21 of 24 - Construction safety in Qatar

 The Flowering Bush

Qatar is a desert country. In Doha, the city blooms—palms and bougainvillea tended by an army of gardeners, irrigation lines humming beneath the pavements. But out in the suburbs and beyond, bushes are rare and trees even rarer. The land reverts to dust and rock, broken only by pylons and the occasional discarded tyre.

One day as I was driving between sites I spotted a large bush flowering beside the road. Delicate white blossoms were scattered like confetti across the sand. It was such a lovely sight—unexpected, magical. I pulled off the road and drove across the gravel to get a closer look.

I wound down the window and leaned out, peering at the flowers, admiring their grace against the grit. Then I sensed movement—an energetic commotion from inside the bush. A moment later, an Indian gentleman emerged, adjusting his trousers with brisk efficiency.

He had, presumably, been relieving himself in the privacy of this rare and handy bush. And now, from his perspective, I had rolled up, wound down the window, and stared directly at him mid-exit. I’m not sure who was more embarrassed. He didn’t hang around to compare notes.

Doha Vignettes

•  A small boy in bright white Arab dress sitting unbelted with his elbows on the front seats of a Landcruiser, watching his father drive.

•  Gardeners in the early morning, their watering hoses throwing rainbows up into the air.

•  On site, some Muslim workers offer their wrists to shake instead of their hands.

•   An Arab lady in full Islamic dress, swinging her legs on public exercise equipment like a skier in slow motion.

•  A deserted roadside showroom, its windows translucent with dust and grime. Inside: two brand-new Bentleys, covered in dust.

The name Doha is derived from the Arabic word “dohat”, which refers to a rounded bay or inlet—a geographical feature that fits Doha’s coastal location perfectly. However, there’s a poetic twist: the root word “dawḥ” can also mean a large tree, particularly one that offers shade—like a canopying tree in the desert, a rare and precious thing. Even now several years after leaving I think fondly of Doha and its uncompromising middle-eastern nature.

Culture clash

The floor slab had been poured and left to cure in the heat. I passed it later that week and saw the footprints—barefoot, deliberate, crossing diagonally. Not playful. Not accidental. Just someone getting from one side to the other.

We’d issued safety boots, of course. Brand new, steel-toed, regulation compliant. Over the years in the UK, I had spent hours explaining the risks: concrete burns, slurry splash, the chemical creep that numbs before it scars. Told them how wet mix acts like an anaesthetic—how you don’t realise you are burnt until you peel off your boots and find your shins blistered, skin gone to pulp.

But these footprints were from one of the thousands of migrant labourers working in the Gulf, many of them desperately poor. Someone hands them a new pair of boots, and then asks them to pour a slab—they don’t wear the boots, ironically, they protect them. Sturdy new boots are rare They take them off, tuck them somewhere dry, and step into the mix barefoot.

To the labourer that footprint wasn’t a safety violation. It was a quiet act of preservation. And it marked the moment I realised I wasn’t just managing risk—I was navigating culture.

Construction design and management

One of the projects I worked on was the installation of mains sewage in Al-Shahaniya.

We were decommissioning the old septic tanks and connecting existing villas to the new public system. It was progress, technically speaking. But it was unpleasant work as we excavated through layers of improvisation, patchwork, and live pipework.

It was decided by the clever designers back in the office that the most efficient way to undertake these new connections would be to construct a new manhole inside the existing septic tank, then simply connect the inlet from the villa and the outlet to the main sewer. Sounds simple doesn’t it. Particularly if your concept of the work is derived exclusively from computer generated design drawings. The reality on the ground was horribly different.

A septic tank holds all the wastewater and solids flushed away by the household it is servicing. Solids sank to the bottom, while liquids—never properly treated—leached into the surrounding ground, often pooling in the very trenches we’d dug. The septic tanks were rectangular and built with breeze block walls, concrete bases and concrete lids. They were perhaps seven or eight feet deep and all of them had been in use for several years.

To undertake work inside them it was necessary to pump out as much of the contents as possible before removing the lid. The lid was a reinforced concrete biscuit which had to be smashed apart with pneumatic hammers and sweat. This always caused much of the lid to collapse into the semi clean tank, mingling with the residue on the bottom and sides of the tank.

From the top of the tank the workers could hose down the walls and floor, including the smashed concrete, and pump out as much of the resulting sludge and scum as possible.

At this point it was necessary to enter the tank to remove all the concrete pieces, still smeared with septic tank liquor. Only then can the construction of the new manhole commence.

Of course, the inlet was still live, still connected to the villas. Still receiving the morning flush and the results of the evening curry.

From a health and safety perspective, a construction design and management perspective, there was a galaxy of hazard that should be addressed.

The tanks themselves were confined spaces, long in use and structurally unpredictable, requiring manual demolition of reinforced concrete lids and entry into environments saturated with untreated waste. Biological risks were high—exposure to septic liquor, aerosolised pathogens, and residual gases like hydrogen sulphide. Physical dangers included slips, sharp rubble, and the live inlet still receiving household discharge throughout the work. The site conditions—heat, leached soil, and poor ventilation—compounded the risks, while the design approach, conceived remotely, failed to account for the realities on the ground. The hierarchy of control was stretched thin: elimination and substitution weren’t applied, leaving engineering and administrative controls to carry the load, supported only by PPE.

Controlling the work at site level was always difficult. The workforce had limited formal training and a cultural tolerance for risk that would have been unacceptable in a western context. My team and I were consultants, not the employer, which meant any direct intervention was usually met with resistance.

Site agents focused on progress, not process. Safety was an obstacle. Even our own Project Managers preferred long, critical reports to direct engagement. One morning, I challenged a Senior Resident Engineer about the conditions. I used the word “stupid.” He took it personally. Got physical. Barged into me. Threatened to call the police. Drove straight to HR.

I was obliged to pour oil on troubled water. The letter I wrote was half-truthful, but necessary.

Dear H*****,

I must confess that I feel ashamed of myself as I write this. I let myself down today and did nothing to forward the cause of safety in this difficult environment in which we both work.

The distressing events of this morning have taught me that our different backgrounds, cultures and language mean that I must tread carefully when negotiating contentious terrain in future. My choice of words stung you in a way that I did not anticipate. You evidently believe that I deliberately provoked you by using the word “stupid” to describe the safety report compiled by your team. I did not intend to offend you and I apologize.

It would appear that we are both very passionate people who are dedicated to our professions. I do not doubt for a second your sincerity or your capability as a Senior Resident Engineer

Yours etc

I did doubt his capability, actually. But you do what you have to do. His ego was so big it blinded him. Who was I to call anything HE did stupid? Safety, in this context, was not just a technical discipline—it was diplomacy, restraint, and the occasional lie.

Mega !

I was there in the early stages of Qatar’s Water Security Mega Reservoir Project—five sites, each spread across the desert.

The work started with earthmoving on a scale I hadn’t seen before. Hundreds of 360 excavators were active across the sites, each working its own patch. Dump trucks moved through the compounds, coated in dust, engines under strain. The excavations were massive and deep. 

The interconnecting pipework was a logistical challenge: elevation changes, alignment tolerances, and the risk of sand collapse. We weren’t just laying pipe—we were trying to keep steel aligned through unstable ground.

Each site had its own character. Umm Slal was difficult, Rawdat Rashed unpredictable, Abu Nakhla more straightforward. The heat was constant. The real work was in coordination—machines, men, maps, and meetings. You didn’t just manage it; you worked through it, hour by hour.

There was no glamour. Just dust, diesel, and the occasional moment when you realised the scale of what was being built. Not just reservoirs, but a water reserve that could support the country for a week.

I wasn’t there for the final handover. But I was there when the first trench was cut, the first pipe lowered, the first machine overheated and had to be restarted. That’s where the job began—with the sound of a 360 and the smell of hydraulic fluid.

Regional Oversight and the 4x4 Life

By the time the project was fully underway, I had a proper 4x4. It was needed—capable of handling sand, ruts, and terrain that would stop a normal car. The sites were spread out, and staying mobile was the only way to keep up.

I had eleven Safety Officers under me in Qatar. They were based on site, working to keep things safe in environments that didn’t make it easy. Their job was to spot hazards before they became incidents. Mine was to keep the wider operation running safely—across Banihajer, Al-Shahaniya, and the five reservoir sites. Each had its own pace, politics, and daily issues.

Qatar wasn’t the whole picture. I also handled training in Jordan, Saudi Arabia, and Manila. Each place had its own way of working. Amman was good natured and open. Riyadh and Jeddah were formal. Manila was humid, fast, and improvised. I learned to travel light, speak carefully, and not expect decent coffee.

The travel gave me perspective. It wasn’t just about managing people—it was about navigating different systems and expectations. Every trench, each pipe installed, every training session was a negotiation between what was planned and what was possible.

In Qatar, the 4x4 became familiar. It got me across the sites, into compounds, and into conversations. It was the one steady thing in a job full of moving parts. I’d often end up parked at the edge of a compound, watching the machines work, drinking coffee, and thinking about the journey that got me there.