Sharp shootersuper visual looter – firing largehi-res trouble charged – on the street in the bar my flash makesyoua rock star – anytime any day Fuji Fine Pix is here to stay – soaking sipping tripping up the scene Im the pixel queen -lean keen I got you on my digi screen – moments chosen memories frozen fine -freedom defined colours combined so get your figure posed I never over expose!

Adabisc nights
by Nic Obi

Doha is sleeping adabisc is beeping – tick tock tick tock – nocturnal journal wide awake ideas come out to shake colours play no curfew they don’t obey – RGB just let me be CMYK please do covey creative juices no excuses break out inner child go wild with wonder trigger down under this animated mind make them dance let them sing cover coated extra bling flick the switch break the rules so we can produce the tools.

Part 1 – Dalla Showroom for Car Auction

Doha is a photogenic city. Not in the way Paris or Cape Town maybe, but it has a haphazard charm that loves the lens. I’ve lived in the city all of six weeks, and driven an abused Mitsubishi for a week, so losing my bearings started soon after pulling out of my compound. This was a good thing, considering my mission, which was to get lost as quickly as possible.

It was late on a Friday afternoon, midsummer in the Gulf, and the skies swept clean by a weeklong wind. I hadn’t shot anything since arriving, but had spotted a few great potentials, if only I could find them again. I was looking for sparse shots, something run down and decrepit, and the industrial areas seemed like a good place to start.

I headed away from the city centre, turning at junctions on whichever road seemed the widest or busiest, hunting the abandoned outskirts. An off-ramp suggested the Sanai’a Industrial Area, which seemed a solid bet. At first, it looked ideal, a mix of reconstruction and decline, poverty and prosperity. It wasn’t long before the emptiness started to look a little crowded. The otherwise deserted Friday streets were busy, although none of the businesses were trading. Clumps of people lined the sidewalks, talking among themselves or staring at the traffic. It wasn’t long before I hit gridlock, the roundabout ahead a tangle of cars.

Something was going on, it wasn’t clear what. It reminded me of the illegal street racing I’d seen back in Durban. Impromptu meets organised on the internet where fly people and fast cars congregated at strange hours to test the mettle of their modified GTIs and M3 BMWs, and invariably ended up killing someone. But the crowd wasn’t right, and this was too big to be drag racing. Pedestrians were walking out into the stalled traffic and speaking to drivers, some leaning up to the waist through passenger windows, others popping the bonnet to look at the engine.

A burly guy in a salmon shirt, precisely pressed slacks and aviator shades tapped on the glass. I gave the window two inches and leaned across. “You want beer?” he asked. “No”, I replied. Hell yes, I thought to myself. Could this be the big Doha booze market, middle of a Friday afternoon in a distant strip of industrial district? That didn’t fit the bill either. There were too many people, too much activity for this to be illicit. I wasn’t moving anywhere, and the crowds were getting denser further in, so I parked the Lancer and got my kit out the back. I had made the mistake of wearing what appeared to be a crucifix on my shirt – it was an Ankh, but I realised most people weren’t going to care for the difference, and I’d learnt in Dubai that some people found it odious.

Soon I realised that cars were the draw card. Ten year-old Corollas and dubious sounding Mustangs were parked in the dust on both sides of the roads, and hand written signs in Arabic pasted in the windows.

I took a few snaps, looking to get the dust and noise and jam of cars. It wasn’t working – from the ground it just looked messy. I spotted the half built shell of a showroom, open and seemingly abandoned. The concrete staircase led to a roof two storeys up. From there I could see the extent of it. Three city blocks crammed with people, cars and a hanging cloud of dust. I could hear the unmistakable babble of auction, and after capturing a few shots of the mêlée, I headed in the direction of the sale.

The Dalla Showroom for Car Auction was an open lot, a single corrugated sunshade splitting the space. One side was empty, the other sported two rows of beaters – cars of suspicious lineage, all under the hammer and up for immediate sale, buyer beware. Megaphones were suspended from the ceiling and powered with a pair a of crocodile clips to the car battery of the vehicle on the block. At any one time, five or six cars were being called, the auctioneers competing to outshout or out-style their competitors. Some of the beaters got more attention than others – a white Mercedes, five or six years old with 200K on the clock was getting solid bids, while a camper van, at least thrice the age and an odometer that had likely done at least one full rotation, sat echoing the mounting pleas of its caller.

I was getting mixed reactions. One or two of the auctioneers posed and played up for the camera. But a younger guy, dressed in dish-dash and Ferrari cap, glared at me. His friend approached and spoke aggressively in Arabic. “Is it okay?” I asked, kicking myself for the Ankh on my tee. “Why?” he barked back.

“I work for a magazine,” I said, flapping my hands like pages and trying to appear as diminutive as possible. He squared up, flaring his chest and lifting his jaw, and I decided that the best course of action was to find something less aggressive to shoot.

The day wore on. The cars destined to sell were sold and those destined to cling to their owners like so much crumbling upholstery and cracked vinyl did just that. Soon enough the gridlock began to flow and the hostile stares ebbed with it. I climbed into the Lancer and made my way through the stretching shadows of an industrial afternoon, with no clue of how to get home.

Grand Torino

DESCRIBE IT IN FIVE WORDS:

Moving. Badass. Intense. Gripping. Hopeful

PERFORMANCE THAT BLEW YOU AWAY:

Clint Eastwood was really something. In fact it’s my favourite Clint movie.

WHAT’S SO SPECIAL ABOUT THE FILM?

“It is a strong, compelling film and an incredibly moving story. It’s got great characters and the relationships between them are complicated and realistic. Throughout the movie you have no idea what’s going to happen. Clint is totally cool. And it’s got a neat, but unique twist on the Kung Fu mentor-student type dynamic; even though the mentor is racist and mean. The movie’s got a few funny moments too. My opinion? It’s totally worth the watch!”

Patricia Donohue

STORYLINE:

Grand Torino is the story of Korean war veteran Walt Kowalski who has recently lost his wife.  Not only is Kowalski an outcast, he is alienated from the world around him, including his own family. Kowalski is also a racist who believes stereotypes, both positive and negative.

Kowalski’s neighbours are a Hmong family, whose two teenagers have become the targets of a local Hmong gang.  When his neighbours are attacked, Eastwood inadvertently saves them from the gang while protecting his own house.  His Hmong neighbours are grateful and begin to view him as a hero. While he initially spurns their friendship, he eventually accepts them.  Ironically, he becomes closer to them than he could ever get, to his own family.  On the surface it sounds like your typical “grumpy old guy hates everyone then has a change of heart” storyline. But the thing is; it’s not!

CAST:

Clint Eastwood, Christopher Carley, Bee Vang, Ahney Her, Brian Haley, Geraldine Hughes, Dreama Walker

You’ve arrived at do-hà-Magazine.

do-hà Magazine is about interesting things.  It is about people, places, pictures and words.

It is about life in Qatar; about living, laughing, absorbing and enjoying it.  It is about finding something we can’t help but talk about, shooting it, describing it and placing it here – for you: to watch, read, absorb and enjoy!

do-hà is brought to you by ADabisc.