Samosa Sniper

There is a thief among us.

My favorite rig, a steel edifice covered in sea barnacles smelling like hot rust and dirty feet. Al-Doha- a home away from Dukhan. In light of the World Cup, there is a new TV satellite with extra channels. In light of my femininity, I get to enjoy this enhanced media from my private television whilst sitting on my bed counting the hours, holding my breath from the whiffs of what can only be described as orphanage mush. I watch E! television and History channel. I read the news and some books.I adjust my pillows and attempt to sleep at least a couple hours at a time. These are all the activities which fail to keep me occupied until the sunset. Realistically, I’ve been dreaming about gas station burritios, movie theatre pretzels, and grilled cheese sandwiches. The clock strikes 18:30, prompting me to don pants and venture down to the galley, which is a disappointment. 

My first day on the rig was coming to an end. And so I sit in the night, gulping down bottles of water to avoid the thirst of the coming listless day of TV watching. But I’m jonesing for something to eat. Its late at night, and the single company man covering two shifts is sure to be sleeping. His office is unmanned. The box of bottled water has long been my beacon in the lonely nights on board Al-Doha. Today, I have my sights set on the small cling wrapped plates above the refrigerator. The ol’ company man has left his VIP snacks. I smuggle the two samosa’s back to my room, shielded with my hard hat for disguise. I sit in my bed, watching storage wars, feasting like a king. King of the rig. 

My second day on the rig went much like the first, only this time, I notice a distinct lack of laundry bag in my room. I cautiously count the clean underwears remaining: 2. This will get interesting. I ask the rig manager for a laundry bag, twice. The evening comes, and I am still laundry bag-less. I opt not to shower or change my clothes. After dinner, I spot half a toasted tuna sandwhich in the platter above the company man’s fridge. I tip-toe in with my hard hat, looking side to side before eagerly gathering the treat for my lair. 



Day three. I plunder another spoil of the rig. Wrapped around someone’s newly cleaned laundry is his laundry bag. When no one is in the hallway, it is mine….


Compliments to Your Mother

It is the holy month of Ramadan, a time when locals, expats, believers and infidels come together in Qatar to dehydrate in sweet solidarity.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year.

Seriously. We’ve been cooking. A small cohort of Egyptians and I have been trading on cooking duties, systematically calling our parents for recipes when we have a day off. When the sun goes down, the food is abound. 

The group size varies from 3-12, depending on who is busy and who just shows up from a rig. The group consists of Egyptians, Arabs, South Americans, Europeans, and a Turkmenistanian.  We took over one of the kitchens in the staff house, everyone brings their supplies there and cooks. It’s crowded and its homey and it feels like college. It’s Ramadan.

Some colleagues/friends and some food!