AL KHOR, Qatar – Every afternoon, Muhammad Al Misned leaves his office in Doha, the capital of Qatar, gets into his White Land Cruiser and heads to his second home in the desert.
There, behind a castle-like facade, is her sanctuary, with three swimming pools, two football fields, a bowling alley, a stable, a volleyball court and a carefully maintained hedge maze, among other luxuries .
The daily visit to his estate in the northern city of Al Khor has afforded him a much-needed respite since the men’s soccer World Cup turned Qatar into a tiring carnival twenty-four hours a day, according to what he told me.
After the tournament ends, he plans to recover in London, where he will hire a personal trainer to train and eat all meals with him, to avoid ingesting too many calories.
But, like his desert home, this is all, Al Misned said, quite normal.
“I’m not a rich person,” she explained.
Just a generation ago, in Qatar, this indifference to obvious signs of wealth would have been unimaginable.
For much of the 20th century, the country was little more than an arid wasteland of fishermen and pearl-diggers living off the salty waters of the Persian Gulf.
But the discovery of gas fields on the north coast in the 1970s and the resulting energy boom changed the country’s fortunes.
Qataris now enjoy one of average income tallest in the world, as well as free healthcare, free higher education, housing subsidies, comfortable public jobs, financial aid for newlyweds, and generous grants.
Much of that personal wealth is tucked away in the privacy of Qatari homes, rarely open to outsiders.
And it’s not distributed equally.
the country is highly stratifiedwith around 2 million migrant workers enlisted to provide a luxurious lifestyle for around 380,000 Qataris.
Though the country is only the size of Connecticut, it often feels like these two worlds couldn’t be further apart:
The minimum wage for immigrant workers is $275 a month.
Qatar’s average annual income is approx $115,000.
As one Turkish construction worker in the country said, there is no such thing as poor Qatar;
there are only the rich, the richest and the richest.
However. Al Misned, 57, insists he is not wealthy by Qatari standards.
Al Misned grew up in Al Khor, where his father worked in construction, and raised his children in a low mud house.
When Al Misned was a teenager, the state had money to spend on petrol and had begun paying its brightest students to attend universities abroad, a policy designed to cultivate a class of English-speaking Qataris capable of interacting effortlessly with western investors.
Al Misned was educated in Colorado and now has his own consultancy firm, with investments in construction projects in Qatar, England and the United States.
His desert home is an hour’s drive from Doha on a desolate stretch where the beige earth blends with a faded sky.
The journey ends at a sumptuous door, guarded by a guard who, on a recent visit, threw it wide open to reveal a lush green landscape divided by narrow streets lined with palm trees.
Al Misned met me and a photographer at one of the houses on the property, then took us on a tour of the estate, which also includes a hookah lounge and gym.
Scattered around the property were 1,000 sheep, eight Arabian oryx, four horses, two camels and a falcon – what Al Misned called his working farm – cultivated for the past decade.
He wasn’t much of a fan of falcons, though, he explained as the raptor landed on his arm.
His friend, who is really a fan of falcons, had given him the animal this year.
“I once said: if I make money, I want to have a farm and build myself a hotel to live in”.
“So if you go to Doha, my house is really like a small hotel.”
Somewhere between the stables and the gymnasium, Al Misned turned off the road and crossed a pristine stretch of meadow to show us one of several boarding houses.
As we drove off, he waved to several South Asian and East African gardeners who were planting fresh grass.
“As soon as you say ‘salaam alaikum’ – ‘hello’, you know – give them a lot.
They just feel respected,” Al Misned said, walking back across the courtyard.
The workers were part of the influx of migrants who have reshaped Qatar’s population in recent decades, often facing arrogant bosses and sometimes abuse.
The treatment reserved for those who built the infrastructure for the world Cup drew widespread criticism before the tournament and was a point of contention during matches.
The opulent mansion seemed like a true reflection of Al Misned’s generation, many of whom grew up with little electricity and now drive luxury cars.
The radical change in fortunes seemed to breed a fear of transience, as if wealth could disappear as quickly as it appeared, so they had to spend money, and spend it lavishly, while it lasted.
That same afternoon, Al Misned’s wife Alanood, their daughters and other women in the family gathered at the main club to watch the Qatar-Senegal soccer match.
Following Qatari custom, the men evacuated the area.
The women sat on couches in front of a large television, their four-inch stilettos scattered across the floor.
The girls wore purple Qatari T-shirts and skinny jeans.
As the Qatari attackers fought their way through the Senegalese defence, the women broke into applause:
“We want a goal! We want a goal!” – and he beat the traditional drums, laughing.
Every few minutes, staffers in purple robes and white cotton gloves made the rounds with trays overflowing with bowls of sweets, cappuccinos in gold-rimmed cups, and a carafe of Arabic coffee.
One came by with a bunch so big I could only see the legs of the housekeeper carrying it.
During the break, Alanood — who has a different last name than her husband and asked to use only his first name for privacy reasons — and her guests toured the property in golf carts.
Most of the women were indecisive drivers, used to being driven around by their chauffeurs, so I got behind the wheel of my handcart.
As we walked among palm trees draped in incandescent lights, they sang wedding songs.
At the clubhouse, Alanood told me she and her family had watched the opening match of the World Cup, in which Qatar faced Ecuador.
But they went off at half-time disappointed both by the defeat in Qatar and by the fans.
In the stadiums the Qatari men wore tunics, the traditional dress, instead of football shirts, and there was no shouting, no arm waving, no electricity from the crowd, which was expected after the anticipation of the most major world sporting event.
“Everyone knows each other, so they don’t want to be embarrassed,” explains their teenage daughter.
I asked Alanood if he had visited the Doha souq, now full of foreign fans, or any of the music festivals or carnivals the country had organized for the tournament.
“I can’t,” she answered firmly.
“There are camera crews and you don’t know who can take your picture.”
“I like my privacy,” she added.
It was a phrase I had been hearing from my Qatari friends for some time.
They often said that despite Qatar’s conservative reputation and the low-key atmosphere of Doha’s few bars, the privacy of Qatari homes was all right, and they liked that privacy.
As the tournament got underway, it was as if the country had been turned upside down, with a revelry that had long been reserved for homes suddenly erupting in the streets, albeit mostly among foreign visitors.
When the match against Senegal ended (Qatar lost again), the women sat down to a three-course dinner under a canopy of twinkling lights and accompanied by a live singer.
Around 9 p.m., guests donned their abayas over jeans and silk blouses, laced up their Hermes bags, and headed out the door.
After Alanood gave me a warm hug, I asked him if he would be attending another World Cup match.
“Maybe,” he replied. “Maybe my friend will get a box.”
Source: Clarin
Mark Jones is a world traveler and journalist for News Rebeat. With a curious mind and a love of adventure, Mark brings a unique perspective to the latest global events and provides in-depth and thought-provoking coverage of the world at large.