I prefer countries that don't beat women and treat them like property. I prefer countries that don't practice genital mutilation of young women. I prefer countries where school children are not raised to aspire to one day be able to kill a Jew and/or martyr themselves by blowing themselves up among crowds of innocent shoppers.

I haven't even told you a tenth of how I feel about Doha, Qatar, Manama, Bahrain, or Abu Dhabi, U.A.E., or Sharjah, Saudi Arabia, the four places where I came and went, sometimes for months at a time, working for countries whose "enlightened" think I am the devil and unclean and racially inferior to themselves.

Have you ever lived in a country where by government decree you have to stay in an expat compound so that you won't "poison" their culture with your filthy Western ways?

And if we are so filthy and evil, then why build these gaudy city centers, outdoing each other to see who can out-west the West? These cities along the western edge of the Gulf, with palatial hotels and conference centers, enormous shopping complexes filled with all the decadent luxuries coveted by the insatiable greedy millionaires who are invited to come and marvel at the "Progress" of the Arabian Gulf. It's Disneyland. But just below the facade, it's still a theocratic oligarchy pulling all the strings, using their oil wealth to compete with and if possible, bring down the infidels and Israel along with them.

Beyond, Hans, just beyond the glow of the city lights is a place where you would not tread alone, I don't care how much curiosity and naive friendship-making you think you have to offer.

I'll stand by my paragraph you objected to.

A paragraph like that is enough to classify HANS as one of the numerous Westerners who think they know who I am just by reading one paragraph of mine.

So Hans, holier-than-thou Hans, you don't know me. You don't know a damned thing about me.

So just take my opinion of Qatar, or leave it. But don't ascribe characteristics to me that you know nothing about. I have a feeling that you are projecting, that it's actually YOU who complains about the "dumb locals" (where did I say that?) And of course, shouting to get things done, a rather ah, European custom, yes?

I've worked all over Southeast Asia and have deep ties there. I've worked in oil fields from there to South America and all over the North Sea from Denmark to the Shetlands. Made friends in all those places.

But you are nothing but a damned fool if you think your silly attempts at getting to know the locals is going to get you anywhere in a religious fundamentalist country where you are the Satan.

than a hot can of foamy Pabst Blue Ribbon tossed from above on log day? Remember the bitter cardboardy taste as the first chug went down the hatch? How the sour bubbles attacked your nose? What sweet wine is this? The senses rush us back to the backyard barbecue and the ball game and necking in the back seat at the drive-in movie. Three point two percent alcohol by volume was all we were allowed. But who cared? We had the volume. We were so young, our bladders so robust. We pissed it out as fast as it went in, until the buzz hit. Drink it now, because it's too heavy to carry. Smash those cans too. No beer for Charlie. No cans either.

Now we sniff and swish and spit the sacred grape. We argue about whether or not this one came from the arbors on the left side of the creek, or the right side, higher up the hill. We have grown soft. We must have Beluga eggs on water crackers to go with our pedigreed pinot grigio.

Come with me now, bebop. We'll each have a can of hot PBR, with its initial attacking overtones of rust, a hint of the phenolic, almost formaldehyde-like bouquet of something, a certain je ne sais quoi, and finishing with a lingering metallic "abgang" like the acrid smoke of burning barrels of shit. We'll open a can of processed yellow cheese spread with saltine crackers to cleanse our pallets before moving out.