Hello Doha. I landed without a hitch, grabbed yet another metro card, and made my way to my £25-a-night bargain accommodation in Al Mansoura, affectionately known as Little India. Still lots of men around. But clean. No mysterious smells. No pavement chicken executions. A step up from Al Batha, let’s say. On my way to Lulu Hypermarket, my constant in life, I was stopped by police for an ID check. Fair enough. Probably shouldn’t have taken their photo. Passport was back in my room, so I handed over my UK driving licence. He squinted at it like it was a rare artefact.
“Do you work here?”
“Nope. Holiday.”
Pause.
“Welcome to Qatar.”
And off I went. Briskly.
Day one: complete.
Day 2 mission sounded simple, collect my Iranian visa. My tour operator said it would be easy. Easy, he said.Cut to me standing at the counter inside the Iranian Embassy in Doha, being told my visa would cost $350 instead of the $80–$130 I’d been quoted.
“Emergency visa,” the guy says.
“No. It’s already approved. I’m just collecting it.”
Shrug. “That’s the price.”
Meanwhile I’m on WhatsApp with my tour operator who is absolutely spiralling. “No way! Max $150 emergency!” He tells me to get the guy’s name. I’m thinking, how exactly? Ask him to spell it while he’s holding my passport hostage? The man calls me over. “How are you paying?”
“Credit card,” I say, discreetly filming and wondering if this is how people end up in international prison documentaries.
He takes my card.
“Give me your PIN.”
I actually laughed out loud. He charges me 855 riyals, the normal visa price, and casually says, “Come back later. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week.”
Absolutely not. I say fine, charge the $350. Suddenly the PIN is no longer required. Fascinating how that works. Ten minutes later he hands me my visa, which is essentially the exact same piece of paper I gave him earlier with a fresh stamp and a $200 “service fee for existing.” Then, because we hadn’t reached peak absurdity yet, he realises he undercharged me by 7 riyals and taps my card again. I smiled sweetly, grabbed my passport, and got the fuck out before he charged me for oxygen.
Yes, I’m $200 poorer. But my tour operator says he’ll report him to the Ministry, which in Iran could mean anything and probably isn’t a cosy HR chat.
After being daylight-robbed, I did what any rational person would do. I walked. Fifteen miles along West Bay, the Doha Corniche, past the harbour and old port, and back to Al Mansoura. My longest walk since my knee injury two months ago. The skyscrapers are fabulous. The waterfront is genuinely lovely. And step by step, the embassy rage faded. In the Al Mina district, everything is colourful and polished for tourists. Restaurants overcharge with confidence. No fast food in sight. Lifeguards on duty, just in case someone dramatically cannonballs into the Gulf.
Sometimes a place is just pretty. And that’s allowed. I visited the Doha Central Fish Market, fully prepared for chaos and eau de fish. Instead I find chandeliers, sparkling counters and fish laid out on ice like they’re posing for Vogue. A faint whisper of seafood, mixed with what I swear was perfume. It’s a bougie fish market. I’ve seen fish markets. I’ve seen luxury markets. I have never seen them combined. Subtle fish aroma, heavy whiff of opulence, and a strong “you’re rich if you shop here” undertone.
Next was Souq Waqif, it pretends to be ancient. Narrow alleys, mud-coloured walls, traditional facades. But peek inside and it’s shiny coffee shops, tourist-trap restaurants, and enough expensive knick-knacks to bankrupt you before you reach the spice stalls. To be fair, they’ve done a decent job keeping it visually convincing. And reminders of the recent World Cup are everywhere. Doha somehow manages a pleasant city-centre vibe. I still ate at Lulu. I am not selling a kidney for coffee.
Next stop was Lusail. Post-World Cup, it feels like a movie set after the crew’s gone home. Shops open. No customers. Security guards glued to their phones. The tram not running because…who’s it for? I had to walk 40 minutes to the promenade. Near the marina there was finally some life, quirky skyscrapers, over-the-top malls, and a distinct “we’re fancy but empty” atmosphere. I weirdly liked the ghost-town feel.
Then Katara Cultural Village.
I wandered onto Shakespeare Street (because of course that exists here). Fountains doing their watery performance. A golden mosque gleaming. An amphitheatre that looks ancient but was definitely not built in Roman times.
It’s impressive. It’s shiny. It’s very curated.
But for me? A lot of bling. Not much soul.
Since I can’t drive, I hired a guide with a 4WD for a trip north. I am not starring in my own desert survival documentary.
First stop was Al Zubarah Fort. Completely reconstructed, yet somehow UNESCO listed. I raised an eyebrow but kept it moving. Then deep into Brouq Nature Reserve to see the Richard Serra sculpture “East-West/West-East.” Four giant steel slabs in the middle of absolutely nowhere. No shade. No sign. Just metal and miles of desert. Minimalism at its most aggressive.
On to Zekreet Fort ruins, which at least looked like actual ruins and not something finished last Tuesday. The real highlight though was the Zekreet rock formations. The drive alone was gorgeous. The rocks look like Mother Nature got bored and started doodling. Apparently there’s a mushroom, a fish, an eye, and an umbrella hidden in the shapes. I squinted. Tilted my head. Blinked dramatically. Saw none of them but still loved it.
Final stop was the camel race track. Not race day. Training day. Which meant camels. Everywhere. More than five thousand of them, including baby camels, all wandering about for their evening walk like it was completely normal. They crossed roads. Used pedestrian crossings. Queued politely. Honestly they are more road-aware than half the drivers I’ve encountered. The smell was absolutely atrocious. But standing there, surrounded by thousands of camels against a desert sunset, was the perfect bizarre finale to Qatar
