Robert Sroka
After press ranging from horrible to Infantino, I wasn’t sure what to expect when landing in Doha. The starchitect curves of Hamad Airport provided the comfort of globalist anywhereness, but a new country is only truly first experienced once the customs doors open. I found relaxed and organized. With modest hotel rooms beyond budget, the winner was Barahat Al Janoub Cluster P for $84/night. Google revealed a sprawling work-in-progress labour accommodation for 67,000 in the desert. A friend said it looked like a prison. She was not inaccurate.
Inside the 15 foot concrete perimeter wall, between the endless rows of three-story blocks, there were playing courts, two grocery stores, food stalls, and almost completed storefronts. Two elaborate mosques pierced the skyline. After a quick check-in staffed in part by a stray kitten, I discovered my studio as advertised: 35 meters filled by two single beds, two lockers, a basic bathroom, and most crucially, powerful air conditioning. It would easily go for $2,300 a month in Vancouver.
Barahat Al Janoub
Outside was a gentle breeze and hundreds reacting to Robert Lewandowski’s missed penalty against Mexico, as I headed to France vs. Australia. While elites mingled in West Bay, the Dubai-lite skyline where architects’ dreams are hindered by neither budget nor function, at Barahat Al Janoub fans from around the world played pickup games well past my 1 am return. This was the real World Cup.
A bus the next day to the spaceship-like Al Wakra Metro station had me at the metro conflux of Mashareib within an hour. The spacious and clean Doha Metro was always alive with “ole olee Argentina,” curious locals in thobes, and megaphoned African staff repeating the ubiquitous “metro, thiiss way”. Mexican fans, along with Argentinians and Brazilians, won the eyeball award for best travelled.
After a stroll through Souk Waqif, the traditional/tourist market that was more latter than former, I ventured back on the metro to Khalifa International Stadium, stopping first at the Venice-themed Villagio mall (complete with gondoliers and ice rink). I completely missed the German mouth covering protest, but the victorious “Bonsai!” from the salaryman behind me will be long remembered.
Souk Waqif
Two metro rides later, the unofficial Canadian pre-game was at the Mall of Qatar Tim Hortons. After yet more examples of the shortest distance between two points never being FIFA’s entry control, a rowdy crowd offered a heartfelt “O Canada”. While the team responded in kind, a Belgian long ball accompanied by clinical finish was the cruel difference.
Although I could’ve sometimes used an “international beverage” (the local euphemism for alcohol), the difficultly of booze brought benefits. A safe and compelling festival atmosphere was to be found at stadiums and across the city. Once the sun gratefully withdrew, the warm Qatari winter made this the night market of World Cups. The only major confrontation observed was Iranian fans shouting over more important matters.
Khalifa International Stadium after Canada's loss to Croatia.
Wherever I ventured, this was a World Cup run by workers from the Global South. From Pakistani and Bangladeshi security guards, to Filipinos in English-facing service roles, to Sudanese, Kenyans, and Indians staffing the metro, Qatar 2022 has served as a remittance-driven boon to the developing world unlike probably any other previous sporting mega-event. This is the flip side to well-documented labour abuse.
Al Bayt Stadium for England vs. US.
And then there was the soccer. A trip to the furthest afield (why did they build this Bedouin tent thing here?) Al Bayt Stadium fulfilled a dream of being mildly disappointed by my usual World Cup team, England. Alphonso Davies scoring Canada’s first ever men’s World Cup goal setting off a celebration rivalled in my lived Canadian experience by only Sidney Crosby. The chaos of Group C’s simultaneous conclusion viewed at the FIFA Fan Festival, with a goal by anyone in either game enough to change who advanced. The oppressive whistles of Moroccan fans making mere possession by the opposition unbearable. The list goes on.
Al Thumama Stadium for Canada vs. Morocco.
But beyond the soft-power spectacle, was Qatar just show? Over an excellent iced Americano, the conversation with a Bumble date drifted to whether she liked living here. Having left Eastern Europe for Qatar more than five years ago, she answered with an emphatic "yes". Although this came with caveats, such as you really don’t want to end up in Qatari jail. However, the same question asked to a Filipino service worker or an energy sector professional from Toronto came with the same no hesitation “yes”. Repeatedly, I met people who enjoy life in the emirate of the questionably free.
Was I “sportwashed” by Qatar? Perhaps. Would I go back without the World Cup? As a free trip. But as I left Barahat Al Janoub, I felt grateful for my 10 games and 10 nights at a strange and vibrant place, wishing they could linger a little longer. 2036 Olympics, anyone?
Lusail Towers at the striking Lusail City.
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