With no protection from the still potent setting sun, aside from my own ridiculous Handmaid’s Tale style hat, I sat stiff as a toy soldier in the spectator stands of the beach soccer game between Senegal and Iran, on the edge of Katara Beach, in Doha, Qatar.  With a straight back I discovered I could subtly wiggle and direct the river of sweat down my spine and into my underwear catchment. As disgusting as that sounds, I preferred it to slouching or squirming and getting my flesh stuck to the cotton t-shirt dress I wore.  If enough of my body were to touch the fabric, oceans of sweat would seep through the thin material and I would be left looking like a two ply paper towel floating in a bathtub. I chose the ‘underwear catchment’. I shifted conspicuously to keep the sweat stream moving efficiently down the fleshy ditch of my back, like an irrigation system made of halved bamboo shoots.  This was definitely a worst case scenario for me - in the throes of an unpredictable battle with my own internal thermostat, thanks to perimenopause, AND visiting my husband as he worked on the ANOC World Beach Games in a peninsular Arab country just coming out of its summer temperatures.  Hot flashes in the desert are as enjoyable as tattooing oneself sober with a safety pin and a bottle of bacteria-laced ink. It not only looks bad, it feels pretty bad too. I learned very quickly all the many ways I could be uncomfortable.

“It’s hot here.  Brace yourself” was the last text I got from my husband before I left for Doha.  The Middle East in March is a far different experience than the Middle East in early October I learned.  A previous visit to Abu Dhabi in March was a gas - reasonable temperatures, and extraordinary sights. I marveled at the palaces and the culture of Sheikh’s, grand mosques and women who lived beneath the black Burqa. Foolishly, I expected a similar experience in Doha in October.  Stepping off the plane and onto the tarmac at 7pm I was met with a heat so thick and moist it felt like someone had placed several pieces of hot, wet bread, fresh out of the microwave, on my arms, throat, and over my mouth. No breeze, no air flow, no explanation as to where this wall of suffocating warmth was coming from.  The sun had set two hours ago, surely it should have cooled off by now? My twelve year old son rolled up his sleeves, hiked up his pants and greeted the hot air with a grin that said “show me the pool!”. Damn the low-hormone, prepubescent male youth, resilient and triumphant in any climate. I immediately started creating a mental checklist of all my options for staying cool while in Doha.  They ranged from; turn-the-hell-around-and-leave, cut the toes out of my sneakers, cut an inch off of all my dresses, buy a battery powered handheld fan and sit in a corner like a fat man in a black and white movie set in Casablanca, stay away from the sun (in the desert?), avoid all cultural sites that do not have duct work for A/C or, remain underwater at all times. I was an educated woman abroad with choice and opportunity.  I would survive. 

Once we were seated comfortably in our Careem (Uber of the Middle East), I dabbed at my moist neck like a real southern belle and very nearly said, in a steamy drawl, “Well I say, it’s hotter than Georgia asphalt in the month of Ju-ly out there” - but I refrained.  Instead, I spit out, “It’s hot out eh?”. The driver did not respond.

The hallways at the hotel were muggy but thankfully the rooms were properly chilly.  When my first post-travel hot flash hit me, triggered by exhaustion, I was able to mount my defense in the usual way - peel off a layer, and fan myself with something -  a magazine, a hat, a flattened yurt, whatever I could find that might bring me relief. After dropping our stuff off in the room, we met my husband for a bite to eat at the Souk Waqif, an open air market.  “Open-air” is a generous term. I spent a great deal of time looking for air in the open. No luck. Walking through the market felt like walking through a series of wet thermal curtains, one after the other, dragging more heat across my face and dampened limbs like a smelly car wash. I shuffled around the alleyways like a menopausal zombie in a cruel 1984-esque fun house or escape room, listening to the imaginary ticking clock counting down to the moment I would snap and run for the nearest boutique hotel to soak up some AC while pretending to be a guest.  “Well hello Jeeves - just popping back in to wait for a taxi. Carry on.” It didn’t take long for me to crack. Luckily my husband likes hotels and is happy to play this game.  

That evening we sat at an outdoor table and ordered a selection of North African and Middle Eastern fair. I was careful to dress according to the recommendations I received on our last trip;  women should keep shoulders and knees covered. I managed the shoulder part, despite the argument from my armpits, but the back of my knees needed to breathe the way Donald Trump thinks he needs to tweet. Knee length was the most I could tolerate.

I love the sights, sounds and smells of any new place and I slipped very quickly into voyeur mode, forgetting that to others, I looked like a boiled potato fresh from the pot, dripping and discoloured.  I prayed that my internal thermostat would adjust and I would manage the rest of the trip without such dramatic leaking. Surely no alcohol would help me stay cool? This was a dry country, under Sharia law; alcohol is only available at hotel bars or by permit.  This would be a cleanse my body would delight in. Or so I told myself every time I reached for the phantom glass of wine missing from the table.  

While dipping my kibbeh and pretending to drink, the women of Qatar moved about in my peripheral vision in their flowing black Burqa’s, Abaya’s and head scarves, with many more in the Niqab and even a few in a Battoulah - a stiff face mask that reveals only the eyes.  I kept my attention on my family but my eyes often wondered to these women in black. In the streets, hotel lobbies, shopping malls and restaurants, I watched them. A cloud of perfume; sandalwood, vanilla, musk and a heavy floral scent signaled to me their presence. The younger women had striking eyes painted in a deep purple shadow, dramatically darkened with black liner and mascara; cheeks contoured in maroon and solid pink. Each step they took revealed brightly coloured toe nails tucked under a sparkling sandal or expensive heel - a Louboutin or Valentino; secret luxury and glamour underneath the Abaya.  The older women stuck to muted shades and plain faces, their Abayas almost too long to see the flat sandal hidden beneath. The mothers moved quicker, kicking their Abaya forward with a solid sneaker or cushioned sandal as they chased little ones around. Every once in a while, I noticed them looking at me. I envied their dry faces and seeming lack of discomfort in the heat.

Day after day, I met the challenge of trying to stay cool with the clumsy effort of a city worker trying to mend a water main break with a scrunchie.  One morning, we ventured out of the hotel to visit the athletes village and have a swim in their large pool. One of the benefits of visiting this pool was being able to watch all the athletes.  We tried to identify players we had seen on the beach in competition as they relaxed poolside out of their country uniform - the Brazilian tennis team, Ukrainian basketball players, Japanese wrestlers.  Depending on the sport, their jersey or uniform for the Beach Games was not so different from their teeny tiny swimsuits. I swam and puddled about with my son in my large hat and sunglasses and marveled at the female French handball players sitting in the direct sun with no sunglasses or hats.  They lazed about like lizards on rocks; the sun bounced off each and every ab muscle the way moonlight skips across the wake left by a speed boat at midnight. Their golden skin and lean muscles made some of them look like wax figures. I’m sure I looked like wax too - the kind you scrape off the side of an old taper candle - faded and bulbous.  When the men’s beach soccer team from Spain entered the pool, I slipped into the water again and waded over to a corner like a gator avoiding detection in a swamp. Lucky for me these boys stayed in the shallow end, half in the water, half out, like partially unwrapped candy at a birthday party. I watched them the way I watched the women in the market - curious at how different their lives are from my own, and envious of their cool existence in the extreme heat.  After coming out of my pervy trance, I realized I hadn’t seen my son or husband for a few minutes. Not surprisingly, they were at the other end of the pool at the waterfall near the Brazilian women’s soccer team. Totally fair. Before I set off toward them, an epic mid-morning hot flash hit me, partially triggered by the embarrassment of my lurking, partially triggered by the heat and quite possibly started by the steam coming off the chiseled physiques of the athletes.  My sunglasses fogged up, fire rose from my fingertips to my forehead, and my hairline exploded with water; whole droplets appearing like magic. I had no choice but to take my hat off and dunk. After cooling off and giving my head a shake, I swam over to my husband, arriving just as the hot flash fizzled to a mild rosiness. A hot flash in a pool was an entirely new experience for me.  

Each day I plotted and planned the best outfit in my quest to be, a) respectful of local culture, and b) to appease my body and its unprecedented need to lose water weight at the first sign of warmth or emotion.  I was curious as I donned an Abaya and headscarf during a visit to a local mosque to see if these ladies were on to something and I would feel cooler.  I changed into the black robe and briefly ducked out into the courtyard of the mosque before heading into the main prayer room. Shocker - I melted. The fabric was not breathable and merely felt like I was peeking out from under a flowing hazmat suit.  The women who helped me get into the clothes were gracious, poised, kind, curious, helpful and wore their Abaya’s and Burqa’s with stature and elegance. I don’t know what they saw when they looked at me. I can only imagine. While they remained in the room connected to the women’s prayer room, I made my way into the men’s prayer gallery, with tourist status, to meet my son and our tour guide, a man from the UK named Dominic.  His journey of searching and finding comfort and faith in Allah is another story altogether. While I followed Dominic around the Mosque, I tripped several times on the fabric of my Abaya and fussed with my headscarf as it continually fell around me, feeling like a child in her mother’s dress dancing to a fast song; each movement triggering more body heat and awkwardness. I thought back to the pool and the half naked athletes. They moved around in very little clothing with the same confidence and ease the women who dressed me moved in their all encompassing robes.  The two extremes weighed on my mind as I sunk into an internal dialogue of right and wrong, good and bad, better and worse. I thought back to how few women in Burqa’s I had actually seen in the stands at the Beach Games. They had mostly been in the playgrounds around the beach with children or in cafes with other women, enjoying a karak and a sweet. Then there were the half dressed athletes on the scorching courts, pushing their bodies to the limit in their sport, wearing their fitness like a designer suit made of golden skin and lean muscle. Lastly, there was me, in the stands, living somewhere in the middle; too self-conscious to be exposed in sport on a beach, confused and clumsy in a full length Abaya, but perpetually complaining and sweaty in my modest summer dresses and over-sized hats.  

While I spent all my mental energy trying to be still during the very rowdy and exciting beach soccer game between Senegal and Iran, I stole a moment to look around me.  A group of enthusiastic fans from Iran caught my eye as they waved flags and tooted horns. At first glance, it looked like a good time. As I looked closer, I noticed there were no women in the group.  One week prior to these games, after international pressure from human rights groups, the Iranian government lifted a ban disallowing women to purchase tickets and attend soccer matches after 40 years of exclusion.  The September death of a 29 year old fan, Sahar Khodayari - a young woman who set herself on fire in protest of her 6 month sentence for attending a match illegally, dressed as a man and in public without a head covering, shocked the international football community, sparking the change.  I paused and dabbed my forehead. Desert heat cannot compare to fire. This game, my presence, my mild discomfort, are wonderful.

As I battle the embarrassing symptoms of perimenopause, I must continually remind myself of all the many ways I am privileged to sweat - half naked by a pool, under the cover of a robe, or in a tailored knee length dress.  There is no option off limits to me, only the boundaries of my own comfort and confidence.

I wish never to judge anyone who has chosen a different path than me, or inherited a culture that does not offer choice, but only to count my lucky stars every moment of every day that I am able to live a life that allows me freedom to choose, travel, learn, make mistakes, express myself, and be cared for.  I am grateful for the advantage of education and the perpetual opportunities I have to connect to a greater global community of women. These things are important.  Right or wrong, good or bad, better or worse, on this trip I learned all the many ways I am comfortable. 

I turned away from the Iranian fans and relaxed my spine, giving up the fight to separate sweat from fabric.  In an instant, my dewy flesh made contact with my dress.  All my back sweat soaked the material like blood through a fresh cotton dressing on an open wound.  I enjoyed the rest of the match, watched the sun set and sat with my son deciding what to do and where to go after the game, because I could. I peeled my dress off the metal seat as I stood and silently looked forward to my next hot flash, wherever, whenever and however it comes.

By Carol Sloan

Myselfthink.com - Ranked one of the Top 50 Toronto Blogs by Feedspot - https://blog.feedspot.com/toronto_blogs/.

Link for Islamic Heritage Month - https://muslimlink.ca/news/muslim-canadian-islamic-history-month-islamic-heritage-month-canada-ontario-2

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