Portugal was always the dream of some unexplained and shady freaks based on the memories of the only left wing military coup in known history. As the myth is told to us over and over again, the catholic radio played a pathetic song, „Grandola Vila Morena“ two times and 48 hours later the whole Salazar dictatorship of that stripe of land in the Atlantic was finished by juicy, bearded radical left soldiers in boots kicking in doors of evil fascists politicians and generals, ordering them to step out and….retire with full pensions plus villa on the Azores.
When I was pubescent I grew up with endless news features about demonstrations and clashes between the Communist party and the Socialist party of Portugal that made my father not even grin but yawn when he was watching news features endlessly from his TV chair wearing special glasses with giant magnifying lenses that made him look like a insect watching the prey.
Since he was working for the semi-fascist, proto fascist, krypto fascist, post fascist, liberal „citizens in uniforms“ German army of the seventies and eighties who were persecuting anything real left even close to their universe and tried to persuade the US to invade Russia again and get the full evenge of the Russina in Germany without doubt – that made me wonder. He wasn’t a fascist at all, to the contrary, he hated violence and extremism and grew up with his socialist uncle in the Nazi area who had always a loaded semi-automatic under his pillow to shoot down any Nazi SS and Hitler Jugend mugface when they would come to take him or one of his family from his farm in Duesseldorf. He never had to do it but he unloaded that 9mm gun in the air from his balcony from time to time after reading the Völkische Beobachter to make sure it does not jam when they would come. That was not even commented by the Nazis of Duesseldorf because they needed his eggs, chicken and vegetables and fruits, because he sold a lot to almost anone. My father told me many times how he and his friends were harassed by Hitler Jugend members in Duesseldorf for being non members but visiting the movies and to chase girls in town and living with the antifascist uncle and his family. They were always walking behind them and made ugly remarks before the beatings began.
But he knew it was not real real, the story in Portugal, it was all done before it even started. It was just a game of the US and NATO to get rid off the old fashioned Franco regime style Nazis there before he was dead. No reservation in Portugal for the horrible fascist scum of Spain after it was over there, after Franco’s long hoped death. That was all, a planned regime change in both countires was on the way, the old fashioned fascism based on Ständestaat, a rigid structured class and caste state and torture was out, it could not be taken into the eighties.
General Tortuga invites the AOI crew to a kick off meeting 1971 in Tras os Montes:
„My dear camerades and friends we have reached the final state of our planning for our new recreation facilities in Tras Os Montes for the last 5000 anarchists and communists of Portugal to be reeducated together with their children and relatives. It will be ready for the new decade just two years before in 1978 and be named Colonia Fraternidad Salazar in memory of our great passed leader with full equipment of the coming modern age as giant flood light stadium to combine light therapy with radiation and later selection of the most unpleasant objects by behavioural sciences.“
AOI agent Carvalho de Bacalhao did not stand up, he was shooting up and applauded: „ Our dearest thank you, my dear General, we will be happy to receive your contributions to a new world as test humans to our Geneva and Vienna offices, will you dear General“. He was so overwhelmed that he began to grab at the generals shoulders and drew him towards and tried to kiss hím on the cheeks. „Make sure that Franco will not die, he must not die, do you hear me?“ The general looked disgusted and said: „Take that maricon away from me, I feel polluted by his greasy slime but let’s lift the spirit by some food: Beans Tras Montes Ninos from my farm here: we forcefed some communist children and slaughtered them to take their fatty belly flesh. Let’s dine with Vinho Verde and eat Tras Montes Ninos camerades!“
Agent Bacalhao slurped out of his mouths edges and mumbled: „Oh my general, oh my general, you know mý deepest fears and wishes, can I fuck the cooked corpse, can I fuck the cooked corpse, do you still have the legs and the genitals and anus in one piece? It would be something sooo special as they did in France with the royals before, pleeaase general!?“
General Tortuga took out his pistol and shot agent Bacalhao in the genitals twice. Bacalhao shrieked and ejaculated in his pants and yelled: “That was ssooo good general, that was soo good, so intense ‘Come and take me higher, come and take me higher’ imitating Richie Havens in Woodstock while he spasmed and vomited on the intarsia floor of the hacienda in Tras Os Montes.
„Can I do it, General“ whispered Corporal De Cauvlhar and took out a 45 Colt and shot AOI agent Carvalhao de Bacalhao through the head. The huge bullet ripped away half of his skull and half of his brains splashed out and parts landed on General Tortugas uniform. He took his riding whip rom under his arm and beat the Corporal in the face with full force so his cheeks ripped open and the applauding bystanders could see his teeth from the side. „Bravo, bravo, General, you still know how to lead humans, you still know.“ The Corporal took his 45 ,out it into his mouth and pulled the trigger. This time the brain landed on the floor while the bullet hit the celing and the roughcast drizzled on the aplauding audience.
„See what you get with ordinary folk, the General concluded, they finish always before the real fun starts and pushed a button in front of him. The dinner ensemble was rolled in and showed the body of a fat child, maybe 9 years old without head and legs with an enormous belly already cut into filet pieces that consisted to eighty percent of pure fat with some meaty inclusions.
„Sit down and help yourself ladies and gentlemen. The little anarchist was beaten to death in front of his parents in our camp, so the meat is softer“
The small crowd of AOI agents and Portugese fascist apllauded frenetically and began to take out fat slices from the childs belly with silver cutlery and heaped it on their fine porcelaine plates.
So it was his bored yawning while the news brought in always the same pictures and clips of mass demonstrations in Lisboa and Porto that made me cautious about the Portugese revolution. My father had to play the always concerned commie eater sometimes in public to gain some ground at least in the post war German society, since he was of west-slavic Wendic origin and so secretely behind the grapevine called „artfremd“ – not a real member of Arian society. But he did not take that for serious, he just had to play it right so he did not snitch on neighbors for being „left“ as it was and is expected from any German civil servant. And my mothers commented: „look at this, communists fighting socialists, what can we say, what can we do, we are all so afraid they will come here and take out my Bauknecht fitted kitchen and steal it and make campfires from it.“ My father yawned again in his TV chair and said: „the boys at the Bundeswehr are sitting on their seabag waiting to be parachuted down there to take them on, fucking soviet scum there, let’s watch the third repetition of Derrick on the third, that is save entertainment.“ That made it clear to me that he had to talk bullshit at his office and that this shit was unreal a bit I thought and my parents were playing a game like from the todays sitcoms because they both felt so bored but could not really express themeselves.
Otherwise he would have played the agitated army fool but never did, instead he yawned horribly always. And I never took it serious, since they jailed the only real revolutionaries over and over again and the ugly brown faces showed up in any Portugese party again and remained in power, so it was over in 1978 at least.
But nevertheless the bands of freaks and so called left radicals moved to Portugal as if it was the promised land and they only whispered about it „yeah man we have a cool place for our campers, we are fifty Germans there now, absolutely secret and cool man. Psst man, it is in the Algarve“ I never got it, never, we went to Morocco, that was magic of its own in the seventies and eighties, Croby, Stills, Nash and Young all around with, magical journeys into the completely unexpected were always avalaible for free, and that was reaL when we went there in 1979 and later. Suddenly I had a French knive in my hand and showed a Morroccan dealer in our hotel room how good I could slice throats as if they were bloody melons. „It’s just fucking melons to me man, your two sick assholes dirty throats are just melons to be cut“ . That just happend and I did exactly the right thing without even thinking about it and it was all pure magic as if we were in bubble outside time and space and that was all good. They went away and we got our peace back and I still did not know how this happened.
That was even taken to the top in India later and in another ball play reality was altered to an enormous extent in real socialist block countries everywhere but what the fuck was Portugal? I never got that, pure mystery since they do not even had girls or women at all, never until today. Most of them were squareheads of enormous dimensions or fascists with a superstitous believe system that blows your mind. Many women still do not know what their monthly menstruation means really. The communists there tended to report anybody not communist to their communist police friends and then to the AOI, especially anarchists who get the axe later back home.
So I guessed it was a kind of ultra left wing takeover that created that draft of young people to Portugal in the late seventies and through the eighties until the mid nineties still. I could not see anything else when we made a huge journey through and around Spain and Portugal in the mid eighties. Visiting El Ferrol de Caudillo was a special challenge since it meant the first direct approach with actual fascism in the birthplace of Franco. I could see all those tidy and clean Spanish families at the beach staring at us as if we were intruders from space, making ugly remarks about us from time to time. That was in the praised Galicia in the time of the „Movida“ when Spain was suddenly so liberal and radical left and creative with Almodovar all over the place, teaching us how advanced and funny postfascist Spain was.
Have you seen those communists over there?“ „Those with the short hair there“ „Yes they look like communists, they are both reading books“ Miguel have you seen this, communists are reading here in El Ferrol the Mao bible.“ „Where is little Maria, where is my little daughter, whre is my littly daughter?“ „Maybe they have taken her and somebody is taken her to some comunist commune in Nicaragua. They have that French car over there, look at it look at it. Go search my little Maria on the beach, pray to Saint Alfonso for help, pray to Saint Alfonso, she went shrieking and crying at the beach of El Ferrol de Caudillo.
I saw the strange Spanish action going on there some time after we arrived on that beach and told my girlfriend we had to leave. They were staring at us and we just packed and left. That is typical for Spanish fascists: blaming something on you that has never happened, it is never a concindence there, never, because I saw how that fascist Spanish cunt has taken little Maria away minute before that rant against us.
But Portugal was still the promised land in 1985. „Soldiers and policemen looked like little Che Guevaras“ they wrote in alternative music magazines. I never found those Che Guervaras in Portugal in the eighties, I never found those briliant revolutionary communes in Alentjo, I never found those brizzling camps of German and other freaks in the Algarve living a new live, but some lame pretenders from Germany and other alternative scenes who could not perform on any political analysis with me at all or even on a anarcho-syndicalist way of getting along with each other. They just parked there pretentious campers somewhere along the coast and where revolutionaries when they lit a joint. And in the small bars and restaurants I found only backward, lame and stubborn farmer people or plain idiots from the PCP, the communist party, serving some good Vinho Verde, but what was it about? I still remember the boredom it created inside me. And today they are still there, thirty years later, wearing a leather west and old jeans, running an old self meade huge camper placed under the disturbance radio transmitter places everywhere in this country by the Portugese Che Guevara army and police and knowing you and everything and next morning you find cigarette ash in your coffee at the localshop served with a greasy smile. And I still did not find out what they are doing there.
They most probabyly were working for the AOI and were squeezing information about any foreigner for money and gratitude from Germany and the police. No, you are not worth writing about you, you do not exist and you never existed. I am really as sory as I was in 1985.
German freaks in the Western Algarve 2018: „We are staying here over the winter, what do you do here?“ „Looking for a place to write without being disturbed too much“ „We are having so much trouble here with antisocial people, you know, we do not want antisocial people here at all“ „No I do not know about that at all“ „ They are like the people before here you know, make party and everything, disturb society, the police does not like that at all.“ „I have seen the police in Lagos, they are so brown that they would throw out Salazar for being to left.“ „I you think like that, you must leave, you must leave here, do you understand“. „Yes I understand that you are maybe brown as well.“ He was wearing the typical old working class cap, a leather jacket and jeans with short blond hair and posed as an eigties to nineties antifascist activist from some German big town and hasted away on his bycicle only to phone his AOI contact officer back home fifty meters from his special edition smartphone away when I passed him again. Things have not changed at all in Portugal since the early eighties except for the army style disturbance radio transmitters every fife or ten kilometers. But still the AOI wants to clean out all those places around the world since 1980. „For the cause but we can not tell you what that is:“
I travelled to Portugal in 2018 without any remarkable memories except those of saudade means I don’t know what to do really but I indulge in expectations and delusions and found the nice town of Tavira at the Algarve, the one without rocks. It was so crowded with tourists and old houses and cafes, I coud not believe it. I asked around for a camping ground and was told the same story all over again: it is at the outskirts of town on a small island and a boat can take you there. So I was full of adventorous nspirit again that is absolutely displaced in Germanys Europe these days, it is an emotion so far away from the imported German Democratic AOI Republic Margot Honecker vibe nobody can imagine. I asked around for a boat to that magical island with a camping ground and was more and more angrily send away the more I asked. „No more camping , no boat, you understand!“ that was the last utterance of annoyance for me from an old skipper, the first glimpse of reality I was unaware of. I could not believe it, has everybody lied to me before? I walked on to find a taxi to ask and there they were:the pride of the Portugese tourisms industry: the green-black fleet ready to serve. I told the driver about bvthe camping and he said: yes thwere is a ferry to that small island And he drobve me there. He stopped about meters apart from the ferry landing point and eagerly took my travel bag oiut of his limousine and droped it on the ground and disapperead as quick as he could. I approached the landing point where some men where cleaning their diving gear and asked when the ferry could take me to the nother side: „No more camping, no more camping, we don’t want these people here, you understand?!“ I did not understand a word and asked again and they ignored me totally. I had to carry my bag three or four kilometers back to the bus station to leave Tavira. But I had learned a lesson what saudade means and I still had not met a Che Guevara again in Portugal.
So it was Faro then and I decided to go in there clandestine style after that brilliant overtour in Tavira. So I sneaked around that old fashioned looking town and just ringed at a friendly looking door with a „Hostal“ sign. The summer buzzed and it opened and there it was: the pride of Europe’s hostel industry: a crew of young gays with Bürstenschnitt and sixpack plus one woman for the record who were all raping their smartphones because somebody has told them that something would come out of it that would help them to overcome their generations shere idiocy. It did not help at all. It was too smart, too slick, too vintage, too stylish for 20 Euros, too many stickers and leaflets on the walls, too many fake guitar players with smart phones, too many. I checked in an four bed dorm alone and whooooom, after one hour the AOI had placed one of their agents directly next to me, a Bavarian snmartass talking about his son and his surf business all the time. I met him inntown later when he was following me. The next morning he told me he could not stay in one room with me, becasue I was jerking off vall night and was snoaring when I was not jerking off. I thanked him and wshed him good luck with his anal intercourse with agent Sweetlick. He handed the stick over to a French AOI agent who just travelledfrom the next big town every day to the hostal just to sleep thiere to wathc me and my writiung, that was all he does. He appeared late night and asked me in the morning what I was doing.
„I am writing about homesexual orgies in todays hostel world. Did you see me last night jerking off and hear me snoaring so loud that you maybe had to leave?“ „No, we wereboth alone, the German chubby slept in another hotel, he has tow rooms.“ do you believee he is an agent of any kind because he told me I was jerking off and snoaring all night and was spreading this in the whole hostel?“ „No he is not a agent, he is just Sweetlicks anal slave and runing gay parties in four and five star hotels.“ „Yeah merci beaucoup mon ami, I am chasing girls by the way when I am not writing.“ „Yes I complained about you that you did not have sex with me last night in spite I am younger and more attractive than you and the Bavarian AOI man“ „Got you, you admitted he is AOI“ „Oh, pardon, do you spank me for that?“
I left the room for breakfast and was watched with a smile by the girl in charge who was working, imitating an in the air version of jerking off for thze AOI while the gay sixpack crew were dating like hungry animals with their smartphones and were shaing with thier nheads and bodies and were moaning when they got axed by someone. After breakfast I showed off with my notebook and was writing fast and concentrated. That works out mostly in the beginning, they think it is cool unless somebody tells them „something“. The AOI has its little agents running around everywhere backtalking against you when you are seen writing. „How do long do you want to stay in my cafe?“ „Well I just arrived and do not even sit, why do you ask“ „You have to ask first when you want to sit here and write with my elecrtricity“. He unpluggeed my notebook and I paid him by putting the coins into the full cup of hot coffee: „Tip is included, officer“ and made the fuck out of there.
So I was playing the old traveller tune and was talking with some oldtimers in the hostel, I was writing and eating in cheap restaurants while the police was watching me always. Sneaking around me in the MacDonalds and cafes, making stupid remarks behind my back but that was durable. The Bavarian AOI was gone and the French AOI always came late night and questioned me in the morning. The crew forgot about the Bavarian slander with my dick, it was too obviously gayish behaviour and that was always cool and accepted. Everything turned sour when I began to feel at home a little bit, when I went to the laundromate and returned with my laundry I knew from their looks it was over. It is alwys then, when the AOI is harassing and following you, you get the clap when you feel at home a bit, They can not accept that at all. It is the inner indicator that something bad will happen. It is not personal at all. It is part of their master plan to destroy anything from the past, the „home feeling“ evokes utter disgust in an AOI agent, he wil bring you to jail for that soon. Because „home“ does not exist for the AOI as well as „Love“ because you can not scientifically verify it.
You can only accept and worship what is directly around you at the moment. Since humans do not respond to that primitivism well the AOI is now destroying the brain parts where the home and love is living by electronic radiation in a huge program. So after I build up a small social environment, knew some people in the lodge and had my places in town and was actually writing the AOI hit back.
„You are going in and out quite frequently“ that was all she said and I knew it was my last night and a night without sleep.
„Yes, I was just doing my laundry and before I met somenbody, thank you for being so interested“.
Upstairs in my room both of my AOI friends were there. The Bavarian was back and the French AOI agent was also there. I did not say a word bu went to bed when the summing and buzzing started: they had turned on the super strong WIFI as it is called in the new hostel language, meaning that the harass you to the utter extrem if there is the slightest complaint about you or if you show a behaviour not accepted by the AOI. I could not sleep but stayed in an intermdiary room hosted by the AOI electronic mindcontrol harassemnet programm. You lose the time frame a bit but you can not fall into sleep, because there is the buzzing. If you have this long enough, there is no more room for „Love“ or „Home“ in your brain and soul.
I know I was watched and recorded the whole night by the two agents and wrapped myself tight into the sheets and waited for the morning in my mind controled state. As soon as the light came I got up and left without saying a word. The whole gay sixopack crew and the girl was waiting for me downstairs and the breakfast was ready. I was so friendly I skipped it and the girl was waiting for the slightest comment from my side to file a complaint. That is the first AOI lesson: file a complaint and hand it to the police.
I remembered another lodge I had seen an my arrival and boom:I found it. The super gay owner was friendly, it looked old fashioned without being vintage or posh and it vwas cheap. The owner was small and had a grey beard and wanted to date me immediately. That was funny but he wasd too active in talking to me and advertisning some functions, so I had spotted the next AOI agent and was just wondering how ist would happen.
I liked Faro quite a lot then and did some good writing when I was strolling around and heard csome good jazz live music and stepped into an old house entrance where about hundred people were drinking, talking and lsitening to the music. It was just like in the eighties, but not vintage AOI style but real: an anarchists party as it was sin the eoghties with cool girls and hard men and I was invited to sit down and share. That was beautiful and drove a taer to my eyes snce I had not seen anything like that since more than twenty years. That cool way they were playing was extinct in germany for about twenty years at least. I sat there drinking white wine when a nice lady an a daughter were taking place. They were both elegant and freaky and Daddy was in nthe back off course but that did not hinder me from enjoying that as the rest. I displayed my best manners but felt sad because that is all killed oin germany a long time ago and so many people are dead or work for the AOI that I coukd not stand it anymore. I said the beautifiuld girls goodbye and went back to the lodge. There was a guy from Slovakia waiting for me, who wa sso absolutely weird that I was clos to not staying there. Slovakia? Where the most brutal men in Europecome from, and they are rare abroad.
The owner was sooo happy nmto see me and we talked with his father about the 1974 revolution and city development and the nice alternative party I just visited. I knew the price for that but did it. I did not want vto play the idiot but told him what I thought and he was so happy to talk with me.
Next morning I woke up with all my fingers and toes and my money and wanted to meet the owner to pay for the next night. Other guests were all around him and he stood up pointing at me and shriked: „I have to talk to you!“ „Why not, go ahead“ I nsaid: „You can not stay here anymore, all rooms are booked, you have tomleave now!“ And I turned around and saw his father carrying my travel bag out of my romm. „Boosh“ it made , when he crashed it on the floor. Where it was waiting for me to be taken out of Portugal
Copyright 2018: Ronald C. Kaiser
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