Chemel Mountain Dew

Dedicated to all the old smokers and all the Old Ones in the Chemel= Rif and beyond. I promised you not to write about Morocco because everything had been told and it was all marveloous in the realm of art and literature. . But I did not find that Morocco again, so I had to write about that land I found. So I did not break my promise, I do not write about Morocco and the Rif is not Morocco. It is the last stance of a magical life.

This is the last story forever of a four story sequence about the country that we once knew as Morocco, in 2018.

 

By Ronald Kaiser 2018

 

The bus journey to Chaouen or Chefchaouen was always pure magic. The mountains appeared after some curves leaving Tetouan and all in the bus knew that the game is changing. All the people in Djellabas and Jeans, the women from the Tetouan mountains with straw hats and red/white skirts, the women in traditional garments and the freaks and travellers in the midst of luggage in bundles in the middle of the bus with chicken and bags of olives. Music from the bus’ loudspeakers turned us on: Jajouka music and other traditional bands from the Chemel with guinbris in front and extatic rhytms mixed with Bob Dylan and Patti Smith until we rached the holy city of Chauoen after endless turns of the road winding higher and higher. 

 

There we were lead into old houses in the Medina and were offered excellent hashish and sweet tea until I asked for kif for my sebsi. Our women were with us and this was never questioned but they envied us for that and sometimes one of our women had a short affair or longer with one of the Rifis. Nobody spoke a word about it, me neither because my women never did this. One tried with wicked words and was told how bad she is many times later by many. Everybody in the Old Kingdom greeted us when coming back from Chaouen: „Oh from there you come, you must have good hash my friend, welcome“ That could survive until the end of the milllenium. I experienced the joy in the gate to the Chemel, the Rif, last time then before the big switch. That is the truth about the Millenium bug as the called this phony bullshit endlessly in 1999 and pushed it through any media globally. They, the AOI was and were the millenium bug, destroying all and everything who and what had any traditional values or emotions that have developed in an organic way. Even romantic love and the bond with children are under attack by the Millenium bug. The Millennium bug is still around and transmitted by the AOI everywhere until today. I saw the AOI just before the end of the Millennium as three French idiots in a hotel in Chaouen when I came home with my pregnant lady and was attacked by the trio infernal when just walking in and stumbled a bit over a rug on the floor a bit „uhhh, ohhh, ces’t le whisky marrocain, ohh uhh“ and then reporting me to their fucking police back in Europe or Paris for just being there and being suspicious and high on hash, what lead to endless harassement later in Spain by some fascists when we drove back. Pregnant women and Beatnik appearance do not work well with Grand Okzident figures from police, right. These are the ghosts and agents of the Regie des Tabacs still wandering around in neverending attempts to crawl into our asses even when kif is sold in the next nightshop and in health stores. 

 

The bus from Tetouan to Chaouen was filling up with King Nchaouis female army as soon as I took seat. All around me were colored headscares and kaftans and some few men who were looking downtrodden and afraid. There was absolute silence, nobody talked, nobody listened to music because there was none. I had my own two seats and was sitting at the window, looking forward to watch the mountain panorama when suddenly a Moroccan woman was sitting next to me without greeting me and asking me before. That was the next step I thought to take me on and down. I moved away from here as far as I could and the bus started moving. The bus was modern and clean and there was a strong hissing sound inside suddenly instead of music when it started immideately to show us the benfits of modern electronic times. The panorama was as it was twenty years ago, some more people around but the freedom in their faces was gone, some islamist jockeys around the Tetouan area and lots of Queen Esther’s female army in kaftans. But it was still going to the Rif and there were cottages and goats and pine forests to feel good about. She began to catch my eyes near me and I took out small transistor radio pressed it to my ears because I tried to catch some Rifi tunes. There were none, no Guinbri sounds at all in the ether of King Nchaoui but the evil whispers around me “what is he doing ńext to that poot woman?“ „Are they married? Why is he sitting next to her?“ „He has no dignity at all, he wants to do it to her and all of us“ „He is listening to radio now, as is this is nothing, a radio with music, I can hear the music“.

I realized the set up when I checked out that she had a child and a husband sitting also in the bus and he sent her to sit with me.

 

The bleak atmosphere prevailed until we reached Chefchaouen that stretched now about ten time its size build brainlessly into the mountains by migrants from France mostly. I stepped out and found nothing but Banlieu plus tourist atmosphere with Rotisseries and traffic sounds and banks everywhere and a huge mass of former migrants behaving as if in France. I followed a Rifi from the old times to a hotel in the Medina I knew, just for the old times sake again and that was a mistake off course. I entered it through one of the beautiful small blue lanes Chaouen is famous for this time filled with hordes of tourists from Asia and France mostly in groups. My spirits were sinking, only my old guide kept me up. He found that old house in the Medina build into a „hostel“ style turd oven and I checked in only to him a favour and to stop the process. There were about five cameras even in the small entrance area an French style gay man watching huge monitors displaying the interior of vthat house. I showed him my passport and gave him hundred dirhams before I climbed up to my room. It was small and sticky but that did not count in the old days but now because it was not real. It was a bloody movie set. I felt like in a film set for a cheap sitcom or Big Brother in the Medina. I decided to take them on, whoever from the AOI was behind that bucket that has housed generations of real travellers before and went down were they had a grand living room in the patio before. Now I sat down in a black leather couch surrounded by huge monitors and the white cats of the gay manager. I watched the scene and the cats, which I liked, the cats were nice but from another world in France. They were the only positive sight I could catch. I could not stand the looks of the manager and his „no smoking“ signs and warnings that smoking weed and hash is prohibited, he did not say by the Regie des Tabac as they did before in the fifties, and went upstairs to the great roof where we had also slept, smoked and talked before in the old millenium and an endless stream of travellers, freaks, hippies and even old beatniks had left their DNA code for the later interpol and BKA to be evaluated in two old Medina houses in the center of Chefchaouen. We shared our lives and stories there in endless and always repeating night sessions, in a time that was totally destroyed and abandoned by the AOI by just claiming it never existed. It is all gone and they take it out the internet step by step, Only our pictures, fingerprints and DNA are left in the databanks of the AOI as remnants of an extinguished tribe.

 

On the terrace they played 1976: a young German woman was blocking the ladder and smiled at me the typical way I know from the German AOI, I totally ignored here and went up, just passing her. There was her counterpart, playing with his secret service notebook shouting out loud in German what and whom he was and is going to watch and surveil here. I had enough. I passed the old writer friend sititng in his room after chatting with him and left. He did not give me the hundred Dirham back for the ten minutes in his AOI surveillance shack museum. He knew what he did. Stick it in your best place “Jean Pierre”.

 

I was gasping for breath outside until an old friend arrived. One of the old smokers of the past my age showed up: „Hello my friend, how are you?“ „Fucked up, I have the surveillance shit still in my ears from that fucking place – bsssss bsss“ „hahaha, hohoho“ he went, „let us find something better, man.“ „Yeah, but outside the Medina, I can’t stand that tourist shit here, what is this, Avignon now? Take me to the Sahara“ „ hahahahaha, it changed name“ he said and we marched on. Endless small lanes right and left, colored as it was in the past, ocean blue and white, so beautiful, but now they changed the colors to some fancy blue synthetic shit to make it more shining, more bright, more dumb. It was nice, but it lost that inner peace and the greatnhess of the universe that it catched before. It was plain and flat now, but wow for the tourist groups from France and Japan and China running through the smallest houses entrances and micro lanes. It was as phony and disgusting as Avignon is these days: totally surveilled and on the other hand playing the seventies tune in a shallow idiotic French theatrical Jewish way. Take care, this is the worst spectacle of all. “oh euh monsieur, take my flyer look at my pics, we are so seventies, we are so hip,  I for sure work for the pigs, aeh the flics, get your jail term for smoking kif, we are the cool French chivatos from the Rif.”

 

After half an hour we found a hotel outside the medina near the police that looked like a tradtional old Moroccan hotel. The clerk was a woman with a modern haircut and she wore no traditional cloth. I checked the rooms and realized I was the only guest beside „her brother“. So, the Moroccan police had again ruined and renamed an old hotel and was running a setup scheme. But I took it, since I had no dope, and cared for my friend the guard then. I gave him ten Dirham and that was cool and we departed with good wishes. And then the trouble started. When I came back from my room to check the town, she was already high up in anger and on the rag: „Why did you giiiivee him moooneeeyy? Whyyyyy? He smooooke druuuugs, he smooooke druuugs very dangerooouus“ „what did you just say?“ „Hashish, Hashish“ she shrieked in utter hysteria. „Where do you come from by the way?“ I asked „Iaaam frooom heeeree I aam fooom heeeree!“ „Yes, right, here from Grenoble I guess. Listen, when I want to pay somebody because he had worked for me hard and good that is my thing and not yours. By the way he led me to your hotel and I just paid you.“ „But hashiish, hasshissh, you aaalsssooo smooke hasshiish? Do you smoke hasshiish?“ „ Can you tell me the way to the restaurant next to the French police where you come from?“ And she took out a city map as íf we were in bloody Paris and began to check for French Restaurants in Chaouen. I had enough again. „Thank you, I will take the Point Chaud then“ „Oh I don’t know it it has opened yet“ she said. „I am absolutely sure about that“ I answered an decided not to talk to here and her haircut ever again.

 

I searched for tradional food, some tajin or couscous and soup all over town, I was turned away harshly by the Taco and Rotisserie stalls and restaurants, it was not appropriate anymore to even ask for harira soup. I ate harira in on of the left over old restaurants, that was quite good but was then asked by the employees if I would lime to fuck the waitress loud all over the place. I took this as the first AOI attempt to take me down in Chauoen and left without a word and without tip, „ But don’t you want her, don’t you want her“ they shouted behind me in the lanes….

Traditional food was only avalaible now at the central place, the central place where everything happened in old times, when we were there and real people occupied the place with old men walking around with a broad inner smile and the mountain people all around. I saw all expensive table cloth on fancy restaurant tables and Japanese signs: Sushi restaurant, but they even had „traditional moroccan food“ for tourists only. I looked over the scenerey with flickering candles in the evening in the centre of our most favoured town up North and felt like an alien. ‘who is able o create such a set?’ I asked myself and went around the corner and there were the ‘artist restaurants’ for the „freaks et artisans’ with similar ridiculous prices but with batiques and French women a bit younger but open long hair. They all looked sad and worn out, as the tourists of the central square, even the Japanese men felt bad and disgusted. But something was missing: right, the entertainment and there it was: a French-Moroccan singer and songwriter with guitar displaying the best southern France has to offer in French and Árabic with well cut middle long hair and a well cut beard. I could not believe that and looked around me and so one old men in the crowd of French-Morroccan migrants and tourists with Djellaba and beard an walking stick, one of the old ones they had left out. I looked at him and saw his attempts to tune into that mediocre crooner bullshit and it failed. He looked like a stranger in his own town, left alone and full of despair. Our eyes met and we agreed. I turned away and puked into a waste basket in front of all eyes and went away. 

 

I walked down again to my hotel and passed endless shops in the once beautiful medina with the same arty kitsch display as the other and I passed groups of French men with the same beards, known as „toilet seat beard design“ discussing the beauty they had here. I opened my hotel and found the neighboring rooms occoupied. The police from the other side of the road had logged in there, most probably because „I maybe smoke hasshiissh“ or wheatever bullshit that French-Morrocan had told them in advance to make herself even more important. That isn’t even ridiculous to believe because the Regie des Tabac or whatever mask the French re-occupied the Kingdom had advised the Moroccan police and the AOI agents everywhere to report even the buying of one gram of Kif. As in the old days, but the Fifties, par bleue.

Next morning, (I slept in another room secretely off course) I returned to Tetouan immediatley without looking back at that town. The AOI had shown me their masterpiece of contempory destrcutive art and it was well done in their universe. They must have opened a bottle of champagne.

 

I decided to say goodbye to that Kingdom that had vanished and to visit some Old People in the Chemel for a last puff since I did not smoḱe anyore for years and bought a ticket to Bab Berred on the long an winding road to stroll around in the area a bit to reach Ketama finally to say hellogoodbye forever or until the AOI is beaten out of the Kingdom. That is not that easy, even not in Tetouan where „many old friends“ handled the taxis and ticket sales and were constantly stoned on the move in bus station. „Hey man where can I buy a ticket to Bab Berred?“ „This man comes back at 12 he will sell you“ I waited and nobody arrived and all the stoned guys selling tickets and stuff were watching me how I behaved. I took this for a time and then asked again. The guy came and just grabbed inside the closed ticket counter window from behind, pulled out a block of tickets and issued one for me with a pen I gave him. I gave him some money and saw that he just wrote some bullshit on it but that was cool, since the busrides on the long an winding road from Tetouan to Al Hoceima were always very different and hard to handle for todays travellers and smetimes for the Oldtimers too. So I was waiting for the bus that would off course not arrive at the time he wrote ón the ticket he had self issued but I bought my way in and they „knew me“ from a distant magical past when they looked in my eyes.

And all the islamist in posh middle Eastern style that hang around in Tetouan too these days avoided me for that, because I am part íf that old semi-pagan culture they are all destroying. They are not dirty at Tetouan, no, they look brilliant when they go for proud jaywalking with their expensive kaftans, the white cap and their wives totally in black, fully veiled with sunglasses also and gloves and black socks. Visiting their shops everywhere in Tetouan Katari and Oman style where they buy new black gloves for their wives and daughters and veiles and they were never allowed to take out. And then have some islamist snack with their friends form the Salvation Front for the brotherhood in fancy shining and glittering and bright with halogen lights Omani and Katari style snack shops for the typical „Tacos“ they eat.

I checked all the old friends of the ticket compartment who were considerably stoned right now and asked „what the fuck is about the bus to Al Hoceima, I want to go to Bab Berred, where is it man, where is it“ and played the angry idiot

„Do you still know the land and the people? Do you know where you go?“ „Yes, what the fuck do you think, you know me well, right?“ They all grinned and one went back to the empty ticket couter, grabbed behind and issued a new ticket and told me: at 13.30 at platform 3. Nothing had to be paid off course and everbody was smiling, smoking and I was waiting and decided to take the piss. I was waiting there and the Islamists women there were turning me down, the only infidels, the Moroccan smokers do not count, they are a different class, they are out, and shouted at the guy: „Hey what you do, when is the fucking bus is arriving?“ He jumped to me like rocketdriven and explained totally stoned now that the bus will come at 1.30 but then he got it, that I felt like shit with these islamist creatures around me with their utter disgust towards anything that comes not from the koran explained by their husbands and the Salvation Front. He waited with me until the bus arrived as a relative or friend so they could not talk to much bullshit as usual, he was a witness, and the old hog arrived. The worst bus they had on display is crossing the Chemel horizontally to give you, the only European the feeling how it was fourty or thirty years ago when it had to stop for repairs in villages and you made new friends there. It is always special to go from Tetouan to Al Hoceima via Ketama and off course I was the only non Moroccan in a crowded bus and yes we were driving like 1981, it was aching and creaking and moaning and sometimes the back door opened, full of Rifis and no Islamists.

 

They began to play around with me in the back, showing off, the young guys as in the old days, making fun and bullshitting all the time. The women from the mountains were turning around, making jokes about me and were smiling. After Bab Taza, the last checkpoint of the Regie des Tabacs and the AOI in disguise who want to drag you into cars and show you Corporal Luis des Funes later the real mountains began, with some snow on some tops and heavy mists in pine trees. The settlements changed, the became rough and basic and looked like they could defend themselves.

We stopped at a truck stop picnic place and it was like in the old times: a menue for the travelers, with soup and chicken and salad plus a coke, special Rif Coke in very small bottles with the real thing as usual there, served in a large hall and you could see that money was invested there a bit in a decent way. It was not downtrodden or poor but different. I ate the good and rich food and walked around and all the women were laughing and said that I ate like an animal, where I come from, they were asking their men. But that was friendly and attentive as they were before. I walked to the terrace and the most important guy, a Rifi from the bus followed me and we began to talk. He showed me the fields behind the truck stop, where the green has just started to grow and explained the land and its soil to me and said, that I should go to Ketama, that this was better for me, the real thing. I explained that I was not going to buy, since I had no money but I am writer but that I was not intending to write about Morocco. I would go to Bab Berred to stay to write. The bus started again and the fog became impermeable. All I could see were branches of pine trees hanging on to the small and winding road and white fog. The bus went on like that was nothing, and groaning and creaking and the back door was half open. That went on and on for hours and the I asked: „when do we stop at Bab Berred?“ everybody was laughing „Hey man, Bab Berred is twenty kilometers behind, we ask the drive to stop, you can walk back“ hahaha, the went, „Bab Berred, where is Bab Berred, has anybody seen Bab Berred, the bus did not see Bab Berred, nobody sees anything“.

 

Half an hour later we stopped in Ketama and I stepped out of the bus as if this was planned ages ago and my friend, the Rifi from the bus came with me and two friends of him and I was invited for a Pow How in the best place of Ketama to explain myself. So my expedtion had gained some members and then we were four and we went to a marble plated restaurant and club, five storeys high, with uniformed waiters and music and TVs and full of men talking and smoking and drinking tea and coffee in a dense but relaxed atmosphere that is so typical for the cannabis tribe around the world. We reached storey four so I felt quite accepted from the beginning, being up high, the waiters were all around us and talking began. I made myself clear in the end that I really was a writer and just wanted to stay some days but off course they did not believe really but I was ok, that was given to me, I was ok and could stay over night at least. We drank very sweet mint tea traditional style in a luxury environment, talked about many things mostly in metaphorical language from the past. We had coffee later and after an hour we went down and they brought me to a cheap but immaculate clean hotel at the main road. The owner was told that I am his guest and I was checked in and sat in my room watching the street scene from my balcony.

 

There were hundreds of big and old Merdecesses mostly the same and tractors with plows lined up at parkings lots and along the main streets. The town was not clean at all, no, it was dirty without sidewalks, there was no city planning going on, but cafe after cafe could be found, full of life and secrets, of bright and shady people, the worst met best and vice versa. Business deals were made, they whispered about weddings and intrigues but there was one thing missing in Ketama: the army of King Nchaouis and Queens Esthers women in headscarves and their slander and the islamists. No more whispers and yelling to be heard, there was silence that created a beauty in the place despite it looks.  Men were greeting me when I stood on the balcony : „Hey ca va, how is it going“ „Ca va bein my friend, maybe we meet later“ and he departed with a smile. There was no hassle at all but a steady coming and going and staying and working on each other.

 

I walked out after dark and walked the streets of Ketama through mud and potholes as it was in the old days without an Islamist or their women blocking our ways and passed endless varieties of cafes, always crowded and full of smoke and I choose one with a lot of windows and a huge crowd watching soccer. I went inside and placed myself at a table and was welcomed friendly by the older men sitting there, smoking hash and kif. „What you like, Barca or Madrid?“ „never Madrid, never Madrid“ „Ok the tea is on me“. We were dicussing the game and they invited me to their farm and I had to explan them I am a poor man and I am just writing. „I am just a poor writer“ „hahahaha“ the went alltogether, as if this was the best joke they ever heard and they made me a lot of business proposals I could not accept, because I am just a poor artist. I was high as a kite from the excellent hash they were smoking all around me constantly, the best qualities I have experienced for a very long tme. They showed me all the very primo personal stash they had with them and that was far beyond excellent. I really do not know where they get the bullshit from in Europe disguised as Moroccan hash even today, do you find that in canals around the North Sea? Everybody, about maybe one hundred men were constantly smoking, even sebsis with kif, but mostly excellent zero zero plus from their own fields. It was much more smooth, relaxing and strong than the kif from Bab Taza and Chauoen, that was more on the wild side down there. It took you the moon very quick in a rocket, the Ketama kif lifts you up slowly but neverending withóut ever encountering an edge. That is De Luxe in a unique way.
The aroma was unbeatable good and nobody could escape the gosths of that kif, no matter if you smoked it or not. I was floating along their tales and their mindgames and mimicries that was straight from Ali Baba and the Sufis and knew at a point after hours I had to go otherwise I would land on a farm and stay there for some months and then could not go back because was just up in the clouds. I could not admit to build up that strong bond to live with them and I apologized that I had to go and went home. We were all shaking hands and I left.

 

Everything looked different after I walked out of the cafe. But the kif was not singing, as it used to do before and down in Tangier and Chauen, it was just like a kite flight above the town, absolutly mellow and intense. I saw a fire down the street and looked what it was. It was just a pile of garbage with plastic and all stuff in it and they burned it down, as in the old days. That was no disturbance at all. Those were men in control of themselves, no King and Queen and Regie des Tabacs to be seen. I could not find the raod to my hotel, although I was in a haṕpy mood and somebody spoke to me: „Can I help you?“ „I can’ t find my hotel“ „Just come with me“ and he walked me to the main road and showed me the direction. I reached the huge building with cafe, restaurant and hotel and the owner, a Moroccan who looked like a Dutch guy from the eighties told me: „come here“ I walked to him and he whispered in my ear: „ Tomorrow you better go, police does not want you here in town, or you have to go to the mountains, to the farms and stay there.“ I knew it was over, writing did not count and when I turned away from him I saw the police jeep runnibg towards ths house and I went up to sleep.

 

Next morning I walked quick to the road and the men showed me the bus to Al Hoceima. We were passing the typical Rif villages with the villages and hamlets that do not look pittoresque at all but rough and a bit rundown. Metal rods stick out of the roofs and walls quite often to male it look tough and weird. Nobody wants tourists here and people like us can only stay in peace and without mobile towers and that shit when it looks ugly. And they had their ways to make it look unattractive. That is our only way to survice: remote and ugly. Our bus broke down and they repaired with the help of vilagers. Some beatiful girls were standing on the other side, waiting for their bus, chatting with men and each other, dressed with leather jackets and jeans and blouses and full of erotic and feminity, you can not find this anywhere else in the Kingdom anymore, maybe around Tafraoute, but different.

 

Al Hoceima was just an islamist hole, waiting to be taken over and not dreaming anymore about the old good times, nearly abandoned from all and everything alive since the King has destroyed the natural harbour with a futuristc harbour building in the middle. I hasted to Tangier via Fes, where the islamists secret police controls the bus station and is spreading hatred against unbelievers. I was just on step before kicking one of them in their asses when they denied me access to my luggage.

They bid me farewell in Tangier harbour by ripping off more than hundred Euros by changing money with an islamist with some islamist women suddenly popping up like mushrooms in the room. I Took it as a life insurence for my trip through the straits of Gibraltar and not being hassled by police and customs too much. I did not say a word and It worked and I did not say ‘Allahu Akbar“, that were his words and from his women when they stole my money five minutes before I left Morocco.

 

Copyright 2018 by Ronald C. Kaiser

Grand Moghrebia

by Ronald Kaiser 2018

I returned to my hotel room in the Medina of Rabat and found my black Cardin anarchist jacket on the wall on a hook. I decided to take photos of Saudi flags, slipped my hand inside the closed indoor pocket and found nothing. My small but highly effective full steel camera was gone. The police and AOI had stolen my camera out of my locked hotel room, that was for sure. I had committed a serious crime against the empire of King Nchaoui and Queen Esther by staying in the Medina with old men under the roof and writing and just being interested and friendly. All the things that have been told to us in the 21th century as essential for being a human. 

They were telling me that by evil looks of disgusting cafe owners and hotel clerks their own way, and sleazy behaviour and backtalk behind my back. The stubborn policemen from across the patio had stolen my precious camera I had shown only two times in town. Sneaking into a locked guests room is a common favourite everywhere, but doing it to me after being called „jew“ by a Moroccan street turd in the Medina just for taking one picture was a code red alert once more. They were all behind me. The AOI was at my neck. The police men has moved out off course before and I grabbed my bags again and called the owner to tell him that they are just a bunch of thieves here and I would leave now. He did not even answer. This was no normal theft, that was way to obvious, ‘Paris had made a move to protect their breed here.’ I thought.

Down South in Morocco where I went on the spot they did not even hesitate at all. It was just a base for downtrodden AOI personell living around the city of Essaouira. That was the main cause to keep the city as it always was, since thirty years, except the banks everywhere. The buildings were rotting away, the streets littered, the government did nothing to garantue some kind of income for the people, most of them were fading away in poverty since King Nchaoiu and his French AOI friends had prohibited the sale of hashish and other drugs in this town to not disturb the French customs of their jews and gays with money housing there and buying real estate in the region. But selling it to foreign banks? The AOI keeps the city under a tight grip, that’s what it meant. But it looked traditional Moroccan when I arrived. I did not talk all along the long bus journey, although I had a lot of opportunity for female companionship. The AOI was in the bus in form of female French speaking agents everywhere trying to attract me, to sweettalk to me, to get me into the sack and then turn it all against me and arrest me with some decadent French police team in the end. „Oeeeh uehhh, what have you written there about our Mitterand oeehh, ueeh, we confiscate all your moeny and your notebook, oeeh, ueeeh“ So I kept my distance and as it didn’t work out, when they did not give up getting close, smiling at me in spite they did not like me really, touching my leg when they were near to me in the truck stop „oh you are one the special men here, never seen anybody like you before a long time,“ bla, bla – no women like artists under siege these days, that was in the past that they liked us, because they are all under survival pressure, but it will come again. I just spat on the sand floor near them with a disgusting sound and blow out my nostrils, playing with the slime on the ground with the tip of my shoes and behaved as if nothing has happened. They did not even try to behave normal, being outraged or unpleasant, no, they just gave up and turned away later. Typical female agents behaviour, not only AOI, they know exactly what it means. Normal women don’t, they begin to talk in rage and anger about it with others or shout at you, but never agents. Agents also do things to you, normal women would never do on the spot the first time in the sack – same when they want things from you you have seldom heard of and you never wanted to do, like peeing on them or shit on them, that is just for blackmail later, if you are depraved enough to do so. I never did but this does not help. Keep that in mind, works even better with gay conmen, just spit, snort and fart them out of your life the easy way when they show their feeble existence the first time. This even worked out with an agent I knew as a close school friend. He approached me and my girlfriend lying in bed at morning, who was an agent too I had to learn later to have a threesome. And I just farted him away, he left immediately and never tried that again, just saying politely: „You two do not make it easy for me, well“ . I did not know that at that time, that he dismantled himself as an agent even then, I just could not think that way…….so keep that in mind and your life clean of AOI agents. But: he destroyed my life later for not blowing at all or giving his weenie a handjob. I am still very proud of that, they never got me, believe me, those are the things that count in live at the end. 

„Agent Sweetlick had a major incident, he was beamed out of the subjects hippie house with unknown raybeam waepons“ reported AOI Chief Cutthroat back to the base. „We need special agent Winterbottoms expertise to build in her camera system for later blackmail operations„

In Essaouira the scene had not changed for the last thirty years profoundly when I entered the town, The same old rotten outlook and cheap soup and brochette foodstalls as before, with old men in Djellabas and a prison that looked like those out of Donald Duck cartoons. The French wealthy gay and jewish scene had mostly disappeared as the kif and hash and drug scene did have almost completely, somehing else has replaced them: King Nchaoui and his men and women were there, leaving only banks and and some mediocre tourist artists alive and in business, a posh main road was still in the process and soon the whole town will be turned that way, leaving nothing from the old culture an tradition behind, but it still was tradional Moroccan the bad way, and also modern with his surveillance cameras in small shops he had advertised. It pays to have a Jewish milk nurse by Moroccan law and customs, because you are able to impose Jewish laws on a state without losing the muslims, as King Nchaoui had one and all of his dynasty. His army of women were already there, following Queen Esther’s orders and walk arround all day in groups and pairs with their modern Kaftan uniform with colored headscarve, whispering at my back: „Is that the Kafir with his thing in his hands all day jerking off?“ „Yes, that is why he is the Medina here in our Essaouira, to rape us all, that animal“. "Is that true sister, is that true, the PEOPLE are on alert already, we will whip and stone him later“.

That was the AOI at work: „let it rot, let it rot, let it rot“  they shouted at the latest AOI Kick Off meeting in Bangkok, „kill kill kill the poor, kill kill kill the poor, tear it all down, tear the old shit down“ the agents crowd was in highest extasy: another world culture heritage town was on the huge display of the AOI. „Let it look like Dubai, Dubai, Dubai“.

The sceneplay there was complete, the town had nothing else but a feel of a complete stage for a takeover by the AOI and its agents. They were all there: Americans, French, German well protected by special squads of Moroccan police with the alarm signal caps: cheap baseball caps: avoid them as hell, they are always a signal of the worst, nerver trust a basecap head in the police. „Why don’t you wear a proper uniform, officer, this is an insult to tax paying citizens?“ This police had me on their screen from the begining. Without inhibitions they were giving me the evil eye. But the weirdest parts were the AOI attacks from the beginning, as soon as I arrived.

„We are from Germany living here for twentyfive years, still works out a bit you know, it is still as it was. Have you seen the prison, it is impossible that something like this exists in the real world but it does. Also you may sit there if you do something wrong, hahahha. „What could that be?“ I asked. „Nothing special,nothing special. And do not come over to us, you don’t know where we live, because HE is here, HE is here, not yet but he was after he died, we are painters as well, you know what we are talking about, he asked you for morphine before he died, who on earth is doing that except him and agent Sweetlick and you denied because there are doctors you told him ro precribe that for his pain, hahahha. Yes off course he did not die there, you met him before, don’t you. But you did not believe your eyes“

 And so they went on until I went away and then I saw their colleagues at the seaside with typical German traveling posh outfit of the twentyfirst century from the outdoor mail order: AOI at its worst but they were holding back and did not talk to me. That were there orders given to them by „Queengoddess Pealess“, the timeless president who was missing her pea, but she lost it because only without her pea a woman is able to sit twenty year in one position without moving.
The old Beamtenabteilung, civil servants with their stern and serious and annoying German vibration did not do this but they were giving me the evil eye as much as the Moroccan police did this before. But they did not talk because as soon as they open their mouths they are done, well known as the worst secret service agents of the world who even fry their own testicles sometimes with sattelite antennas out of the jungle and don’t know about it.
I still tried to write there and placed myself in an ugly, dirty cafe in a sideroad and asked for permission to plug in my notebook and it was granted by the onwers, a sinistre looking Moroccan couple. She was wearing the Queens uniform with a colored headscarve and a coloured Kaftan and working in the cafe, full of poor and downtrodden and desperate men. I was writing on a USB stick in my notebook, I checked the file shortly after I had renewed it by saving and it was gone completely, not to be restored. The USB stick was also damaged, nothing could be saved on it anymore, it had to be destroyed later. That was the AOI at work at highest alert and this veiled cunt, the cafe owners wife has called them, with her husband, just for writing in a notebook. “just report anybody for unusual behaviour like showing disrespect for the scum of this planet by attempting to be able to write and read.”

I had obviously taken a shit in their home nest in Morocco without knowing it. Nowadays the AOI are controlling even the electricity lines, they can read what you write through the power lines and delete files without online access. Just plug in your device in a cafe in a nice powerline shown to you and you have the AOI and it’s secret police right in your smartphone and notebook, reading and deleting what the like.I went away and paid those two ugly smiling pieces of shit who had reported me imediatley “for writing” and bumped into two US Americans on the street and went away. I met them again twenty minutes later and they began the typical AOI sweettalk as I call it at another table among themselves for me to hear it.

“No it was not meant bad anyhow that agent Ursula Drydock announced him to be a drug dealer at work twenty years ago. Not at all. It was a mistake that she did this, just a mistake. But we can make it al good, all good.”. “Are you talking about that cool dude who went with his chick to Morocco twenty years ago? Yes I am talking about that dude, you know, he got axed after by agent Ursula Drydock for allgedly drug smuggling, she just spread it you know to get her new home in New England, cruzifying German lefties for no reason but career”. “Yeah man, that is so sad, we make it all good, it is all good, we make it all good.”

I went over to the tables and stared into their empty but alert faces with a little antenna behind the ear and said: “I go now, jerk off in bathtub full of ice and when I do that I watch your heads explode when I come in my inner eye. Have a nice day.” The French were holding back meanwhile, I had given them my best at the bus stop in between when I rejected their amour fou.
I went to my cheap hotel where they tried to steal my stuff from the shower off course with the most impertinent attitude I have ever seen: just going in after I undressed and when I moved out shortly to complain about the cold water. ‘Bang, I heard the door of the shower slamming. I was not afraid or nervous at all, I was hiding my money in a belt around me still. But he was not just sneaking in and trying to steal, no, moving in and stay inside, although I had paid for the hot water. Without any inhibitions somebody from the next room locked himself in and did not open again. To steal whatever I left inside and maybe clean himself or his bowels with a hot water to be ready for the next gay customer maybe. I banged at the door: “Open up, open up, I have aaaaaallll my money in there. ” I had not off course, I just my shampoo and my towel but I wanted to put that Moroccan cunt in misery. “Open up, open up, my money my money” After a while he opened and gave me my towel and my shampoo with a sad and greasy smile while continuing his anal bath with my hot water. That is all what is to say about the friends in Essaouira, I am sure they beat him up or kill him later because he 'had my money”.

That is Essaouira in its highest boom and bloom time, I thought. I was mistaken by far. It was always extremely annoying with hasslers from abroad staying there trying to sell hash and fake cocaine and then they were replaced by “rich French gaylords mostly from the Grand Okzident from Paris and midi who bought houses there and in the region and annoyed anybody so muich, that French was not accepted as language even in Essaouira anymore. “Par bleu, eeyyyh, quesque ces’t ca, ohh, uuhh, je appel a Paris al la Grand Orient, ohh” And so it went day after day, when they saw what they did not like, even when the Muezzin called from the mosque they phoned their masters in their lodge in Paris to complain and they phoned the corrupt police of Essaouira and they mistreated the locals. They phoned the Grand Okzident even when they had to pay for the real estate and put Moroccan people in misery when the were told “de paris” they did not have to pay, they complained about Kif smokers, they complained about the local soup sold in foodstalls in Paris. But then they were gone suddenly, but the agents of AOI stayed with ther intriguing French women and their American couples, it did not save Essaouira at all.

I did not move out of that shithole of a hotel near the Medina because I had paid for the next day already. When I went back to my room I saw the two chambers next to mine were occupied suddenly. One gay Moroccann in each room, scratching his balls in his pants and waving to me thru the open window when I passed. ‘That is not good’ I thought and waited in the dark in the room. I stood up and went back to the toilet. It was covered with shit, urine and used toilet papers now. I went back to my room and the two gays were still lying in the same position, scratching their balls in their pants, raising their hands when I passed and yelled: “Bon jour!”.
Nothing more to say about that disgusting turd of a town, thought, again wrong.

The giant suitcase arrived shortly after midnight, brought in by a police car with flashing blue lights and stood just under my window from which I could watch the dirt poor remnants of what was a market with vegetables before. Nowhere else in Morocco I had seen such a sadness and poverty when it came to vendors of day by day foodstuff. They were ill under extreme pressure by AOI and King Nchaoui and will be removed and replaced by elegant market halls de Paris paid for by loans from the AOI.

Sometimes you are suffering from a sudden loss of reality “ that is why we were travelling to India for example. The ultimate kick was Varanasi: the dead burning just in front of us on wooden pyres and holy men and us smoking charras while watching them burn. “Booooooooooooooom Shankaaaaaaaar, Boooooooooooooom Shankaaaaaaaaar”. Other holy men from Germany continued with the chillium and charras: “Boooooleeeenaaath, Sabkesaaath, Boooooooooooom Shankaaaaaaar. “Boooooommmm Shaaaankaaaaar” and Indian holy man answered and smoked a complete chliium in one puff without a cuff. Dead holy men were floating in the Ganga with some dead animals because they could not be cremated because they are holy men, too holy to be burned because they are in the state of purity already. The ultimate reality loss trip then no acid needed at all, that freaked some people far out, that sight and the atmosphere around it, they needed al lot of acid later to understand that and accept it.

But it was not evil. But here it was. It just happens: ultimate evil. You can’t believe what they are doing because they are commiting the most heinous acts as if it was nothing if you are declared kafir or unbeliever by them or non-admirer of King Nchaoui and the Grand Okzident or something builds up inside them in a group that is inexplainable even to them, as if a demon has taken over. And there it was and there it came in: the suitcase of the Essaouira police, before my eyes with a procession of demons and ghouls to my hotel directly from the AOI central base.

I decided again to tune in, not to drop out immediately and lay on the bed in the dark in my room, waiting for the attack to happen. I wanted them to commit who they really are when you are not even in a state of emergency but a male wanderer and artist and not the elegant traveller or posh father or serious husband with wife, protected by your government and all international agencies. That was my move and it paid out. The atmosphere in the room began to change, it was impossible to relax anymore, sudden tension everywhere. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz it made in my ear,zzzzzzzzzzzzzz an endless humming that intensified more and more and seemd to never stop and it didn’t. My blood pressure was rising as if I had taken something really bad but I hadn’t. I ran to the mirror and my skin had turned red without I had realized it, it felt as if somebody had turned on electric wires in the bed, in floor, in the ceiling, in the wall, like a galvanic bath you can not leave and that is becoming more and more intense without any chance to stop it. But I played as if it was still durable and laid myself on the bed again. Then IT eally happend, shivers were running up and down my skin everywhere, my toes and feet began to hurt and there was an unbearable pressure in the left side of my thorax. I jumped up and went to the mirror again: my skin was a red as raw meat and swollen. As if I was in a trance I grabbed my travel bag kicked the door open and saw the two stool pigeon in the rooms left and right still lying on their beds. They had been paid by the police to wait til I was gone to pretend normality but they looked as horrible as myself. I rushed down and the clerk tried to block me: “Quesque ces’t, Quesque ces’t, why you go? Why you go?” Nobody else was there in the lobby at all, they have cleaned it out, it was about midnight. I told him to fuck off and cleaned the exit of his existence by just swinging my bag into he direction of the exit and ran out to the street. Slowly the radiation went away and I moved around several corners to loose the animals of that shithouse called hotel and I found an empty taxi. I opened the back door threw in my travel bag and told the driver to find another hotel for me, at 1 o'clock in the night. He went on without talking at all and drove to the better parts of the Ville Noveau and stopped in front of a nice house with flower garlands and a lot of pottery with huge plants around the house. I rang the bell and waited, again, I waited. I told the driver to phone the owner since it was close to one o’clock now and he did to my surprise. Somebody answered and soon the door was opened. The black owner looked at me without any intrest in spite of my red hot and swollen face and my anger I was feeling about those pieces of scum before. I did not want to show my passport but gave him about 20 $ and he gave me the key without even telling me where the room is. “Upstairs!” that was all this bitch said. I went upstairs and saw a long row of open rooms with absolutey nobody inside. My room was the last one in the row and locked. I opened it and: the electricty was not working. I decided immediately this was a trap since the electricty worked in all other rooms, but I wanted them to show themselves again and stayed in that room with electricity. I just laid down on the huge bed, indulges in that four star luxury and waited without getting undressed. It took about thirty minutes and I was just calming down from the radiation before and began to believe again they would be real here.

The atmosphere in the room began to change, it was impossible to relax anymore, sudden tension everywhere. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz it made in my ear,zzzzzzzzzzzzzz an endless humming that intensified more and more and seemd to never stop and it didn’t. My blood pressure was rising as if I had taken something really bad but I hadn’t. I ran to the mirror and my skin had turned red without I had realized it, it felt as if somebody had turned on electric wires in the bed, in floor, in the ceiling, in the wall, like a galvanic bath you can not leave and that is becoming more and more intense without any chance to stop it.
This time I did not go to bed again, I grabbed my bag and ran down. Everything was empty, I opened the door and just went out, leaving it open. Nobody would come here voluntarily, they could have sacks of gold there and any thieve in the world would avoid the premises. I ran to the main road, stoopped a taxi, opened the back door and the driver said: “Do you want a hotel? Yes, I said, Hotel Riad in in Saudi Arabia.” He did not say a word and I continued: ” I can’t decide what ist better, Qatar, Oman, Saudi Arabia or Morocco” He began to smile and started laughing and drove me to the bus terminal. He stopped and I gave him a tip too. The bus was already waiting for me. I did not even ask where it was going but paid my ticket an he said.” It was about 2 o'clock in the morning. Casablanca a sept heurs”. I did not even answer but went in, he drove on and I could sleep feeling save there. Nobody told them. I had found a friend in the taxi driver.

I woke up when the bus took a grinding halt at the central bus station of Casablanca, a main industrial town of Morocco. I looked outside and said to another passenger:” is this Falludja or is this Aleppo under siege? I do not go out of the bloody bus!” He did not answer but pretended he has not heard anything but hasted away. I continued watching out of the windows and saw a giant bus station in despair. It was dirty and full of oil leaks and all kinds of garbage. Islamists in stained Kaftans and fully veiled women all around, beside bearded young men with leather jackets, constant shouting and yelling was heard. “Get out of the bus!!” The driver invited me for a breakfast in Aleppo with the FSA and I moved out politely and calm, took my bag and decided that I would never leave that station or walk around, I would take the next bus out of there. I placed myself at a food stall and sat on a chair on an absolutely dirty floor, garbage from days and weeks around the whole bus station. Young men were fighting and yelling. I looked in their eyes carefully and saw: SPEED and aggression and crazyness. People were throwing their stuff on he floor and shouted to the cafe owner. He did not react but served me a friendly breakfast at his counter. I knew I was safe there exactly to that moment, just one of the hundreds islamist or veiled women around would say just one word about the only Kafir in the whole bus station. I stood up and used an incredible toilet, people were falling and hasting around in speed dementia and bought a ticket to the far North and waited diguised behind a newspaper until my next bus drove me away.

Copyright: Ronald C. Kaiser 2018

Freedom of the Veils

King Nchaoui had done a great work: he and his wife Esther had liberated the women of his Kingdom. They told him that in Paris, that this would be the next step of the development of their great plan and that is why they need his wife to be in public on photos. He shook his head in disgust with his men in Paris. „With her on photos in public? Ces’t inderdit ca. My father kept the women in the back and they ruled the house and the narrow lanes, that worked there in all ages, that is how the kingdom worked for all the times.“ They did not reply to him and looked at each other in their Lezare and Cardin suites. „How much money did his father have in our banks here?“ „Ces’t inestimable, oui mon roi ces’t un etat complet pour une decade.“ That was all he heard before he was lead out of the premises.

Then they were everywhere, they walked through the Medinas, the stood at corners and chatted and they went in line, in rows after each other through the town looking for groceries, blocking other pedestrians ways. They did not really know what they were doing nor did the know why they they were on the streets some of the spectators thought. They always kept to each other, they never approached anyone outside of their small groups so they attracted not much attention. Harmless creatures shown the light for the first time in decades of Moroccan history beside the few modern Western style women without veiles who behaved like modern Arab women behave everywhere in the world and the tradional women in their traditional clothing who were seldom seen as seldom on the streets of the kingdom as before in the ages his father. The just moved from their houses to buy something and back, always in a nuns like dark coat with the mouth or nose covered, always respected and with a cool and calm appearance mostly. They did not talk to me usuallly out of respect for their husband but when they were asked and knew the language or signs and symbols they behaved always respectful and answered as good as they could. I never heard anything from them, that they talked bad. Strange that they were seldom regarded as inferior or downtrodden creatures in sharp contrast with their Saudi sisters. Something worked out also in the background. Same as the women from the North with their tribal outfit with a straw hat and striped skirts selling bread and olives. They always looked me in the eyes and to me they were the most interesting creatures up there.

Now it was different. The old ones were meant to disappear and replaced forever. Like a swarm of bees all with the same outfit: long coat, kaftan, mostly coloured and a colored headscarf: the new women of King Nchaoui and his wife Esther, the stars of his Moroccan revolution.

I moved into the Medina of Rabat, the capital, because it was cheap as hell, traditional hotels still available for less than 10 $ a night, and it was a travellers tradition in the old days I was still trying to cling on. But those are really inside the Medina, deep inside, former travellers delight after the hippie high time in the seventies. That spirit lived on in our traditional regions from the high North to middle South until the late nineties: companionship with the locals, cheap hotels with an unmistakable flair of tradition, and camaraderie with the working class and the poor there and the vendors, hasslers and kif smokers as well. Mostly they were clean as a whistle, those hotels, always mobbed up by white clad women day by day with liquids with a strong smell of chlorine and even lime in the eighties still. You never forget the clean smell of Moroccan detergents, they meant something: ocean blue tidyness no big corporation detergent could ever replace.

But I was not ready yet for the real deal in the old town, the Medina and jumped into a more modern version of a Moroccan cheapie at the border between New Town and Old Town. Something creeped to my mind that this was not the natural move anymore since I stayed away for more than twenty years from the north of the country. The south was still a bit on the old travellers side ten years ago.

It was a woman off course who ran that hotel, I have never seen that before in the Kingdom – a bit tradional, a bit modern, some fancy electric gadgets around on her desk, blinking and flickering, but still the old style of an old house with ornamented tiles and patio and open roof. But it was different: no men around but a „prive“ room at the entrance that stood wide open with two fat local women inside who immediately stared at me without any joy, hope or contempt, just empty. The “watch the Kafir“ look but I did not know that yet. This woman at the reception desk was cold as ice in her long coat and her headscarve modern style. No more shy laughter, no more inhibitions, no more disgust with a nonbeliever eventually, no more distant flirting, pure distance through ice. „Identification papers“ I gave her my passport and she looked at it and pushed over a pice of paper: „fill out the form here.“ I looked her in the eyes and saw nothing but a wide staring just waiting for any response and I filled it out without any comment and went to my room. It was the perfect European hostel and hotel experience turning any traveller into a beggar and submissive object of moods of owners and staff. I noticed the WIFI router on the reception desk and its many antennas and also that she gave me the room next to the reception and so herself. ‘Promising’ I thought. „The WIFI“ is often a synonym these days for electronic harassment in cheap hotels around the world, sometimes they advertise it as „extra strong WIFI“ to attract customers with „special needs or wishes“, those who are addicted to microwave pollution of any kind maybe, I still can’t get the clue, but they just want to control us and keep us away at daytime.

A typical AOI mutation seen these days with more and more supports. „We should replace all drugs with microwave modulations of all spectres and forms“ said technical agent Stephen Sweetlick on the last AOI kick off meeting in Kiev. „The vast majority of the gay crowd is willing to follow us this way and give the meth and scag all up, the E as well. They are forming a new cult out of that: „We all have to shine in the frying pan“ is a new song of Gaylords and the Turbosphincters this year in the internet. This proves without any doubt that we are right in the AOI to turn society in a new direction. „the slogan ‘We are not living in the eighties anymore, things have to be changed. Push the Grandfather from his free seat on a park bench’ is replaced this season by „Grandfathers shines and swings with us in the ray-dom habit – he loves the mindswing devices in his park“. Bars and clubs have been formed in the posh test centres as Reykjavik, Kopenhagen, Cologne, Ibiza, Mykonos and Paris with radiating mood enhancement machines under each seat and are sizzling with success. Nobody wants anything else but this, drug dealers are running berserk without customers. „We are doing good, we are doing good we create a safe new society“ ” We swing your mind we enhance your mood – we will all shine bright as stars” He raised his fist in the air and began to yell for some minutes until the crowd of AOI agents followed him by „hail hail hail“ choruses and stamped on the floor untilthe hall was vibrating also from there stampede. „The slogan will be incorporated in the next years grand street parade and pumped out of the leading parade wagon. No doubt, this will be the next step in the final transformation of all societes into wave and radiation only system nobody wants to evade because ‘it is all good, it is all good, it is all good because this is god, god, god’“ He again raised his fists and the lights were blackened while the AOI expert crowd was extasing away in special celebration modulations waves from giant “bubble machines” that made some of them copulate with each other and others ejaculate on the floor while the were yelling „anybody has to be fried, anybody has to be fried until we are all done and ready“ while others were transported away with exploded face tissues. Those had to much body fat. “Reduce your body fat index, reduce your body fat index, you cowards and deserters“ the crowd was howling. Sweetlick commented, „take them to the cremation centre if it looks to ugly and calm them down before, I don’t want to be disturbed by their sight in the streets of Berlin “

The room was just a typical Moroccan hotel room with a washbasin, and a metal bed frame with a mattress and colored bed sheets and blankets. „’Looks ok’ I thought when I heard the sweet summing in my ear after she turned on the „WIFI“ in the recption becoming stronger until it was like a dull insects trying to commit suicide after I swallowed it because my stomach begant to „feel the vibe „ as well. ‘OK, the usual travellers delight, let us see if I can sleep at all’. I undressed, fixed a towel around my hips and went to the shower outside. I wore a T-Shirt and the long towel so, I thought, that would be enough to calm the anger of the alleged islamist commando in the „chambre prive“ watching me eventually. The shower looked like in the „Tales of 1001 Nights“, it opened to a room with a thick carpet as a curtain and door for the shower, there was no real door with a lock to close. What a brilliant and tempting honeypot I thought: a serail and a steaming shower where you undress and feel so relaxed because there are carpets and I saw no door to close. You can’t leave your money in a room in hotel, well, you take it with you into the shower. Where to put it there? Oh there is a metal hook just beside the curtain, hang it there the money belt with your credit card and cash and passport. Or what would you do? Hang it near the door, oh, there is no door, hang it near the shower curtain and relax under the shower. Close your eyes and wash your hair, rinse the shampoo out of your hair and forget about everything, about the dust and hassle on the street, you have a safe showerroom. Then you are ready and you dry yourself with a towel. You have rinsed that stress and hassle and dust and some annyoing kifsmokers on the street and the cold receptionists away and out with that delightful shower. Then you leave the shower and your eyes roam around in the room and your nerves are suddenly in highest alert, it is shooting thru the synapses, the red hot alarm signals, the adrenaline rushes with such a speed you are in a state of acute shock. Everything has changed within a milisecond: the moneybelt is gone. It is just gone. Nothing more has happened. You have not seen anybody, you have not heard anybody. There is just an empty space at the wall under the hook were the moneybelt hung before. Now you are in the state of an antilope that is surrounded by lions in the Serengeti: hastily you search for rescue. You look arround with widened eyes, searching for the moneybelt in the cabin, you throw around your clothes, you search within the clothes. Under the curtain on the floor? At the top of the curtain? No, it is just gone as if it was 1001 Nights. You still can’t believe it. It can not be true, whre was I. Just in that room, just in that room. Did I leave it in the hotel room? No it was there at the hook, at the hook. How is that possible? You dress quicky and approach the reception. Nobody is there. You shout and yell: “hello, please help me!“ And somebody arrives, in a cool and tempted manner and does not even look at you. „I lost my moneybelt in the shower! Everything is gone, help me please! It is just gone, I had it there“. „Let’s look“ the man says, or the woman „come on“ and walks with the guest to the shower. He opens it and looks around: „there is absolutely nothing!“ he says „or do you talk about this“ hes says and holds an shampoo bottle in his hand. You look at him with eyes wide open and you say without a tone in your voice: „my moneybelt! All I had was in there, everything“. „I am really sorry Sir/ Madam, but nobody was here except me, so who can take it and I was back in the private room. Didn’t you lock the shower?“ „No, no, there is no door!“. The receptionist smiles and shows the hidden sliding door hat can close the shower. „Didn’t you see that?“ „No, no, no, I didn’t, my money is gone!“ „I doubt that strongly“ he says, because there were no guests here, only me and I was back, but you did not close the shower you say. So you accuse me and I have nothing to do with it! So either you leave the hotel now and never return or I will report you to the police!“

That is one story that usually happened in showers of cheap or middle class hotels in the Kingdom. Or the warm water is suddenly gone and you step out for 10 seconds. Come back and your moneybelt is gone – a ghost has entered, maybe a ghoul of INTERZONE. And if it is not gone and you carry it with you and complain with the hotel owner about the cold water and he will show you the empty gas bottle for the heating and exchange it and turn it on before your eyes. Then you undress again and try the warm water. It will not work at all off course. You get angry and jump out of the shower because nobody was there before and approach the hotel owner again. That’s it. Return into an empty shower cabin and die of despair there….

But no, this did not happen in my hotel ever, because I saw it and put my money belt into a plastic bag thrice and showered with it. I even put it between my legs when I dried myself with the towel and never gave it out of my hand. But it happened to many others. I am a well know cash man and even the worst animals of international politics know that and tell their policemen where to find me and why to steal and rob my money, my radios, my cameras, my dirty underwear because they are afraid of me and my writing.

So I went out with a towel around my hips, and a T-Shirt and my moneybelt on and slippers at my feet when I met Aisha the hotel owner a few meters away from the shower when I was returning to my room. She was high with anger with me up to the rafter and shouted: „one Dollar, one Dollar for the shower and you have door there to close, close door.“ „Well I was behind a curtain and I saw no door. It is a dark room and I was not to be seen“ „It is there, it is a hidden sliding door why you walk naked here, why?“ „Well I am not naked but totally covered and how do you know how I was in the shower?“ She did not answer but hasted away into the „chambre privee“. I let that slip but an unpleasant feeling prevailed. I put one dollar on the reception desk. That was my first day in Chaouiville, the capital.

I walked around in the Medina and was astonished about the post-medivial continuity of the image presented to me since the early eighties. Still the old gut feeling about olive vendors with open buckets full of olives in hand made vinegar and so on, meat from freshly slaughtered animals hanging from the ceilings of small stalls and so on, we all know it, what it is like. But it wasn’t, it was different, it was not as hollow as Copenhagen is these days or Paris, not just so bad, but there was a force that most travellers did not even feel or can name, because they have been distracted from it: it is the AOI. Travellers? There were none, no travellers in Rabat at all except me and a tourist group from charter tours leaving within hours. Mhmm…the muslim people around me seemed to ignore me, no more ‘you want this, you want that’ no more „hashish, kif’ nothing.

So I went to cafe were the smokers are, they even have two in a row full of kif and hash smokers constantly telling each other stories and rolling joints with hash, some we smoking kif from traditional pipes. That part was untouched, it was even more than before, they smoked without any inhibition in the smokers cafes. I unpacked my notebook and began to write but they did not like it at all because I did something…..and began to start a typical show around that. They were also AOI, distracting me from writing: they blow hash smoke in my face all the time simply they wanted me to talk with them, smoke with them and later be their sex toy maybe. But I was not one of them, I was just a writer, so they blew and blew and blew: hash smoke in my face and then they were happy when I could not write anymore when I was stoned from their excellent material. I went to toilet to have a break from their crazyness and: one of them had ignited one of their stinkbombs inside before: he had smoked a full joint inside and closed the door hermetically so the laughter was all theirs when I returned. But they remained old friends, crazy remnants of the past in a male only society of the Kif Brotherhood that will soon be taken down I guess.

But women were there on the streets and in fancy food stalls. They were everywhere and they were owning the place somehow by a force that was also unfamiliar but yet: I knew it. Not just like it was in the former Eastern block but….they were blocking somehow and talking about the people on the street it seemed because they had sometimes a sisniste look around them. But they did nothing to prove that yet, the were just walking and this very slow, some alone, some in pairs, some in small groups and always in a different speed than all other and always whispering to each other. And these others were just men and very few traditional women in their traditional garn. The army around me wore long colored or uniform colored coats and colored long headscarves and usually had a plump appearance. I tried to ignore them but I couldn’t, it was merely impossible. They ruled the place with stubborn as if it is noting attitude and a mediocrity we have only observed late sixties in Germany in small towns, when the squareheads from the war generation had still the power and ruled about us in public by continously talking about people behind thier backs.

Suddenly I felt their view in my back and heard whispering voices: „who is that lunatic here, do you know him?“ „he is here to do it to us they told me, he wants to do it to us all, he is a kafir“. „he is doing all those things to women, they told me, he takes his thing out and does it to me.“ ‘ooops’ I thought, ‘better move out a bit, but that is just a laugh, I thought, just a laugh these days, they are just getting excited. The King has done well to send them on the streets, they will learn how life is.’, the old fashioned humanist was still talking inside me. Instead of further walking thru the streets I returned to the border areas to the Ville Noveau, watching policemen with baseball caps kicking the poorest vendors on the ground selling paper towels and used batteries and cheapest stuff like this. They were just taking their things and packed it all together to move it out. I have never seen that before, that distance between those new style cops in blue uniforms and the poor local people. They did not care at all about them, they took their belongings, grabbed it together and throw it into a police van, blocking the medina street. Another cop was holding an older hasheesh smoker at his arms, shouting to him and beating him with the open palm while the man looked absolutely concerned and hopeless. „He beat a child he beat a child“ one of the women shouted without any inhibitions. “No no“ he said, „she fell just because she was stumbling“. „You do this, you do this“ the cop shouted and grabbed him harder. I walked on because I felt a wave of anger toward me and the staring of the New Women towards me so I looked the other way and walked on, not caring for the poor scenery they displayed. I would be the next victim, that was for sure.

I took a chair in one of the big cafes a little bit outside of the Medina and realized I was not unwelcome but also not welcome. That indifference in the air was hardest to take. I hate that – pure disregard or even hate directed towrds me is quite easy to take. It was not common before,let’ssay thirty or even twenty years ago in the koingdom: they tested you nout within ten minutes and you got your place: idiot or coll kif smoker or crazy kif smoker or just honorable man. This does not happen anymore now. The owner had a typical Moghrebian or Algerian face with a thin moustache and a meagre look they had usually in the seventies and eighties. I ordered coffee and opened my notebook to write ignoring the looks, what the fuck.

I wrote a bit and gave a beggar a small zakat of ten cents, that was also still alive: beggars in cafes and aroundand went on writing. An old women in tradional garn came to me and asked me if she could take the sugar, she was not feeling well. „Off course“ I said and reached her the small plate with sugar cubes and she took it. Somebody rushed beside me and yelled loud to her „go away, go away, no stealing my sugar“. I turned around and told him: „let her, I gave her the sugar“. That did not stop him and he shouted and yelled around „what a stupid man, give away my sugar, my sugar“. I could not believe his indiscrete act of hostility not only towards her but also me and I told him again: „stop insulting me. It was my sugar with my coffee and I can give what I want“. His look was full of hate and anger and annoyance suddenly and he was talking to the men in the cafe. They started staring at me and began to smile. I stood up, paid that piece of shit and went away.

Searching for another place to write and live I searched inside the Medina again and realized that the food has changed remarkably. Traditional homemades were disappearing and middle eastern food was established in sterile snack shops and food stalls beside Hamburgers and Tacos. Jellabas were disappearing and substituted by middle eastern islamist outfits for the male. The women wore those ankle long King and Queen coats and headscarves in colors mostly. I passed a window of a photographer shop and saw the Kngdoms flag and in the middle of the windowthe Saudi flag. Walls had murals with a huge Saudi flag, Saudi banks, an lot of „Riad“ agencies and hotels and busniesses and everywhere these women, as if a female army was swarming around. „That is him“ I heard behind my back, „he wanted to rape a grandmother in the cafe of Ibrahim“, „Yes, the kafir from that hotel, he is running around there naked with his big thing in his hand all day“, „why is he here?“ „First he wanted to take me, that is why, he is always around, then he wanted that grandmother in the cafe, but she could escape. Ibrahim and our men helped her“ „And this was all nothing, this is all nothing, when they go against us women!“, „what will the people say?“ „we teach them all about that kafir today, they will know then“. „Everybody is crazy in Chaouiville, all are crazy“.

I went back to my Aisha hotel immediately to check out. All of the three women in headscarves were staring at me and turned their heads away suddenly with utter disgust when I passed them with a fresh and innocent „Bon jour“. I opened my room and did not find my radio, it was definetely gone. „This crazy man there is listening radio, as if this was nothing“ I remembered that from a bus in the North of the Kingdom, when we were passing tapes ripped out of music cassettes stil used there until toiday and destroyed CD’s on the streets. Time to leave urgently. I grabbed everything I still posessed and banged my key on the desk.

Searching a new hotel in the medina. Was I crazy? Because I smelled that dangerous rat now like an unwashed jihadist in a bus seated directly beside me but I moved on into the heart of darkness. I could not grab that reality around me becasue I was posessed by the images of the past. No, I was still walking in the past, I was walking in a Moghrebia that appeared in Crosby Still, Nash and Young songs with old men with a kif pipe and endless smiles or faces as if hammered out of stone, chicken in trains and endless harassement ending in good luck and happy purchases too often, in disaster sometimes, and magical charms everywhere and the mystery of the Berber spells and hidden secrets in small shops. I walked out from this world into the modern veiled Moghrebia of Queen Esther and could not see it. It was made somewhee else. It was made in the salons of the capitol of the Grand Nation, it was made in the secret chambres of the fraternite. It was made for the future, it was made for good, it was made to change things a bit, it was made to alter reality, it was made to liberate the women, it wss made to create a modern nation, it was for liberte, fraternite, egalite. I passed bank after bank in the medina as well, as much as small grocery shops before. Rectangular counters with marbles and one, sometimes two ATM machines waiting without clients for all the middle class and rich people that would walk on then half empty streets without poor people and self made food but with fancy shops where to buy veils in all modern colors from Paris and the new outfit for men with a small white caps, long thin trousers and a long shirt, that suited well with the half long beards still to be seen in the medina here, in Oman, in Riad, in Dubai, in Karachi, in Brussels, in Paris and London as well. I looked at dozens of Snack Shops with the same food: Tacos were most favoured, hamburgers too, muslim halal style, as in Oman and Dubai, even Falafel was now available, more than 5000 km away from the next nation feeding that to the poor in the Middle East. Why not, I thought, a young generation is changing things, why not to calm myself and try to accept the void I am feeling about the absence of what? The absence of the magical world the kingdom has housed before. But you don’t see it directly, it is just a slight feeling that develops; something is not right, something has been taken. And remnants are still there and these remnants trick you because they do not work out. They wander around and search for the world they have lost but can’t find the binding links of it, because there are only remnants around as they are themselves. But King Nchaoui has provided them with nice new buidlings instead: modern railway stations, designed in Paris, Grenoble and Toulouse, housing complexes in the North to give breeding ground to the nice white small caps with beards and fully veiled wives like in France. That has King Nchaoui given to them, together with his wife Esther, who is so modern with her open hair and so traditional as well in her traditional garments so they decided to „change more to be different“ and build new avangardistic buildings for dozens of millions of dollar directly near old railway stations, even touching them and they presented their people something really spectacular: a new harbour in the East of the Kingdom of Moghrebia: they have a spectacular natural harbour there in the east at the Mediterrenean coast like hammered out of the rocks with a huge sand beach in between and many ships and Yachts of the rich and the famous were harbour ed there when they celebrated their busisness they had often with the good people from the Chemel. King Nchouai wanted to put his imprint on all that to transport it into the new age and let his people from Nchouai-Ville built a modern harbour temple as a architectonial sculpture directly like the pyramids of Centre Pompidou in the middle of that beach to show anybody that he is modernizing the Kingdom of Mohammedia to be celebrated not only by his New People he is creating by taking them home from France but also by the Masters in Paris himself who worship and praise him as never before to drive all the old people out and establish a modern presidential style autocratic systme as they have by pushing old customs and traditions to the brink of extinction. So the natural harbour there was split in the midle by a rectangular spaceship, a futuristic piece of French delight so that no more boats and yachts were necessary to celebrate the glory and riches of his kingdom. They stayed away since that masterpiece was created and also the other unwanted visitors from the past, the travellers and small entrepreneuers stayed away. Those who still came because of the glorious image of the past were treated as straydogs there by the Kings command and even denied water and foods in some cafes and restaurants – they felt so sory that the disturbed his dreams and stayed all away so his dicipels have the fortune to worship his masterly monument in the harbour all alone. This was all celebrated in the fancy hotels and in the 200000 Euro Winnebagos in which the French masters stayed in his muslim Kingdom.

In Nchouai-Ville they did not do that. It was too much in the centre of the Kingdom. Too well known, too much watched. Instead they changed the customs into a panislamic festival modulating all the old arabic and berber regional traditions into nonexistence and playing with the islamists to do so. Queen Esthers women had me in their grips. It was the AOI telling the New Women of Moghrebia that I was there and I was writing. „Why is this kafir writing? Nobody wants this, nobody knows“. „There is one book, the holy Koran that is enough, he can read that.“ „is it forbiiden to write?“ „No but if a kafir writes something poisonous will come out“.

I tried on, I still believed in them, in the writers they had in the old times I knew personally and I ignored the ugly ghosts around me, blocking my ways in the medina with three or four, staring at me in the Noveau Ville, backtalking and so I used my established contacts in the medina. In that traditional restaurant run by older men with the traditional recipes Moghrebia has to offer and what I was famous for I was waiting for my waiter when he approached me with a loud „Salam Aleikum!“. It hit me as a shock, he has never said that before. I looked up and at him and he stood thee, waiting, not friendly smiling as usual but with a sarcastic grin when I repeated exactly what I said „Salam Aleikum“ and „Bonjour Monsieur“ by avoidig Alleikum Salam and by that denying him the muslm answer to Salam Aleikum. He was shocked and did not know what to do. He was stealing himself away. He had played the role of the liberal but typical semi modern citizen far away from insisting on muslim customs with a foreigner. The bond was broken at that point immediately – we both felt it. Our both imaginations about each other fell, I thought before he is the typical follower of the old king, leaving his religion if he ever followed it in the closet at home and supports the laizist state. A short moment I thought this could be a warning, that I was regaded as dangerous non-believer but tjis was just a selfmade twist that woiuld not work out in reality in Moghrebia.

I ate silently and not angry but annoyed and down and stepped out and saw for the first time about 50 men praying on the median street although the mosque was half empty. It nearly looked as worse as Paris.

I knew now I was done but I still thank the restaurant waiter for his honesty to show me what the New Times of King Nchaoui and Quenn Esther really meant:: I was like many on a watch list of the islamist, they had already build up the stage for my trial and execution.

Whatever that is today in Moghrebia, or might be, an execution. They can not stone you to death on a public square yet or whip you to death, because that’s what it usually means: torture to death, but they are building it up and you will never see the real players until it is ultimatively too late, as in Syria. When I walked to my new old fashioned muslim hotel, a travvelkers and hippes and freaks delight in the seventies and eighties in the middle of the Medina that I had chosen before in an outbreak of postive energy I knew I was done. It could not be denied anymore. I climbed the stairs in total silence and secrecy and went to my room, opened it and went inside when I saw a policemen sanding in the room on the other side of the patio. He looked at me with ań empty and stern face and put on his police cap. I went out again and passed the reception where the old man running the nbhotel was sitting or lying always. He greeted me with overwhelming enthusiasm „ca va bien, ca va bien?“ and grinned and smiled. I walked to the MacDonald because I could not stand the attitude in the cafes at allanymore and had hours of writing with other poor refugees who were using the place for interaction and writing and whatelse. For the first time I had the feeling of not being watched by slimy scumheads. I left after midnight and walked to the Medina not on the main boulevard but through another road. „Whooff, whoff, whooff“ it made suddenly beside me and then I saw IT: a giant Rottweiler dog was jumping directly towards me in the dark. I moved to the side a bit and he ran full speed fifty, hundered, two hundred meters along the lane and the he turned and ran full speed back and jumped when he was near me as if he would catch me back to his two masters, two AOI agents with basbeall caps just like those policemen who were kicking down the poor in the Medina. Nobody said a word. The two animals were just staring dfrom under their baseball caps with hollow faces in my directions. And on it went. The killer machine, I have never seen one like this ever before in a muslim country, was running up and down beside me and jumped towards my direction when nit approached me. I walked away in a speed a bit faster than normal. That was all I could do. I was in their hands but in full atack mood. The Islamic Salvation front has started its first physical attack and I had my hands an my pocket knife ready to kill all of those animals if the dog would bite me. An attack by a German Rottweiler is a deadly matter at night always. They never stop biting thru to your bones until you look like a dead politicalprisoner in Bergen Belsen concentration camp. Nobody knows how to handle them here at all and there is only one move when one of those Germen killier machines attack: kill them on the spot no questions asked – no matter what happens to their masters later…..

I opened my hotel room and it was all there: luggage and sanitary items unmoved and I could sleep. Next morning I walked through the Medina with empyt staring albehind me. Nobody dared to speak a word. Same as the phony hotel owner. It was even too much for the Moghrebians to play the sweet and gentle after this. They were angry that they could not lock me into a cage as the Islamic State did in Syria with three or four Rottweilers for execution maybe, I thought when I passed the shop with the Saudi flag. I walked one of the very small lanes in the Medina for the first time becaue before I rspected that as a family space whre the traditional women ruled. That was not necessary anymore because that system is out of order now. The women are on the street for the Salvation Front and the Salvation Front is i the small lanes and vilages. I had my small camera with me in my pocket for evidence and at one time I took it out to take a picture of islamist propaganda. Nobody was there at all and I walked on when suddenly I heard a voice from behind: You are jew, you are jew!“. I nturned around and this was the first time I saw one of them, later they were after me in bus stations of Moghrebia everywhere in full Jihadi outfit and a secret service smartphone: a man from an islamist movement, I walked on and he got angry: „Jew,jew, jew“ That was the next stupidity those women of King and Queen of Moghrebia have told them. The sex hungry writing jew artist to rape them and spoil their holy book and their new French-German lifestyle that goes well with it in the Kingdom. I just moved, turned around once and said „NO!“ into his hate driven face totally unknown to me. I reached open space where a group of young Moghrebinians played a music game with traditional Berber music with loud and playful singing and dancing just as a rehearsel. They were left totally alone there in spite of all the noise and movement they created but attracted hatefulviews and commets by the Arabs around. I made a short movie nof them that was brilliant, full of life and extasy from the old Moghrebia and then went away before the Salvation Front and the police were getting to angry. They were all soaring with hate, disgust and misbelief about what they saw and heard. Those were young people from the Southern Berber tribes regarded as kafirs in Nchaoui-Ville. I moved on and was attracted by more music some kilometers away out of a Pavillion they were playing loud Rai music. Wow I thought, maybe things are getting better, not without a sarcastic undertone. There was no more music to be heard in the kingdom in public except koran chants without any instrumenst. TV was restricted to football,allhe rest was haram to the new citizens of King Nchaoui and Queen Esther. I placed myself in a chair zhere to enjoy at least one nsmall glimpse of life. When talking to young people sometimes they take out a smartphoe nand show you recordings of Rai music in secrecy and say „all from Algeria, you must go to Algeria to listen“. But here suddenly. Rai music in the open space. It did nozt last more than than five minutes.

„Whooff, whoff, whooff“ it made and baaang, the giant dark German Rottweiler popped up and was passing me wih fullspeed not m,ore than ten centimeters beside my legs. Some dark figures appeared i the back pretending that he escaped becaue he only had a plastci rope around his neck. I spat on the floor and just moved out. Tthe dog doing exactly the same as the night before. Running hunderede meters and then coming back barking at me and passing me very close.

I walked away and was watched by uniformed policemen with empty faces and hollow but stern looks and I decided to leave that fucking place. I made it out by takin out my long Moghrebian knife, that was always the first aid in the kingdom, that I knew for sure and those New Citizens have not forgotten that remedy. They know I am serious since I am a young man and they tried to harass and rob us in a hotelroom in the North when we were youngsters. Just show them what you do to a melon instaed of their throats first, they will instantly know if you are serious. And I am, I never was one of those freaks whose girlfried got boned by half of the hash dealer crews and who bought hash pushed on them and then returned to the dealers when they were in jail by the police. Or even better, not being one of those piss artists who broke down a kilo of hash the just bought under pressure and flushed it down a Moghrebian toilet in a hotel. A good knife is cheaper: just 8 Dollars and it works fine if you know what you are doing and are able to do it. This part of their culture they have never forgotten, so they called me one of them, because I had shown them in the past also when I broke some chairs on their backs when they threw a wrapped slap of hash in my soup in a Medina restaurant and the hot liquid splashed in my face. „You are as crazy as we!“ You can bet I am, and I got free tea then for being cool, but now I went away and decided to eat some ggod food in a restaurant in the new part of town. It was not posh and there were modern women without veil but the owner had a beard I did not like at all. But the food looked brilliant and healthy so I took a seat outside near the huge fridge for the softdrinks. I orers soupand salad. The salad arrived and was good, but not the soup. I ordered again and was waiting and waiting. Suddenly it felt really hot on my right side. The fridge was humming differently now and emitted a horrible heat that burnt my face and my right side. I cxould not see properly anymore, my eysight was clearly foggy. I called the piece of shit and he arived with the soup. I just looked at his fridge with a look as if I had my knife at his throat. „I have many friends in Germany and alos here in Nchaoui-Ville in diplomatic village“ he said and unplugged his killer machine beside me. The humming stopped and the heat waves diminished immediatly. I ate my soup. It was the best I have eaten this term in the Kingdom. It was as cheap as it was in Lithuania.

Copyright Ronald C. Kaiser 2018