I want my Liga

As the temperature in Doha, Qatar remains in the forties, it’s back to spending time, as opposed to cash in large, luxurious shopping centers, hereafter referred to as malls.  Not having a natural penchant for strolling aimlessly around shopping malls for hours, not a pastime that came particularly easy to me, however, living in extreme heat has driven me to develop the skill, which I’ve since honed.

Different from a trip to Mahon Point or the Crescent, a trip to Villagio or Landmark Shopping Malls in Qatar can often be the only location for a family day out when the temperatures outside are rising to uncomfortable levels. Different also is that there isn’t a river running down the middle of the Crescent providing gondola rides. Another difference would be the indoor funfair complete with ferris wheel, roller coasters and water rides.  There are also VIP bathrooms, ice rinks, 4D cinemas and of course every conceivable retailer from Gucci to Gymboree. In nearly every shopping mall and most supermarkets in Qatar there is the customary Mercedes or Porsche pulled up on two wheels inside the door.  Not something my local Supervalu or Spar back in Ireland ever boasted. 

Just back from Ireland after a shopping centre free summer, I decided to take a trip to one of the largest malls for a few essentials, Liga being one of them.  Parking for free in a nicely shaded space and accepting the car wash for fifteen Qatar riyals, equivalent to three Euros, I make my way to the Carrefour entrance, stopping off at Starbucks to purchase an on-the-go low fat mocha, before taking to the aisles for a thorough browse for my cherub’s favourite eats.  Strolling around the spacious well air conditioned mall, I began to think that there were certain benefits to living in this sheltered society compared to the often volatile atmosphere in Ireland, life could be enjoyed all under the same roof with even air conditioning throughout, granted, no lazy sunny afternoons sitting outside a downtown café but no unwelcome downpours either.    Ambling casually down the baby food aisle I couldn’t locate my babies beloved Liga, which now had formed part of the rigid bedtime routine, similar to having a lucky jacket on to ensure your team wins the match, Liga, bath, teddy and wine was my combination and having received a full night’s sleep for the past two weeks, I wasn’t prepared to consider different factors. Although I did realise that perhaps my having a large glass of red nightly was having little effect on babies sleep and a large effect on mine, I was still chalking it down as vital on the nightly agenda.

Confidently, I asked the shop assistant, I assumed I had just missed it on the shelf, but something in the vacant stare I received back, awoke my fear at the possibility that Liga was not to be found in Qatar.  Dumbfounded I stared back as he looked bamboozled and repeated, “leee ga Lee ga” back to me.  I clarified “food for the baby, baby biscuit, do you know?”,  “we no have”, he replied and walked down the detergent aisle muttering “lee ga” and glancing at the fabric softeners.  I was so sure, too sure, cocky even; I just presumed that Liga was a staple, like milk, bread, pate and blue cheese.  Having forfeited SMA and Cow and Gate by returning to Doha, I didn’t even consider that Liga would be the next to go.   Walking past the amusement area on the way back to car as I passed by Cartier, Donna Karan, L’Occitane and a babycentre where I could get my baby’s face printed on a mug or etched onto a timber plaque I felt despair at the lack of the humble Liga.  Being an Irish mum, it was ingrained in my psyche that Liga would form an integral part of my baby’s diet and the more immediate crisis of not having any for the bedtime spoon-feed.  Settling on the closest alternative, the ingredients were in Arabic but the box was red and the baby on the outside has glistening brown eyes where the blue ones once were.

It’s a Boy!

5 days and about 10 years overdue, at two o’clock on a Monday morning my baby started to make a move to arrive into the world.  Excitedly, I packed the final essentials, eye cream, magazines, iPod, completely looking forward to my mini-break in Doha Clinic.  I had read in my pregnancy manuals how these days are special and afford the new mother the time and space to fully embrace motherhood and bond with her new baby.  Maybe I missed out on the chapter in my pregnancy and birthing book titled, “Adopt, It’s Easier” but 9 hours into my mini-break, I wished it was over.  All the preparation and enthusiasm of a first time mum couldn’t conceal the fact that this was no bloody holiday.   However, in light of the fact that there was no going back and anxious to meet my baby and fit back into my Sevens I pressed on with the support of my husband.

Having opted for a private hospital in Doha I felt confident that my needs would be met and that the whole experience would pass with the only surprise being the sex of the baby.  So, when the nurse entered the room and mentioned that there was a complication, concern was embedded and full blown panic was born. The nurse said that they didn’t have our marriage certificate on file and it was law in Qatar for the parents of the child to show proof of marriage.    I couldn’t believe my ears, as I almost sucked the rubber tube through the useless gas and air mask, which I felt sure was given to me to keep me quiet rather than alleviate the pain which was intensifying  by the minute.  I growled at the nurse through the mask to express my dissatisfaction at the mention of red tape at this crucial time. My partner, battling to find an English TV channel, spoke in a controlled tone to the nurse, assuring her that all the documentation was indeed in order and that perhaps it would be advisable and in the interest of her wellbeing not to mention it to me again.  

During the hours that followed, I got more and more frustrated at being surrounded by people who spoke only broken English, if was having a rant, I at least wanted the people at the receiving end to understand what I saying, not to mention that the only person who had fluent English was busy watching Steven Segal, while I watched any hopes I had of a pleasurable delivery slip by.   All seemed lost until I heard the midwife announce, “your baby is here and better for you, It’s a BOY!” 

Cheers and much delight filled the delivery suite when the hospital staff all gathered round and congratulated me for having a boy.    He received a dedicated nursery nurse, a luxury enjoyed by all the babies, not just the boys.  The nurse told me what it meant to have a boy in Qatar firstly the family name was intact and secondly and most importantly the money was kept in the family.  Arab sons also provided a great source of pride to their fathers and mothers, a son becoming a natural leader in the family, while the daughters were married off in the early twenties.  They will also follow the Islamic traditions and religions strictly from a young age following in their father’s footsteps to become good Muslims.   At this point I took the opportunity to tell her a little about what it means to be a boy at home.

I told her how being born a boy in Ireland is similar, he will be raised in the Catholic faith, in a Mary /Jesus fashion particularly by this mother as she thinks he is Jesus and he thinks she’s a virgin.