In Casablanca they placed me in a bus to Tangier, being ridiculed before by
grinning islamists in leather jackets with and without beard. Making it
clear to me and everybody else, that I was just a pet to them that they
could feed or discard whenever they liked. They did this by continous
loud shouting and yelling for no reason while the bearded masters in
dirty kaftans remained silent in the back. The bus was better than I
expected, normal people, a lot of women as usual in 2018 Morocco, even a
couple and she without veil or headscarve was sitting in the row behind
me.
The bus started and exactly at that moment I received my
travel-mate, my seat neighbour for the journey: a young bearded islamist
with a bald head a dirt stained kaftan (the islamists do not wear jellabas), and a meagre stature with a solid angular head.
I pushed myself over to the window and he was seated next to me to
teach me a lesson, how kafirs have to be treated in King Nchaouis land
by exposing them to the healing influence of the new holy people the
world of Islam in Morocco has to offer. That was done by him, no no,
they never do, it was done just by a normal Moroccan working for the bus
company, he advised the seat to him, he did not sit there by himself. I
did not complain or react in any sense, I was used even to gun waving
Taliban stoned as a bear driving in jeeps with me across small rivers
bridges and vomiting around because they had just taken some smack or
opium. But this was something special. A peculiar smell was oozing out
of somebody near me. It was not fresh or old sweat or unwashed genitals,
no it was durable at the beginning, something in between mutton and
goat with a mud pit bass note, no fresh shit, sweat or urine among it.
But within one hour it got stronger and stronger permeating through the
air around us and oozing forward to the other passengers. No comments
were made, nobody was shouting, no women was crying, but I am sure, I
was the offender off course when they were talking about me and the
shitstorm later. But no, it could only be a person in the state of
advanced holiness able to permit himself not to wash for some months and
smell how dried shit smells. In crusts somewhere in places I do not
want to know between his cheeks and around. That’s what it was: old, dry
human faeces mixed with scent of unwashed stained cloth. It was not
overwhelming at all but it creeped into you after a while.
In Laos we had similar but different experiences with human discharges. Laotians, the most gentle people I know, tend to vomit as quick as nobody else when transported. As soon as a bus started somewhere, but especially in the North, about ten people or more started to vomit in all colours on the floor or out of the windows and the smell was overwhelming but that was absolutely normal I got used to it soon and realized how sensitive they are when it comes to technology and its effects. Especially when that happened in slow speed and the vomit was sliding down the bus’ outside body and some dogs were licking it away for lunch or dinner when it dripped down. That was an amazing sight always especially in the North of that beautiful country: dogs waiting for the bus. But that story is not complete without our part to it. I had stayed several days in a beautiful town in Northern Laos with female companionship from Europe and it was not bitter cold but just unpleasent wet-cold about 5 degrees constantly and we just decided not to wash even when crawling out of bed with some love juices of us because it was just bloody fucking unpleasant wet-cold and the water was ice-cold. We just couldn’t. Do you know what wet-cold means? Without any heating but only dog soup and sex for warmth? So we stayed in the warm cozyness of our lovescents and just did not realize that young boys around us were getting a hard one when we even passed by and women got horny or angry and men were grinning. But it was still bloody cold constantly without heating but the buy was heated generously up to 25 degrees. And all our layers of juices and dirt began to melt down and an aroma began to develop in the bus that the sensictive Laotions, they are by far the most sensitive and attentive people I have ever met all put out perfume bottles and laid handkerchiefs with perfume on their faces. Only some men resisted and were grinning and smiling. Marvellous people with a weak stomach when it come to movements. They had to remove the handkerchiefs and were vomiting after one hunderd meters out of the windows when they could or on the floor.That was as normal as eating good dog soup: it helps against the bloody wet-cold climate in Northern Laos in winter.
The young couple behind me was moaning and belching. I looked back
and they had opened a perfume bottle, poured it on handkerchiefs and
laid them on their mouths and noses, splashing some of it over my
neighbour in front and me and at ther back. Other women followed.
Aftershave and lotions and perfume was thrown around and soon the bus
was happy again smelling like a whorehouse in the late nineties in
Cologne with multiethnic staff who did not wash for some days or longer.
But next to him – that was me – the inner value of that scent could not
be overtoned. Its note got darker and darker, I felt like in a mutton
breeding farm after three, four hours, when the bus stopped for a piss
break. I know that was not all they had for me to convince me that their
new to be adopted lifestyle by all was superior by any means.
No more artists, no more loving couples in the open daylight, no more hanging around, no more brain storming, no more free development, no more indivíduality, no more music everywhere, no more humanity.
We arived in Tangier and he stood up and went away without even noticing me and the couple behind, knowing that we were an inferior infidels. He was satisfied as was the crowd in the bus following his ways without commenting it in any form.
I took the next transport to Tetouan and there I found one of the old guys taking care of others as it was done in the Old Times and he placed me in a Taxi collectif to the center where I could find further transport to Martil, the famous beach town. I began to feel better, this was the old feeling again, the old ways that worked. At the center I met another caretaker placing all the travellers, I was the only European as usual, in taxis to all the villages around, what a nice and easy way to handle things. These were the mountains, the Chemel, the rif was near and things began to turn to the better. There I met a beautiful lady in her twenties with her mother travelling to the same direction. They came from the mountains and she was totally free, her hair open and fluently talking to me without any inhinbitions. I was in a new land. The traditional mountain people were also around, the women in red/ white skirts with stray hats seling excellent bread, olives and cheese, making you healthy. Everybody arounds us was stoned smoking joints while waiting until we were seated with five poeple in an old Mercedes and drove off to Martil, she was chatting and her mother was beginning to look worried but she just wanted to show me, that the live does not end in Morocco with the islamists in the big towns, that there is stillsomething left, waiting to be destroyed if we obey and do not open our mouths and act accordingly.
We departed from each oother with good wishes and I went to a camping ground to book myself in a bungalow who were avalaible cheap, because camping is out these days everywhere and campers are always watched and regarded as suspicious. The owner was a friendly French-Moroccan and there were no problems at all I thought when I was smiling about all those Grandessa huge campers with French license plates who looked like constructed by Jules Verne driven by posh and proud French holiyday makers walking around in striped French T-Shirts blue, fancy white shorts and white, short summer dresses always around their vehicles and always happily greeting: „Bon Jour Monsieur, ca va“.
Next morning I was ill as hell. I could not breathe properly, my head was aching and I was coughing. It was the worst bronchitis I had since more than twentyfive years. The AOI had severly destroyed my immune systems and my lungs in Essoauira by radiation. I tried to write and it did not work out really, although I had a really good cafe around the corner with cool people from the Old Times running it serving good food for cheap prices. But it still worked out being in Martil, it still had some Mediterrenean flair and there were unveiled women around and many normal Moroccans and still old people in Djellabas. I was only hanging around now, more or less with any drive, the bronchitis had me in its grip. I was sitting on my balcony with a new load of paper towels when a giant French Winnebago, a huge camping vehicle parked directly five meters in front of my door and veranda. ‘What an nice sight, thank you Monsieur Macron for the greetings from Grand Okzident de Paris’. The French couple owning the vehicle was showing off the usual French style being overwhelmingly friendly by administrating the technoloy hidden in their futuristic wagon. A quad was driven out of the back compartment and just put there on the lawn to be there. I came closer and watched at it: the tyres were new, it had not been driven ever. They were just acting out, he took care that any action the did had an obvious reason, that he is not just making holidays or is strolling around, but that any of his ridiculous gadgets and toys on his Jules Verne mobile had a function that is good for something. So every morning he let down his quad, parked it on the lawn next to the Jules Verne mobile and it stood there like a monument of how it is to be a real French citizen watching above the others who are still waiting for their masters to tell them. And the other were there and they were under siege of the French Masters. Some freaks from other European countries still on the old trail to the Rif from Martil with small and bigger tents, self made caravans, Hanomags and Volkwagen busses and all surrounded by elegant Jules Verne trucks with electronic gadgets and antennas everywhere with elegant couples from France.
The French Caravans were all parked around the others, the freaks cars and tents as close as it was possible. As soon as I passed by a man or woman came out of one of the Jules Verne caravans and smiled at me. I nodded and passed but when I looked at the few freaks in tents there, I could feel the negative vibe around. ‘What can you do?’ I asked myself ‘they are normal people but they just behave as they know something special that makes them feel superior to us’ How I failed.
Next day I was in Tangier for a dentist date. The city has changed, it does not show directly, it is creeping into you like an evil scent. The Salvation Front is taking over. I walked just in one dentist practice and was told to wait by a nice and slim Moroccan paramedic. I waited patiently and a fully veiled woman in black with gloves at her hands arrived and waited with me in the waiting room, looking into another direction. Nobody said a word. The doctor was a small good looking woman who cared for me in the most professional way by checking my teeth, but the tensions were rising in the practice. The veiled woman began to shout to the paramedic: „What is this here, is this one bordello? I come here for my teeth and men are here for having sex with two women. People are all crazy that they let this happen, everybody is still crazy in Tangier. I can not come here again, I can not tell my husband“. The other women tried to behave as if nothing has happened and I paid and went away to get some money from the ATM. I was told to never come there again by the look in her eyes. Something really weird and dangerous would happen.
I was followed by a French consulate member around the corner who stared at me with angry eyes. He had watched me at the ATM already. I avoided hím and passed the French consulate where I greeted the surveillance cameras by scratching my ass and took a seat in Cafe de Paris just nearby, still the number one of the old Tangier scene delights. It was still there, the Tangier of Burroughs and Bowles. I was greeted friendly by the waiter, it felt like the Old Days for some minutes with the chatting of men around with hardened faces who had seen a lot and a lot to tell, winds from the past were blowing by, but then I realized the looks in my backs and from the sides, the gays strolling around the French consulate area were walkin in Cafe Paris and it made everything shady in the wrong way, it was breaking the male male bond. I took a bus to Martil son convinced that something is going on that reminds us of the old rule of the Regie des Tabac in Morocco in the colonial days. Tangier was still looking as it did before in the centre, at the Zocco, it was still there, but no artists at all, and when you were looking at the outskirts and the completely destroyed railway station it was easy to understand that the AOI had taken the whole city into siege and that the French were there as agents again. And they ruled with the evil eye in cafes, in the banks, in the hotels and the streets.
I was coughing even worse after days of recovery and I could not breathe at all at nights and writing seemed impossible. Martil, that had appeared as a mediterrenean cool beach resort was also under the grip of Middle Eastern Islam and Islamist. Only maybe fivehundered meters of the main road and main basar and beach promanade were the old relaxed Martil. Some women were walking there without headscarve or veil but contacts were made impossible by the Islam jockeys around with eyes everywhere. All the rest was under siege heavily. You could not see that immediately and obviously, it creeped into you after a while when sitting in cafes trying to write how they were smiling at your back, how they were belittling you, how they downgraded you. Except some old men who were happy when you visted them for some shoes to repair or such. I found one who did a shoe repair for just two dirham. I gave him ten for the old times and that we were both going to be exterminated here. How did it feel? Par bleu: like a Banlieu in France or such and not much more.
At the camping I had another French Jules Verne Camper in front of my home suddenly. The overwhelmingly friendly French couple had disappeared and their friends here from France with Jules Verne camper with all gadgets and antennas on top and on the side you can think of and they did not have a quad they never used: they had a huge shepard dog in a small cage integrated in the campers side from he could look out. I could not believe my eyes. That was a huge camper with a build in cage with steel bars to the outside. „barf barf barf, wowwwww, wooooww“ endlessly, I had never seen anything like that, that looked too bizarre and hopeless: A German shepherd locked in the whole day in a small cage inside a caravan Camper driven by a French Grand Okzident mason and his service Club wife with a typical Lagrand haircut – the haircut even gas to show the angle it can not be flowing with the waves or whatever. That was all they did the whole day. Sitting in front of their luxury camper or inside, the dog was always in his small cage except for a short walk for shitting in the camping ground and harassing non-french campers by slander of his and our master. And he was barking all day and night and that did nót seem to disturb anybody. I could not write no more, not only because of my heavy bronchitis that did not go away at all with headaches and thick sputum and closed nostrils but because of their energy. I began to read Kafka’s Trial on my veranda and that drove him crazy. As soon as he saw that book one time out of his yellow eye slits and me sitting there doing cool reading with my feet up on my veranda they began to act even more weird as usual.
They went over to the other French Jules Verne campers and began their rant about „les boches commeca“ and then they hurried to the owner and complained: „Ueeh, oeehh, what it this commeca, we dont want this heeeereeee, I dont waant people reeaading Kafka here when I am heeree, I ammm Master, oeeh, ueh, I have called police in Paris, oeehh, ueeeh, he can nót stay herreee“
Meanwhile I saw other campers leaving, a freaky family from Belgium and single campers with annoyed and sad faces while the French Grand Okzident expedition to Martil was growing bigger and bigger. Around each German, Dutch, Italian, Belgian, Czech or whatever tent or caravan were three Jules Verne vans besieging them like aliens from Mars have just landed here and were going to rape, pilage and plunder everybody alive not Marsian. I passed the Grand Okzident parcour and a blond French bitch ran out of her van and was runing around like a headless chicken and shouting in French.
I went out of the camping and tried to eat Harira soup in a small lane near the premises and was sent away that they would no serve nonmuslims. ‘So this time is up too’ I thought, the Salvation Front has received orders from their Masters. I went downtown, ate in a Oman style snack shop where I was treated like I came from outer space and went home. „Bang , bang, bang“ it made i front of me. A half naked lunatic hammered with a long metal rod against a street sign. „bang, bang, bang“ he was staring at me and swang the rod in my direction. Death was in his eyes. Death to all infedels. Death to me I ran to a side road and speeded away as fast as I could. I knew now I had to go fast and in secrecy out of that French – Islamist hellhole that once was Morocco. When the Islamist send „lunatics“ who are doing a „amok“ it is five past twelve. Or the French police, that does not matter. I speeded away and he did not follow. I knew that nobody would do anything if he would hit me with that rod from behind.
The camping ground was closed suddenly at ten pm and I was knocking and knocking at the steel gates. That was disrespectful and annoying to close that early, only me was out on the streets, I have never seeen any foreigners there, not one, in the streets of Martil after dark. After ten minutes an old man in Jellaba appeared and opened. I did not say a word. He was watching me as if I am the worst disgrace ever on this Grand Okzident holy ground. When I was passing the Jules Verne Van the dog was barking from more than two hundered meters away and did not stop ever, He just did not stop for an hour. His masters were absent, I thought, when a old car with Moroccan license plate appeared after midnight and two men and one women left who were typical French moroccan working for some secret service or special police.
Never ever would one woman and two men get a bungalow in a Moroccan camping ground over night that late. Never, it is forbidden by different laws. Boom boom boom it went, against the wall to my bungalow, a woman was shouting and crying and shouting and crying again. men were laughing. Off course they were given the next bungalow, next to mine while everything was empty around. ‘OK., that’s it’ I said to myself and went out. The German shepard was not barking anymore, the cage was empty. ‘are the walking that poor bastard around?’ I went over to sneak around the Jules Verne Camper and tried to look inside. I had never seen a high tech vehicle like that before. After a while I found a window that was not electronically darkend but had a kind of jalousy and could take a glimpse inside. I saw the German shepard dog from behind and in front of him Madame Grand Okkzident with spread legs on the ground and his head had disappeared in her crotch. Not a sound was to be heard but the dog whined.
The Grand Master was not to be seen. I decided to attack to annoy the supremacists and just opened the door. Bang, it opened and I stood inside the camper and saw a set of dildos lying around and the dog at the pussy of Madame. She shrieked like an animal and I saíd: „Bon jour Madame“. She turned aroud and kicked the dog and he began barking again. „Make that piece of shit shut up. Where is your husband?“ „What do you want?“ „I am protecting animal rights here“ „You stupid bastard, he is with his brothers in Tangier making something there“ „And what is this here?“ „We don’t care anymore if we have sex with men, women, children, animals, it is all the same for us now“ „Not for me“ I said, that is disgusting“. „Maybe „ she said, „what are you doing?“ „Fucking women like you never in the pussy where the dog was maybe, but just up the poop chute and I know your husband is inside nothing of you“. „Ok, come here then he will be back tomorrow, they will feast with the same thing too in Tangier“. „No, not here in that Jules Verne electronic shit, come with me to an empty bungalow.“
She did not even dress but walked with a long T-shirt with me to one of the empty bungalows next to mine. They were all open and fully furnished. „Go on the bed like a dog“ I told her and she did. I know that kind of women from the rich and initiated. They are mostly into kinky SM and I just greased her ass with olive oil from the kitchen and sticked it in. She moaned and said some stupid things in French and came within five minutes. It took me longer and I just pulled it out and cleaned ang got her T-Shirt for cleaning my dick. She did not say one word more than „merci“ and went away. I expected nothing else from her and her husband at all.
I just stayed in that bungalow and watched them in the next bungalow how they installed a radiation machine in the space between them and my bungalow, using the electric system from the back of my bungalow. I was just sleeping well there and the next morning I took my oil and salt and other stuff out of my kitchen and threw it in the big waste barrel while the three pieces of French-Moroccan assholes were watching. I grabbed my bag and left after paying at the reception. I did not even look at the French Moroccan owner who set this up there and went away without a word.
Copyright Ronald C. Kaiser 2018
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