‘That was the worst 30 minutes of my life. I’m never doing that again..never ever ever!’ she hisses the words into my face before taking off at a sprint in the direction of a heavily caffeinated latte.
 

Well at least her vocal cords are still working, I muse to myself, rubbing some circulation back into my numb arm-used-as-crutch as I watch her snake her way through the queue, and that is more than I could have said about myself three years ago. I’d been struck dumb for a good half day after my first foray behind the wheel. 
 

‘Never mind darling,’ I call out brightly from the back of the line. ‘The first time’s the most painful, it’ll never be that bad again. In fact in time you might even start to enjoy it!’  Oh well, in this whole expert-expats helping novice-expats settle in game; you do win some, lose some.
 

At least she should be thankful that I only made her drive down through Al Waab Street. Why, she only had to do a single roundabout on Salwa! Roundabouts, oh my God, what an evil word that became in my new found Doha vocabulary. In Mosman, Sydney the roundabouts had been these cute little intersections that I graciously sailed through with a pleasant smile on my face, one hand on the wheel while the other tapped along to some innocuous radio jingle. However, In October 2004 roundabouts for me, became the hell-holes where my bowls turned to jelly. 
 

‘Don’t talk!’ I’d shriek at the kids in the back. ‘I’m trying to make sure we don’t all DIE!’ Navigating the perilous school runs felt as though each moment in the car seat was taking years off my life. I counted eight roundabouts on the way to school, and of course eight coming back. Chalk in two school trips each day and that meant I was putting my life and sanity on the line thirty-two times within a twenty-four hour period. 
 

Sadly I was going to have to conquer my fear of the holes of hell, the pies of perdition, or as I liked to put it best the Circles of Circe. Circe after all being the Greek sorceress best known for turning men into animals and if that doesn’t just sum up what happens at the Doha roundabouts each and every day, well then I don’t know what does. 
 

As a Doha newbie I had tons of people to commiserate with. ‘I can’t drive here’ I’d moan, and get a round of nodding heads and knowing smiles. And everyone had their little bits of helpful advice to offer. 
 

‘You just need to get a car with a bit of muscle’. Hmm that did seem to be a sound piece of advice. The rental sedan, a normal sized car by most standards, made me feel like I was driving a Morris Minor. But just how big did the muscles have to be? Body-builder strength and steroid enhanced preferably, and a true commitment to the mantra of bigger is better. ‘It’s all in the attitude’. A “MAN” once told me whilst tipping back his hat “Be aggressive, be defensive, have eyes on all sides of your head, don’t worry about anyone behind you just focus on the front, drive fast, slow down, forget about road rules, never let your concentration drop, and of course you haven’t really been blooded on the Doha roads until you’ve moved beyond your first dents and scrapes and had a proper accident.”?What the..? Take me back to Sydney now!
 

Almost four years down the line and I’m licking milk foam off my upper lip. The new friend I was trying to initiate into the Doha driving scene has disappeared with her take-away cup, no doubt that’s the last I’ll see of her. No grit, no stamina, what a wuss! I try to muster up some sympathy but it’s not coming. I suppose I could have also given up and spent these past years cowering inside the house, clutching the phone list of different limousine services, begging lifts off friends, waiting for my husband to come home so that we could go for groceries, wishing for pedestrian-friendly pavements or at least a reliable driver. The coffee’s down to its dregs as I grab my bag and make my way out into the heat. My car keys jingle merrily in my hand and as I clamber into my seat, and even if I’m not filled with anticipatory pleasure at least I’m no longer shaking with terror. Bring ‘em on Circe..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Zahra Romana was born in Rio de Janeiro and spent her formative years travelling the world as  part of a Pakistani diplomatic family. She completed her studies at Smith College in Massachusetts and the Jawaharlal Nehru University in New Delhi, before returning to Pakistan in 1993 to work in the rural development and poverty alleviation sector. For the past seven years she has again been travelling the world accompanying her architect husband on various postings, raising her three sons and getting a lot more material to channel into her fiction writing. She has previously published several short fiction stories,  and is currently based in Qatar where she is an active member of the Doha Writers Workshop.