Dink and Kylie passed Doha airport immigration, the series of burnished metal barricades and turnstiles loomed ahead like a treacherous obstacle course. The predominantly automated system decreased the face-to-face dynamic but not the certainty of outcome. The fingerprint scanner blinked green, they passed through the waist-high swing gate, and Dink and Kylie breathed a huge sigh of relief. It was likely a visible visceral relaxation but, with their adrenaline spiking, they had little control over it. They were fleeing Qatar. The stress was intense. Being a Friday morning, the start of the Middle Eastern weekend, the airport was busy. Dink’s sphincter RPM was at peak capacity, and Kylie was obviously nervous.
Yesterday, knowing Dink’s recent charge, the hospital human resources director had bluntly stated that, although Dink’s exit visa was current, he was going to flag this with the police. You could not exit Qatar without your employer approving the visa. Dink was fortunate that he had pre-approved annual leave so no undue suspicion was aroused.
They had now passed through immigration and the flight to Dubai was boarding within the hour. “Do you want a cuppa?” Kylie asked rhetorically. She was a compulsive tea drinker and drank a hot beverage at any opportunity. Dink concurred although a stiff Scotch would also have sufficed. “Nearly there,” he reassured.
“I think the tough part is over. The visa worked so we should be fine.” Ever the stoic optimist, Kylie was both a social butterfly with a kind heart and a hard-arse when required. She could certainly deal with most situations and she was proving this in testing times. They had agreed to flee Doha predominantly at Kylie’s direction, and a coin toss had fatefully confirmed their choice. A large curved sword inscribed on one face of the Qatari coin was the omen for departure. Whilst a hefty fine and further prison time was a strong chance, deportation was mandatory for drink diving offences. As Ramadan was imminent, flogging with the leather lash was a distinct possibility. If Dink had been Muslim, then lashes were almost certainly the punishment for drink driving.
“We’re leaving!” Kylie had stated adamantly as the disconcerting coin face declared itself, and Dink felt no compunction to argue the toss.
“I don’t fancy forty lashes and an economy flight outta here. That’s gotta be the worst option!” Dink was trying not to imagine the biting, searing pain that a flogging would inflict on soft flesh but had not been entirely successful. Why do people do that for sexual pleasure, he thought, randomly. Not for me, thanks.
Kylie organised packing up the house. Dink booked the shipping container.
“I’ve already spoken with Donna and she’ll store the boxes,” Kylie advised, as they couldn’t arrange the shipment in time, or in their name. Kylie was in her organisational element and Dink deferred to her proven expertise.
“You’re a marvel,” he said, and meant it. Dink was aware how kind this was of Donna to do this for them. He would thank Dave when he got to work. In private, whilst outwardly pretending that everything was fine. Business as usual.
Donna and Dave Broughton were lively British expats they had met, initially, through work. They had become close friends and, now, trusted allies. It was critical not to talk openly about the decision to flee Qatar. Expats generally accepted that state monitoring of communications occurred both at work and in private life, certainly with online communication such as emails but also likely phone conversations. This was not paranoia, just a fact. Qatar is not a democracy and if you are not a Qatari citizen then legal rights are limited, and confusing. Whilst these institutional intrusions were more likely to monitor political or social insurrection of the ruling family and the government, no one could be sure of the extent of targeted programs. A stray comment may be noticed coincidentally. It was wise to be on your guard. Further complicating the picture was that, within the Riviera Gardens compound where Dink and Kylie lived, many work colleagues resided in surrounding villas. Most had to drive directly past the front of their house to enter or exit the compound, and Dink and Kylie couldn’t afford idle speculation.
So, within twenty-four hours, Kylie had secretly packed their possessions, working through the day and night with curtains drawn. Dink had paid for a large truck and four men to arrive in the middle of the day when others were at work. The hired hands packed the boxes of possessions and transported them to Dave and Donna’s house for storage. Doha has designated road intersections where trucks and labourers congregate and await work. These crowded, dusty, industrial areas were perfect for Dink and Kylie’s purpose. Cheap and easy, with no traceability. This cargo would be shipped back to Australia in due course.
Closely monitoring the airport departures information, Dink and Kylie fervently sipped their drinks. Conversation was not forthcoming. Eventually, the screen indicated that Qatar Airways flight 87 to Dubai was due to board. They hastily gathered their hand luggage, left the café, and headed for the gate. Senses ablaze, they shuffled forwards with adrenaline pumping. The efficient staff scanned their passes without fuss, and Dink and Kylie walked onto the plane. Free as birds! A quick on-schedule take-off was a blessed relief. Relieved, they kissed fleetingly and settled comfortably into their seats.
“What a couple of days!” Kylie exclaimed.
Dink apologised for having put her through this ordeal. He thanked her for her love and support . “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” They both teared up. As a couple, it had been an overwhelmingly emotional experience, between arranging the move secretly, and also having to quickly and surreptitiously say farewell to their friends.
“As long as you know that you’re a complete dickhead!”
Dink mimicked a wriggling index finger coming out of his forehead, his feeble attempt at sign language. “No argument there.” Despite the stress, they managed a strangled laugh.
Life was already moving on.
Chapter 7: Marlon
January 24th, 2010
They decided to walk to the south of the island to have a look around. Kylie reminded Dink that Ajay had recommended going to Shipwreck Beach. Finishing a leisurely morning meal, they would set off later. With the red coconut tree in the yard producing abundant offerings, Dink had taken to the habit of drinking coconut water each morning. Combined with vegemite toast he reckoned it was the breakfast of champions. It helped that he was required to use a machete to open the coconut himself, adroitly chopping the cap off the husk with several precise lusty blows. What could possibly go wrong, he thought.
Kylie sung out to him, “I’ll grab a sarong we can use as a towel, the sunscreen, and some nibbles. Can you sort out the water?”
Dink filled up his backpack with several bottles of water so they could spend as long as they wanted out and about. The hot, humid weather and sparse water sources made carrying ample fluids essential. And, after only a few days on La Bajan, they hadn’t yet acclimatised to the challenging conditions. “It gets dark by six, so we’ll make sure we’re back before then.” They had been invited to Ajay’s parents’ place for dinner tonight.
“The sunsets are too good to miss.” Kylie passed him the rolled-up sarong to put into the backpack.
“And the sundowners too!” Dink mocked raising his glass as for the cocktail hour.
Dink and Kylie were seasoned campaigners who walked several hours each day wherever they were in the world, so this planning was routine. They busied themselves to their own tasks and were soon ready to go. Not being early risers, it was now late morning. The sun was heating the island towards an early afternoon crescendo.
“I’m
