We had heard Gamel mention the name "Clinton" several before he introduced us to him. In our first encounter with him in the street, the so-called Clinton strutted up to us in a peacock flash of sass. He had pale skin and hair cut like James Dean with a ginger tinge to it, and he semi-circled us as he spoke, hardly addressing us directly as if we were specimens of some sort. Whereas our other Egyptian friends had not shaken their Arabic accents when speaking English, Mahmoud had mastered an American accent, and it was quite clear that his command of the language was better than his peers', including Gamel's. After we had finally managed to get a few words in edgeways, he declared: "Oh, they have a very strong English accent!"
Ben and I exchanged a look.
"So why do they call you Clinton?" I asked.
"Oh, cos everyone kinda says I look like him," he replied. "Ya know, the President."
This was rather a stretch.
Anyway, we agreed to meet him the following day with Gamel, and with that, he gave us a homie handshake, turned and John Travolta'd up the road as if he wasn't that bothered.
"Interesting..." I said, raising my eyebrows at Ben.
"His English is good," Ben responded, "and we need a new translator as this one is a bit crap." He pointed at Gamel, deadpan.
"You're a fucker," Gamel replied shaking his head, making us both laugh.
"I refuse to call him 'Clinton', though," I said.
"What's his real name again, Gamel?" Ben asked.
"Mahmoud."
"What's wrong with that?"
YOU ARE READING
Bad Ambassadors
Non-FictionIn 1995, when I was eighteen years old, I began a gap year overseas. My experiences in Egypt were character-building to say the least, and I have many fond memories of attempted muggings, freight hopping, jumping off moving buses, being stranded in...
