Qatar Humor

I was alarmed to read in the news that a Qatar diplomat was involved in what initially appeared to be a shoe-bomb incident aboard a U.S. flight, but was genuinely astonished to learn later that the whole thing turned out to be a quip gone horribly wrong. Mohammed al Modadi, who seems to have been sneaking a cigarette in the lavatory, was challenged by Federal air marshals, and he told them that he was trying to “light his shoes on fire”, after which he was promptly subdued (though later released).

Who would have dreamed that the citizens of Qatar were such cut-ups? My curiosity got the better of me, and so this morning I paid a visit to the Qatari embassy in Washington in order to get a close-up look at these merry Mohammedan mad-caps.

It was a fine day as I walked up the half-dozen steps to the front door. The sunshine, filtered through the branches of a Japanese maple tree, created a mottled pattern of light and shade on the porch. The door had a small sign on it that read “Pull”; obeying instructions to the letter, I pulled on the ornate brass door-handle, but the thing didn’t budge. I tried again, with no greater success, and so finally grasped the heavy brass knocker and gave a couple of short raps. A deep masculine voice bellowed from inside, “Push!” I did so, and the door opened easily.

A uniformed security guard chuckled softly. “Heh-heh. Welcome to the Qatar Embassy, sir! One of these days, we get around to putting that ‘Pull’ sign on the other side of the door, maybe. How may I help you?”

I stated my interest in interviewing the information officer, and the guard told me to step over to a desk near the entrance-way to a hall that ran through the building. Still grinning, the guard said, “Mr. Rasheed will help you.”

I walked over to the desk, but there was obviously a dearth of Rasheeds. I looked around and saw only the guard, who had resumed his position near the door. I poked my head over the desk and was nearly startled out of my skin when a sort of midget suddenly shot up out of nowhere. He was attired in a white robe and a ridiculously large green turban, and his face bore an angry scowl. In a high, squeaky voice he asked, rather querulously, “Are you an American?”

“Er, yes”, I answered, “You see, I’d like to…”

Before I could finish my sentence, the pint-sized Qatari opened the front of his robe, revealing a bandolier full of dynamite, and he pulled a chord, shouting “Allah akbar!” There was a loud Pop!, and a puff of smoke. I’m sure that I set a new record for the standing, flat-footed back-jump, and I’m not altogether sure that my Panama hat didn’t flip over in the air several times in the manner of a coin toss. As the smoke cleared, a large man in a baggy gray suit rose from behind the desk, holding the littlest Qatari under one arm - a ventriloquist’s dummy! He – the real Mr. Rasheed - was positively guffawing.

“Haw, haw, haw!! Did you get that one, Daud?”

I turned to look at the guard, and he was standing there holding a camera in his hand, apparently having captured my ludicrous high-jump for posterity.

“Got it, chief!”

Mr. Rasheed advanced with an outstretched hand. “I hope you will forgive my little joke, sir. It is a kind of rite of passage for all first-time visitors to our Embassy.”

I took his hand and immediately felt a jolt run up my arm, the experience being strongly suggestive of the effect on a toddler who has decided that the obvious purpose of a fork is to stick it into an electrical outlet.

Mr Rasheed burst into laughter again, holding his palm out and revealing a joy buzzer.

There was much of a highly offensive nature that I could have said at that moment; however, reluctant to run the risk of damaging diplomatic relations with a country that, given the inscrutable foreign policy designs of the current administration, might prove to be our only ally in the near future, I played the good sport.

“Er…heh…very amusing, Mr Rasheed. In fact, your practical jokes dovetail nicely with my reason for being here. Having read about your Mr. Modadi’s practical joke aboard the airplane yesterday, I came to chat with your information officer about this heretofore unperceived strain of humor that seems to be an attribute of the typical Qatari’s personality.”

I winced as he threw a comradely arm around my shoulder – wary, lest he attempt to slip a mouse into the breast pocket of my suit jacket.

“Ah, you have stumbled across the best-kept secret in the middle east, my friend! We Qataris are indeed a light-hearted, fun-loving people. Always the life of the party! Incidentally, I am the information officer, but, if you like, I will be glad to introduce you to the ambassador, himself!”

After what I had been through thus far, this was certainly gratifying news. Surely the ambassador would possess sufficient gravitas to provide me with a few minutes of sober conversation.

Mr. Rasheed went over to the telephone on his desk, mumbled a few words into the instrument, and then escorted me toward the rear of the building. Our progress was extremely slow, as my guide insisted on pointing out various objets d’art nestled in little nooks and alcoves, and drawing my attention to a map of Qatar on the wall, expounding on the country’s history at rather greater length than my attention-span could easily accommodate.

Finally, we reached the ambassador’s office, and Mr. Rasheed took me inside. Rising from a beautiful mahogany desk, impeccably attired in a blue pinstriped suit, was the ambassador. He held out his hand and I took it; it felt strangely cold and stiff.

Imagine my horror when the ambassador’s hand came loose in mine, leaving an empty cuff dangling by his side. I heard a click and saw a flash in my peripheral vision. It was the security guard and his camera again.

The three men laughed until they cried, while I stood there, staring dumbly at the prosthetic paw that I was still clenching. I dropped it on the desk, drew myself up and prepared to deliver myself of what I believe is called a diplomatic protest, when Mr. Rasheed patted me on the shoulder. “You are very good sport! Please, sit here.”

I didn’t want to come across as priggish, so I forced a smile. However, instead of taking the chair offered, I thought to outfox them, and plopped down in another – only to suffer the embarrassment of creating a loud burst of apparent flatulence. I leaped from the chair, extracting from its hidden depths a whoopee cushion.

“Really, Mr. Ambassador, this is all…er…highly irregular!”

“Sí”, he said.

I was perplexed. “See what?” I inquired.

“Sí, is very irregular, I theen’.”

His speech sounded oddly Spanish to me. “Pardon me, but you are the Qatari ambassador, aren’t you?”

The camera clicked and flashed again.

The three of them broke out in a chorus of their now familiar laughter. Mr. Rasheed, slapping his thigh and wiping the tears of merriment from his eyes, explained that the Qatari ambassador was out of town, and that the fellow who had imposed on me was, in actuality, the embassy janitor, Juan Morales. In fact, he said, he had slowed our progress to the ambassador’s office for the precise purpose of giving Juan sufficient time to change from his overalls into one of the ambassador’s suits.

I felt that I had gathered all the information I needed on the drollery inherent in the Qatari character – and then some – so, bidding them good day, I moved briskly down the hall towards the front door. Mr. Rasheed and his entourage ran after me. The information officer attempted to sooth my bruised amour-propre. “Sir, please, wait! I’m sorry if we have offended you. Here”, he said, taking a can of nuts from his desk, “kindly accept this small offering of atonement. They are almonds grown in my own country. Try one.”

He seemed so sincere, so remorseful, that it would have been churlish to have refused his gift. So, smiling a smile that conveyed the idea that all was forgiven, I pried the top off the can – only to have a four-foot long paper snake pop out.

Click, went the camera.

I ran to the door – remembering, in spite of my agitation, to “Pull” – and strode off down the street.

My relief at having escaped the Qatari funhouse was, however, premature. As I stood on a corner, waiting to cross the street, I received a swift kick in the seat of my trousers. I turned in high indignation to see one of my friends from the office, grinning fatuously.

“What did you do that for?” I asked, between clenched teeth.

“Just following instructions”, he said, pointing at my shoulder.

I reached over my shoulder and discovered a yellow post-it note, which I pulled off and read. On the paper was scribbled the following imperative sentence: “Kick me!”