Bad Ambassadors

Mahmoud

Mahmoud had been trying to make an impression on us, but he couldn't maintain that degree of swank, and while it would resurface when there was a crowd, when it was dropped, I could see that it masked a vulnerability, which we'd already seen a glimpse of with the trainers-in-the-mosque incident.

Together, Mahmoud, Gamel, Ben and I formed a core friendship. We'd sit around and chat, endlessly dissecting each other's cultures, religions and languages. Prerequisite to the exchange were reciprocal crash courses in expletives, and we were soon thankful that we hadn't been named Paul or − even worse – Nick! We learned that the word "alcohol" originated from the Arabic "al-Kuhl", which has a certain irony about it. Mahmoud even pointed out to me that the English word "when" has more than one meaning in English, and in eighteen years of life I'd not really noticed and was stunned that I was being taught this by someone to whom English was a second language; of course, in Arabic there are two separate words, logically.

Mahmoud's English proficiency was a key into a more intellectual conversation. As a result, Gamel tended to take more of a back seat, but the fact that he wore his patriotism and prejudices on his sleeve meant that he was frequently the target for comic relief. One time we had been interrogating Mahmoud about the Egyptian perspective on the First Gulf War, and Gamel began to get all animated. "Egyptian soldier very brave," he announced. "America might have strong army, but guess who was first people sent in?" He puffed his chest out. "Yes, Egyptian."

Ben responded in the, by now, obligatory English colonial voice reserved for humouring him. "Gamel, you know why Egyptian soldiers sent in first? Because America and Britain wanted to hold back their own troops. 'General, who can we send in first that we can afford to waste?' 'I know, what about the Egyptian soldiers?' 'Brilliant idea, Captain.'"

Gamel eyeballed Ben with pregnant pause. "You know, you are fucker, Ben?" he said at last before breaking into his signature cackle, whereupon we all burst into laughter.

Heaven forbid referring to them as Africans.

"No! We are Arab country," Gamel replied one time, affronted.

"But your country is in Africa," we reasoned. "Is it not?"

Mahmoud explained: "Egyptians see themselves as part of the Arab world. When Egyptians think of Africa, they think of black men with... afro hair."

"Like this one?" I said pointing at Gamel.

Mahmoud chuckled as Gamel cursed under his breath.

In the circles that we moved in outside of school, it was not uncommon for people to see themselves as above their African cousins, and many even made fun of people from Upper Egypt − "Saidys" − who they stereotyped as peasant farmers.

Ironically, Gamel's skin colour was dark enough for me to be quite shocked on the beach one day when he got sunburnt. What! I thought. Dark-skinned people get sunburnt! Why did nobody tell me this before? Our Egyptian friends displayed a similar ignorance of basic racial phenomenon. One time when we were showing them pictures of us from home, they kept muttering the phrase: "Shaear asfar". We asked them what this meant, and they explained that they were curious about the fact that we had dark hair in the photos and had yellow hair − "Shaear asfar" − at the time. Gamel looked particularly gobsmacked: "You're saying the sun change the colour of your hair." We nodded. "I never hear of this. You make a joke on me." We shook our heads, chuckling.

Given Mahmoud's flamboyance, it was hard to read him sometimes when he was being serious.

"Have you ever noticed anyone following you?" he asked us one time.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Around Alexandria?"

We shook our heads.

"Wow!" Mahmoud laughed. "They have absolutely no idea."

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"Next time you go into the city, try to notice if someone's following you."

"Are you suggesting that we're being spied upon?" Ben asked.

"Precisely!" Mahmoud replied.

"By whom?" Ben pressed.

"Who do you think? The government of course."

"Why on Earth would the Egyptian government want to spy on us?" Ben asked. "That's ridiculous. I don't believe it for a minute."

"You need to wake up, Ben and Stuart," Mahmoud continued.

We glanced across at Gamel for a sign, and he stared back, lips pursed, nodding in confirmation.

"Why?" I asked.

"Stuart," Mahmoud continued, "it is very unusual for western people to be living in an area like this. It is normal for the Egyptian government to send someone to follow people like you for the first two or three months to watch what you're doing."

I couldn't help feeling excited at the thought of this, and sometimes while walking through the streets, I'd stop and swivel suddenly to see if anyone behind us would dart into a shop or cross to the other side of the road. It was impossible to tell in any case since everyone was watching us. It did occur to us that this may have been a wind up, but when we brought it up again later in the year, they again confirmed the story, and I doubted their ability to maintain the patience for a year-long practical joke on us.

Gamel had introduced us to a lot of people, but it was nothing compared to the characters that Mahmoud brought us together with. There was Tarek who spoke barely a word of English yet was just happy to be around us. There was Khaled who at 28 was older than the others, and who had been at his university for years in an attempt to beat the national service. His friend Samer was a diabetic who'd sell his expensive drugs to local pharmacies and buy the cheaper stuff so that he could pocket the difference. Then there was Haithem who was quieter than the rest but seemed very keen to talk about how we could help him achieve his ambition of travelling to America, something which Mahmoud was equally keen for.