Inquisitions Green Hell

by Ronald C. Kaiser

Portugals image was complete after the Porto: bleak, slippery and in the end: deadly in a dark pile of faeces in small forests and attacks from fascists with police in their backs. Braga was worse by the way, it was really destroyed as they, the AOI, destroyes Rhine valley catholic tradition villages. It was under siege from unknown forces to the public, known to me as AOI but I was not in the mood to wage a war for traditional catholicism Braga style. Arms, legs and heads, hearts and fetuses made out of wax sacrifized to saints in dozens of dark churches, just like Hindu temples. Braga in the 80's. As the ultimate heart of Portugese catholicism. They had too much shit on their side, especially in Portugal and Spain, so fight your war by yourself. I will never forget what they did and how slippery they are. I tell the same in Germany, no pity but I understand that compared to the AOI they offer some comfort to the soul of the needy if they still have some. But no real solution for the Other Ones, they bite as bad as you can imagine in some dungeon of the inquisition, just watch Alatriste with Mortensen for a soft introduction tom that world that is still there under a very thin surface of globalist mediocricty.

I left Porto with my lifetime memories that it was a place of real interest before and moved north to the border with drilling and stinging stares at my back at the railway station. They off course knew about my little expedition at their foremost tourist attraction: the wooden sidewalk at the water leading to the anal explosion of your lifetime, if you have time for real men like this. I hadn't, as explained, but as watching it with increasing interest like an insect collector watching mantisses eating their spouses. There was an ultimate barrier, the absolute border between me with the human species of the old times, as they called it and them. Whoever created them did it well, it all belonged to each other, even the rectangular stone structures, as sterile as possible with the halogene lights above the rectal wooden slideway. The problem is: the human species is diminishing and fading away, so they are having a momentum alt least, I thought in the train to Spain, to Galicia.

Again a promised land of the 70's and 80's, beside the fact that it isand was the homeland of the fascist Caudillo Franco from El Ferrol and so fucking remote that it rained always but not so much in July and August. Pirates and fishermen and imagined Celts, that was their way and bonehouses near their homes where the bodies of the dead are stored until today. Everybody was talking about Muros at the coast and we were there in 85, with my mother back home who suspected us of buying loads of cheap cocaine from rusty banana boats or stealing it, harbouring there and crashing at the cliffs of Galicia, with myriads of cocaine packages floating in the bloody rough and cold sea around Muros. „Again the fucking shit with you and your fucking travel destinations“, my parents said. Here it is son: „Large rusty boats, gangsters and cocaine by tons, you asshole and that girl around it“, my father waved a newspaper around. „we dont have no money for cocaine and we are just students“ I said, „this is high crime there, we are not connected to that“ and it was right. My parents didn't believe one word but had to, since it was a truth and a world they could not understand. Nobody would have ever invested one look in us from the criminal underworld of the 80's in Spain that is gone completely today and replaced by the government in form of the Guardia Civil with the fascist King. So I decided to leave the train in the last village before the border and sleep outside n the wilderness that is an unspakable crime these days. I had to since Faro, I could not stand the frying mood of them after the second or third day, so fuck that generally. „When do you leave again and where you go?“ were the first words of the shopping girl when I bought bread in that village, so the set was made for my disastre. Portugal of the AOI and Germany in 2018 with firefighters who were searching me in the night and then switched on their radio to create at least some disturbance and discomfort to annoy us.

Vigo was cleaned up as a mother is taking away all interesting toys from her boys and hiding the fishing gear and the guns from her husband. So I moved to the other side, to Cangas with a ferry in between. At least something I always connected with the old travelling of Human League: march march march across Red qaure, do all the things no never dared. : ferries and the feel of the ocean and transition about it, but that was it, just a remain, not even a remnant. But I had to learn that decay, since Cangas displayed still an image of remote northwestern Spain village scenery I liked. The Off-Beat is different in each country the AOI had moved in before. Our predecessors learned the beat in any country they travelled and bathed in it everywhere they went. We are the Off-Beat of the remains and traps the AOI is leaving all around themselves. And Spain is different, it housed one of the most vicious fascist regimes in the world from 1939 to 1975 and before the most vicious inquisition, but missed the bleak black magic thrilling moody dull atmosphere of the Portos at the sea. That makes it more dangerous since it comes along a different trail: everywhere the same superficial friendly intro with all th same tapas bars that bare a danger in itself since they can garantue a painful and slow death with poisoning often. And the Guardia Civil everywhere, the master poison of the Spanish system, the inquisition of our time. Nobody was there off course in Cangas, of the travellers and freaks of the Old, but many Gallegos and many bars but nobody wants to write about it, even not about Galicia, because of the inqusition in Spain and the lack of any nature and magic. Flatness remained all over Spain and no real nature except in Galicia, it has some nature, so I went for it and many before. There is nothing to write about in Spain, even if it looks nice and the folks are decent. That is a miracle. Because it does not look nice as well, except Galicia maybe, it looks as if a giant idiot has burned everything down, flattened it in great parts with a giant bulldozer and called that Spain and we love it since then. But only that part of Spain: the destructed Mediterrenean coast for Germans and Brits and the completly beautiful Andalucia...Spanish caravan..Andalucia fields full of grain....I want to see you again and again...by magic boy Jim M. that no one ever has seen only giant olive plantations in a completely destrcucted landscape made by a giant idiot with a bulldozer we never met but who is always around in Spain.

But just remember old WSB, the Burroughs, who said to another writer, a Spaniard: „Spanish literature belongs on the rusty nail in the shitter“. That's it, WSB has got it since he knew the evil as he knew that the Danes are the worst lame and boring assholes on the planet and no good ever comes out of a Dane. So he gave their officials a kick in the ass when they were after his luggage in Denmark and took the next ferry out. I did the same in Copenhagen with a chubby Danish police cunt, after destroying my life there for the German Nazis of the AOI, calling her country a fucking shitter of the Germans and that it is.

I understand now why. You can't write about Spain, not much, maybe somebody could write Alatriste well and the history trail about it, that was at least something with some colour and the glory of the past we all like to imagine. What fucking glory? Their disgusting army with their disgusting king, spreading the most disgusting form of catholicism imaginable in he whole world, roaming around in South America? Glory was there indeed, and that was the Hombre culture, these men with honor in Spain and a straight back who in the end always had to work for the decadent king and cardinals that are unspeakable. Nothing esle ever worked in Spain even in the 15th century when wild gangs of robbers and gypsies roamed thru other parts of Europe, when culture was so diverse in Germany, in its Holy Roman Empire of German nation and changed every 30 kilometers. Everything else misses any colour in Spain when you try to write about it. But even Alatriste had just one topic, was one theme: destruction of the world, the little world of Senor Alatriste by the inquistion and the royalty, its disgusting goons, the church with its disgusting cardinals and a slimy king plus a bigot virgin whore taking him apart. Escaping the inquistion just meant: take out a sharp knife and slit your own throat, that was the best an hombre could do for himself in Spain when they came. And they came always suddenly when you did not expected them: Antonio Flores, the Holy inquistion has opened an investigation against you, - bang, the hand went to the belt, and the knife went into his own throat when they were smart. Except you became a Grande of Spain, meaning to leave the Hombre an exchange it with a slimeball of the king or the cardinals and slaughtered down the people they demanded without any inner emotion about it. Just look at the bored, arrogantand weazle like face of King Phillipe – it is all there: Spain, and nothing else except Syphillis. And that's it, that is all you can write about Spain since today, just a bit modified for today but it is all the same and makes my ballsack shrivel.

They had only eradicated anything else completely after 1939 when just in Spain people like me and the Other Ones ceated a real Life for anybody after 1936, and got away with it. Much more then the Germans even if that sounds weird and unfamiliar, being born in Germany myself, because in Germany there are still remnants and even active parts of magical worlds and strange people, also a bit in people and humans you meet, but nil in Spain. Something came back in Germany, also after 33 percent Hitler, even some jews and gypsies came back, impossibe such a thing in Spain, no matter when, it's all sealed down there. But the Germans are keeping up now with Spain, they always have some monsters who do that there. Even the catholicism is not on par with the dark and cavelike but exquisite church horrors of Braga in Portugal and all the black magic around there. It did not give a real chill and thrill at our backs, that Portugese mysticism in the 80's but there was other worldliness and groove in it – never in Spain, they even killed the last little nature ghost in an old spring, creek or fountain or made it evil since he had to work with some perverted monks. Spain is always one set: look above with he Alatriste and stays like that. You have to write to find that out that bit is empty as the Syphillis faces.

So I spare me the horrors of the „independent Catalania“, a creature of the German AOI with all the backpacks and sleeping bags of deceased freaks an travellers cut to pieces in the hills around the French border area. I spare me the disgusting Pakistani AOI crews everywhere in all the same shops in Barcelona sneaking after „anarchists“ and running after me for hours and talking me down. I spare you the AOI rebuilding of Bilbao with only actors running around just as in Bonn at the river Rhine as were te giant radiation towers around Bilbao that fry anybody who dares to stay in nature of the hills there as in Bonn at the River Rhine. I spare me the coast in Andalucia, where the Guardia Civil spotted me in a small shop by surveillance camera and harassed me for two days until I was out of town. I spare me the once cool bus rides in the very south of Spain where the Guardia Civil ordered the driver by radio to stop at a remote bus stop where four blacks then tried to rob me – I escaped and then the Spanish inquisition send two German junkies to do the work for the crown, the cardinals an fascism – they failed with me, I kicked them away calling them asslicking cunts. I spare me the Hostals in Madrid where I was watched and harassed like hell as anybody else now and then in town, with assholes walking after me calling me names in shopswith my diarrhea from some poison in my coffee.

And I just tell about the Green Hell of Galicia, that the inquistion, the Guardia Civil who is living in barracks in Cangas as the hunters of the church lived there in Spain under Phillipe and ordered some goons to catch me at night because I was sleeping in a forest there. They tried to run over me by car outside a village and I jumped into the forest and was hiding out there til morning. Before that the Germans send two of their agents to a small bar in Cangas, watching me until I had to clean my nails with a pocketknife and theys pissed off then – typical German agents, lame, arrogant, slim, unfriendly, staring with pale small faces with underlying agression I could never understand. They had to watch that nothing, nothing is left of the old scene of Galicia from the last twenty, thirty years, it was taken apart some years agao as after the fascist takeover in 1939 by the Guardista monsters. And the Germans went there to learn how this is done to the very end, just like in the inquisition they both started moved alomng with. They deserve each other, the Germans and the Spaniards and the push each other into evil. Spain does not deserve any writing, it belongs on the rusty nail in the shitter.

Copyright: Ronald C. Kaiser, 25.January 2020

Caves of Porto

by Ronald C. Kaiser, Dec. 2019

I really liked Lisboa in a way – for Portugese circumstances. It definteley housed some remains of a civilized culture and human society. Heavily under siege but still in authentic existence. This human existence was always undermined when it showed its subtleness and then harassed and polluted. Agents of the AOI showed their sneaking intruding heads in diverse forms: High ranking French police officers with frigid wives chewing olives disgusting slow in front of me in the camping ground restaurant who were dispersed by some mobile phone throwing attack at bus walls. German longhaired freaks of the verfassungsschutz with oily hair and greasy smile that needed to be corrected by a rusty pocket knife, but nobody wanted to do that since they were not worth it – I could not stand their presence as anybody else - one of the best defense mechanisms against attacks of targets. French and Portugese cyclists roaming around in the woodlands at the outskirts of town with many smallpaths that lead to only one thing or maybe two: anal intercourse between men and exchange of faeces in different forms. What? Yes, that is the New Time and New People.

Mobile phone technicians and associated bus drivers building very low towers inside town at squares and directing their ejaculate, beams of deadly rays to meeting places of the working class in housing projects and freaks camping grounds just for the sake that these people were not wanted by the unkown „we“ they always mentioned. The bus drivers always reported poor peoeple and freaks with backpacks to them and the police so they could aim correctly with their ray machines and surround them at night. And many more I did not meet. But there was resistance by sticking to human grounds in little gestures against creatures the WSB, the Burroughs namend Mugwumps and else. There was still traditional cuisine at the little bars and even the camping restaurant and little talks with a human touch, a little bit, but still it had not been eradicated completely yet.

In the end I got the axe, that was obvious from the beginning since I had no army, no crew, no contacts and no real overview about their viciousness. Only an old Portuguese sportsguy from the Rhinelands – and he worked for the police in the end so fuck that.

But at least it kept me together, the Lisboa. In comparison to the Algarve and Fishermens Trail disaster with AOI couples and myriads of German AOI in freak campers that lead me to bizarre but successful moves by not washing myself for a week and longer and by doing so forcing them into submission and letting me travel tiketless and dining without bill. Got you with that, skankers! They respected that, if I had used shit instead of sun blocker cream I could have joined their ranks, but I did not give them that, I did not touch that line, fuck you for even thinking that I would touch that. But I had to leave The Lisboa, they encircled me in the woods by foot and bikes, harassed me in the camping ground where I ate and so on, the usual dsplay of modern behaviour brought to us by the very core of the AOI and its dsciples.

Porto was a magnet of authenticity in the eighties, when we roamed around Galicia, heading to Muros, the holy freak land and enjoyed a kind of freedom that represents an obscene deviance today when any kind of human behaviour that is not legitimized by the AOI and its shadow governments leads to harassement of the worst by intruding Mugwumps and other insects by courtesy of the AOI. In Porto boatmen in typical old fashioned sailor customes blue and white could be met then in an really old style harbour with tavernes as rusty old nails as in Sale in Morocco of Hassan II, but different, without any oriental taste in the very west of Europe. Jean Genet was in the air then. But fully impregnated with the horrible winds of the Atlantic ocean. Quotatiens out of Querelle crossed our minds then, even that of my girl with me there, who just had a glimpse of it. They had left it undisturbed in such a purity that it felt like a movie set, but was real. The AOI had not arrived yet. They had just changed the government so we could not adore it anymore but left the souls of the humans intact. That is the case of any culture shock: somethings feels so real but at the same time strange, that you think it is a movie set but you know it is not. Can't escape. That's why it is called shock, it traumatizes and that is again the real cause of fear of travelling: it is a real disease that might catch you and it never goes away. I only disappears when you actively take part in that strange world and interact not only but act out. I don't give a shit anymore that it is „another culture, not us“ or „you should behave always like a passive half participant.“ It makes you fucking sick in the long run. You need to play along to shake of the culture shok if it gets you.

But Porto had a grip in us in the mid eighties for being impenetrable and oblique a bit with its grotesque steel structures over rivers and seaarms and i town. That were the blesseings of the „Old Times“, as the AOI called it, you had to conquer a really different culture, even in Europe, at the very west of it in Portugal, since it was strictly catholic and strictly a seeman and fishermen culture. Not a mason or a shithead in sight in 85, believe me, except the US ruining the politics as my father had told me eight years ago but you could not feel or hear or see them. There were absolutely no traffic lights in Porto then, traffic was outrageosly anarchic and half of the men were driving dead drunk as me in our old Citroen DS. I went straight out of the Porto caves where they manufacture Port wine into the car as anybody else and coul not find the keyhole of the fucking car. My girlfriend helped me with that, even more pissed then I was from about 2 bottles of heavy port each after 3 or 4 runs thru the cellars with me, starting around noon until evening. I started the engine, the hydraulics went up and we ht teh road of Porto as anyboydy else in evening with squealing tyres, traffic accidents all around us. „ You should use alcohol as your favourite drug“ she said, „you function perfectly then. Look at the accidents of those assholes here, wrecks all around, you are better.“ I knew what this meant, that i was tuned in perfectly, I had taken the piss of the Tawny Guides assholes in the caves before without getting beaten up, what everybody expected since I asked them again and again where the fucking evolution is and what happened to Genet here, skankers. But we were extraordinary drunk and pissed, what they liked and we speeded out of town without damages searching for some wasteland for an old fashioned seeing thru in her vagina. That was no problem there, you just had to do it. Park your old French ruin of a car soemwhere an fuck your lady from behind leaning againts the car in the setting sun. Sailors and shady assholes there and all the poor souls around did not care a bit. The hangover rembered of a heroin withdrawel in Bangkok in VS guesthose courtesy by Tony W. , („where is my pipe, where is my China White you Thai slihole“ „No Pankao for you Tony, no more, you smell like latrine“, so don't do this shit with Port, it s pure horror, but the high is unbelievabe.

Those were my thougts travelling by train up north in 2018, no more smelling like an old mule, since I decided to give them a chance to behave as what we learned to be human and took a shower after teaching them to show respect. When somebody bullies you in such a mode, that you do not want to wash, leave it like that. Do not come back to point zero, it hits back. So I was travelling by train nice and clean, where they tried to steal my notebook all the time and always disconnected it from the wire in the fucking train since that is only semilegal anymore in Portugal, to charge your notebook. You could write something, the CDU, the communist-green party coalition, courtesy by Germany would not like. So bribe your way into a fancy restaurant with a 30 Euro price per plate, use the wire and the WIFI for hours and stink so enormously that you just walk out without paying anything. Let them pay the price for their CDU bullshit, or what ever three letter word the AOI is using here or there. Works in Portugal as in Mexico when you crawl backwards on a public raod naked high on mescaline or coked out with Tequila: they take you for serious then and nobody dares to harm or asks you, believe me. Disappear and come back clean as a newborn baby and you are saved.

So Porto was still a dream frame of mine and it still looked not to bad for European standards these days. I sneaked into a cafe-bar near the railway station to write my blog and charge my notebook that uses amounts of electricty like a radiation heater when a annoying feeling creeped into my guts: I had made a giant mistake. They liked me in there and licked my ass because they felt I was gay. That is by far the worst that can happen anywhere unless you are gay and you are able to prove it to the crowd around you. There, an older guy with a writers notebook is always gay cause somebody has told them in a gay chat on their smartphones or whatever. It always meant total disaster if you ever used that slimy public friendliness displayed to even get an answer to a simple question. They take this as an insult so bad that they uninhibitedly ruin you completely for „betraying them“. That is a heavy differnce to girls and women, who take little lies like that usually with a smile, unless you go to far. They know why, they do it all the time.

Gay lads take this as an invitation to WW3, so far I knew, that even their idiotic gay senseless assumptions, I was a gay bloody writer trying to squeeze their Portugesse anusses and poop-chootes with my notebok pretending to write or to charge it, in their near railway station coffee bar would lead to giving me the axe in Porto next day. Don't ask a simple question in a situation like that, that is completely set up by the AOI:, like: „where can I plug in my connetion to load my device, waiter?“ or: „where is the electricty for my computer?“ It all reads for a Portugese gay as: „I am an old horny French gay fartmouth tryin to score cheap Porto ass and dick by pretending to write like a Jean Genet style Houllebeq from Paris.“ They do not believe any other word from you, you are just a gay dick and ass machine - no matter if you have pictures of your daughter married to an athlet and you at her side on at the wedding party on display. It all does not count, because THEY KNOW, because THEY HAVE THOUGHT SO because it was in the Smart Phone, yes, in the Smart Phone edition by Dirck Diggler. That is all you have to know: you are in deep shit for just not being a normal couple guy with potato sized woman and you with an idiotic haircut from the hardware store hair cutter and Dockers pants or the German equivalent to it. „is this good for the STASI class reunion, mein Guter?“ 

 

There is no more room or space in this modern world of the AOI to leave you some loopholes. It has all been tightly closed.

Loopholes we have aways used and needed for endless times of artistic or freaky life styles around any time and culture in this world: that You are an entity that You created more or less by yourself and with everything around you and that is unique and has to be explained by itself. Explained by getting close to you by honest contacts that were part human culture, especially travel culture for ages and are the very core of human revelations. Even the old German wanderers, men travelling around in the Holy Roman Empire of German Nation for centuries from 1000 to 1800 relied on that specifically. And the wanderers before, who are part of the Viking Sagas as well and before that in the southern Germania. Meeting people around the Trail and getting in real touch. The magic of the road in itself is exactly that: negotiating the other entity and what it meant in absolute subjectivity and beeing part of that for a while, soaking in the best of it and moving on, alone or together. It decayed somehow by us, entropy moved in, the travellers themselves in overtravelling in late 80' and 90's, when too many joined the tribes of the electric gypsies around the globe and it became a cliche to be a traveller. Communication went into sterotypes, stories of drugs used „my girlfriend had mescaline in Mexico, what a bummer for her, didn't know herself anymore, had to prep her up for days.“ where exchanged in such a bored and worn out always the same way that could have been soldiers gretings in an army as well. „Albert Hoffman hat dann fuer Hoffman Laroche gearbeitet und LSD erfunden“ imagine the elaborated Swiss accent with that idiocy to boast off and show yourself as major freak. That is a truth we should not forget: WE also changed ourselves sometimes into frames of an more or less industrially or let's say handicraftly manufactured product - courtesy by the AOI but we did not believe it because we did not know that this AOI even existed. That company that makes up realities and hell for us. Some people could not be explored individualistically anymore when meeting them on the Trail lately anywhere. They were fabricated by some clandestine fashion institution as well as they are today all fabricated by the AOI and the New Time with New Humans nightmare from occult sources again - but now they know it. That is the American Way and that of the Israelites. Even the Muslims are now different: made in some Islamic State factory run by Turkey and Saudi Arabia: sterile, brute, deadly and precise.

They give you the feeling, that any emotion, any human reaction is known before in advance, on a map somewhere and explored already and part of some researched scheme and not necessary somehow. Soon the AOI will make it illegal, except the reactions they favour: coolness, being just as anybody else in your realm of knowldege unless the give you new input.

But I had to deal with that small and innocent situation in a mediocre coffeehouse in Porto that had housed sailors and trademen of devious goods even 20 years ago. Discretion was always garuanted in such places around the world. Nobody would pass on your existence unless professional snitches, a rare species then. Today it is the opposite, Galicia and Portugal are the worst examples of harassing and snitching on unusual brain patterns of humans. It is quite commen in Vigo for example that some mediocre Spanish woman follows you up from the bus station to a typical Galician restaurant where you dine and load your notebook. Do not hesitate to believe that she takes position just in front of you, takes a picture from you with her smartphone and sends it to the Guardia Civil. Be harassed then for being an author, verified by the BND in Germany for the rest of your stay in Vigo, surrounded by flashing police lights and stuid remarks at leat until they fry you the next day. That is a common scene at least in Portugal and Galicia in 2018 and leads to total artistic and genaral desaster, courtesy by the AOI. So I knew that the gay behind the bar were just waiting for any sign of „Old Life“ ins spite of trying to score some juvenile Porto dick. So what I did then was arranging a fake telephone call on the toilet with my old mobile phone that had such idiocy installed. „Yeah, that is horrible“ I shouted out loud at the bar , „Oh Jesus Christ, off course I am co ming to see you immmmmeeeeeediateely in Porto now, dear, what a destiny you are facing now, I am just leaving!“. „I have to leave!“ I shouted to the gaylord at the bar who was checking my price all the time before with his 19 year old colleague. „Personal desaster of my cousin from France here.“ „Ohhh, France, did not know thaaaat“. „I am sooo sorry we can not point this French stuff out together, soooo soooryy“. I banged some money on the table and grabbed my stuff and leftthem staring at me as preyin so many aspects, I do not want to describe now, but I know what comes out of some nothing situation like this today.

I walked thruogh the main part of town, ignored the stares on my backpack from the Porto assholes and heard French voices everywhere. The Grand Orient was here, without any doubt, they had just moved in as Adolf n Paris in 1940. There was no difference in the essence. Armies of French little bearded masons searching for young anusses and creamy portions of faeces oozing out of younger and older holes of vain were taking my breath. Not to forget the poor souls among them with clumsy to reasonable real wives, women I mean with breasts and vaginas. They are the lowest cast among the French masons of our Kali Yuga period. Since the Grand Orient and others of their ilk have secretely decided to disregard and disrespect the females from now on since they have destroyed our male liftestyle in Europe. They always forget that exactly they were responsible for the Scandinavian disaster wit the the females and their taking on of power positions without any knowledge or charactre patterns to do any good in this now. So we are all nannyed down and up, harassed by female control freaks etc. right enough, the French masosn always talked about this to me as the first topic: „ Yes yes I know what you think, I also have to walk around with my skank, while you are a free man, but we wil send them back to the kitchen and the bed soon, there is no other way.“ They forget as always, that they were the root of the problem by secretely again prepping and pimping them up as hell without a clue until we have an neverending Merkel or Grybauskaite or other monsters of vagina hell as Hillary Clinton. So those masons with accompanying wives were the harijans, the outcasts of the French invasion in Porto that is the master port of French masonic occupation in Europe today. They did not have teh typical beards as teh others too much also and showed a sulking face expression always. Just for the other masons to join in the chorus of anti vaginaism, but they could not get to close to the Porto asses, they still had to show some kind of human affection to their vagina wives - what a nightmare for them.

I crossed the river or sea arm to walk to the less touristic side of Porto and was trapped again in AOI nightmares of exquisite backstabbing and perfideous nature. They had taken down loads old buildings and the old genuine Porto architecture and preplaced it by....squares, black marble squares. That is the new AOI sickness the show also in other parts of the world to remind us also of the power of the Kaabah in Mekka. So I faced one huge black square after the other that made my ballsack shrivel. The shorthaired french and Portuges middle aged men with black thin pullovers did not make it any better. I decided to ot complain or anything but took out my dick and urinated against one of it and nobody seemd to even are about abut agreed silently. I again met the right tune here after not washing out of disrespect. But there were old small houses in sight, we loved so much in the eighties with the people of the neigborhood there. I walked in that direction and passed amrket hall that was exactly a copy of a Southern France marche with overpriced trivial country goods I hate so much I can't even piss at the market stalls.

Since it was nearly dark now I could see inside on of the "smalll old houses“ and had to face the fact that they had just made one house out of three, took out all the walls in between and build in a giant Poggenpohl kitchen for hundred grand or more. I could not believe it at all and stared straight through the window. There was a futuristic German overpriced kitchen with steel and glass and ginat table about 8 meters length in front of it. A modern gay couple was dining there, looking so French I thought I am in Paris. I just went away because I know they like it when we are annoyed about their rudeness and went back to the water.

There they had build a giant wooden sidewalk with myriads of bright halogen lights above it that made it look like an alien landing spot kilomters long for some slim legged monsters. Insects came passing along, one in bright halogene pink colors, the other one in halogene green colors, jogging in he bright lights, passing me and my Rucksack. That was too mc even for me. Only French complete assholes can build such a monster in such an environment as Porto's other side. I put my foot on the monster path and decided to walk a bit on it and see what happenes. Don't ever forget the obsession of the French with satellite technology. After just 5 minutes the first „par blue“ appeared, walking after me and tried to get nearer. I did not like that at all and evaded by just stepping of and was hiding in the nature around. He was looking for me but gave up after a while. I jumped back on just because I tried to walk along the waterline and find a place to rest for the night. Now they were coming from all sides to get nearer and meet me for soemthing I did not now but could imagine and I would not like. They were coming from the front and the back now, dressed in some sport outfit as they were dressed in bikers gear in Lisboa before, but much more aggressive here and sticking to the point. „So what you want?“ I asked them loud an clear. They did not answer at all but grinned. One of them just pushed me from the wooden sidewalk and moved on while the other two were jumping of and ran into the bushlands nearby. There was a huge old house, a ruin of an old Portugese land house. I decided to let them pas and followed them some minutes later. I wanted to check out the house, maybe there were some secrets to uncover.

There was an inner yard and all walls were full of disgusting to some better murials. Shit stench was everywhere. I used my flashlight to light up the scene and found something that reminded my of the satanist houses in Germany but much better styled here. Wild plants were growing everwhere between the old taken down walls, brilliant and bleak paintings everywhere or just test phases of them. I crawled aoround and found my new friends from the wooden health sidewalk. One was sitting with his short on on top of the other just in the mud and revel there and obviously tried to shit on him resp. In his mouth. Theys did not talk or tried to evade the situation. That was just a more hardcore version of the Lisboa scene in the woods and I left. Portugese police was passing by, blue lights were flashing, they new the place very well but let this pass without any complaints about it or closing it down. I had my knife in my hand since I still had no clue about these peoples attitudes at all. If they stick to shit and shitting into each other mouthes in posh sports gears as in Lisboa or if the slaughter you down. Nobody ever taljks about it. But this is the sexuallife of the New People“ in the New Time“ our politicians advovcate, without any doubt. These were all pillars of society, French style. I did not want to take the test if somebody, maybe the poice, would come to sacrifice me her and walked away. No solution to my sleeping problem in Porto yet.

I just remembered that they, the Police, fries down campers and vans everywhere in Spain and Portugal by courtesy of the US and the German government, since this lifestyle is against the AOI secret guidelines. So I went to the parking place for tarvellers campers nearby and looked around. They were mostly abandoned. People had lost hope that they could sleep anywhere in Portugal without being detected by police and radiated in the night. There was an old freak with his Wohnmobil who sat outside alone. „ What is this place here, a graveyard?“ I asked? „I just arrived, not many here, just look around, nobody cares a lot.“ He looked as hopeless as all og them in Portugal, „from the Old Times“. I just opened the door of a smaller camper at the edge of the place and entered. It was left about some weeks ago, I guessed an did not care anymore. I just unpacked my backpack, laid down my matrasse and my seeping bag and tried to sleep. It took them some hours to detect me there,the police, by sources still unkown to me. The radiation began at 5 in the morning so I left the parking ground and the fucking country of Portugal at six in a train to Galicia. There they had the most vicious dogs in Europe in addition.

Copyright:

Ronald C. Kaiser, December 28, 2019

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