink and Kylie couldn’t afford idle speculation.
So, within twenty-four hours, Kylie had secretly packed their possessions, working through the day and night with curtains drawn. Dink had paid for a large truck and four men to arrive in the middle of the day when others were at work. The hired hands packed the boxes of possessions and transported them to Dave and Donna’s house for storage. Doha has designated road intersections where trucks and labourers congregate and await work. These crowded, dusty, industrial areas were perfect for Dink and Kylie’s purpose.