was also not used to these cramped and confrontational confines. No one tells you what jail will be like. Perhaps no one thinks to ask, or to offer. Certainly, Dink didn’t plan to be here. He had been deeply uneasy when the prison guards took his belt from him as they processed his entry, but they had left him with his watch and his wallet. So now he was the only well-dressed westerner in a crowded prison with both his watch and his wallet on him. Visions of Henri Charrière’s Papillon and the harsh realities of jail life flickered through his mind as he casually turned toward the wall, mimicked a cough, and surreptitiously deposited 2,200 Riyals of cash into his underpants. At least it was easier without a belt.
The night had started so differently. After work Dink had driven out to The Pearl precinct on the sprawling northern outskirts of Doha for his friend’s farewell party. Sam Weatherall was repatriating to Texas after several years working in oil and gas company management. He deserved a good send-off. Coming straight from work at the hospital, Dink was suitably well dressed for the upmarket restaurant and, as he arrived, he spotted Kylie amongst the crowd. He headed straight for her.
“Hi, beautiful,” he greeted his wife as he approached and leant in for a kiss.
“Joe,” she cried excitedly, barely missing a beat of conversation with several of their friends. “Have a beer.” She reached for a long, chilled glass from the nearby counter bar.
Casual kissed welcomes followed with the accompanying group of ladies, but Dink was after Sam, as it was his night. Dink spotted him across the room, took a few long sips of the frosty beverage and answered the rapid-fire questions as best he could. “Work was fine. Glad to be finished. Thanks, these are my work clothes,” and, “Yep, we’ll be on holiday next week. Can’t wait.” He was already moving as he excused himself and headed for Sam at the adjacent table.
“Hey, mate.” They saluted each other almost in unison as they hugged. “Good to see you.”
“I can’t believe you’re leaving us,” Dink chided gently.
“You know how it is. Tough country to live in.” A shared truth for western expatriates in Qatar and, likely, the rest of the Middle East.
“Where’s Lisbeth?”
“She’s doing the rounds, as you’d expect.”
“True. I’ll find her later. How’s the noggin?” He indicated Sam’s head.
“Feels pretty good. Barely a scar.”
“You know I wrote my name in there,” Dink teased.
“Yeah, yeah. Could be worse, Mohammad Abdurahman could’ve done it!” They both laughed uproariously, not disparaging the Qatari doctor’s skills but wary of his lengthy name in sutures.
Recently, whilst playing social soccer with Dink and his workmates, Sam had suffered a nasty forehead laceration. Fortunately, the soccer fields were adjacent to the sports medicine hospital where Dink worked. He took Sam across and stitched his head there and then. In the end it was a good outcome for everyone. “But did you write Dink, or Joe?”
“Some things should remain a mystery.”
Dink, aka Joe Salter, was born and raised in inner-city Sydney in the ’70s as a gritty, streetwise, smartarse Aussie. His original nickname was ‘da Earth’ as a bastardisation of ‘salt of the earth’, which his equally smartarse mates thought incredibly clever but, ultimately, too cumbersome. They had slowly morphed his nickname to Dink, as in Dinky-Di Aussie, which playfully yet accurately described his character. Dink pretended he didn’t like it but was secretly proud of the moniker. It suited. Everyone called him Dink. The only exception was Kylie. She hated the nickname with a passion.
“So, are you having a break before you go back to Texas?” Dink hadn’t seen his friend since the raucous party to usher in 2010. Memories of the night were hazy at best.
“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
