THE OWL IS NOT WHAT IT SEEMS

Studying anthropolgy was one of the most intriguing attractions the town of Bonn had to offer. Situated in an old feudal side building near the river Rhine at the foot of the small Alte Zoll - (old customs) hill it made everynone feel a bit above the common Bonn vibe of being the bore of the nation but being housed in a cosy old fashioned, grass grows thru the asphalt student town were Kaiser Wilhelm once boned his curtisans to escape the Grandezza of Berlins Royal court and his family. The one bigger seminar room they had was always crowded up to the rafter with long haired students with cheesy beards and rotten down old timers who once studied the German-Swiss tribe of the Jenic people and looked like a clichee of them. Old women with Tibet Shangri-La vibe completed the menu of deviants. Outbursts of radical individual speeches and behavior of all kinds was regarded as normal,also skanking down professors in public, It was exactly my taste in the early eighties, it promised to be an alternative reality, not a dream of dope freaks. The real and accepted in the Ciudad of Bonn students were another ilk. They hated us so much that the began to sweat below their ties and tight shirt collars in their dark suits, where their chubby necks were rubbing themselves and turned red with a glance of stale students sweat. They offered free fraternity visits cum drinking until you vomit not beween your feet – that is for kleine Maedchen, little girls, they said, but in a huge bowl fixed in their fraternity toilets. Masters could vomit in there „rainbow-style“, more than one meter apart from the vomit basin to show that being an acadmic full drunkard is an unknown art in itself. Some pubs in germany still have those basins for heavy drunkards, to use every hour again and again – a sign of cultural vice that shows the world the real old Germany, sadly they disappear, look out for them in some old style Brauhauses, brewery pubs. „No, we do not have any place this month, the leaflets are not available for the common public“ he said, without being a bit sorry and showing that with a cold feudalistic-academic attitude from old German lower nobility families and lingo from the late 19th. century. „Kaiser Wilhelms bloody barons“, I said, „go ahead, you are something“. That was no problem at all, in front of the entrance of the old students reception buliding near the fountain, that was the common fighting and class spirit of that age in small university towns in Germany. We ridiculed them, especially when they were doing mensur and that spread thru town, that meant fighting each other with thinly bladed, light swords in their frathouses attics without a helmet but steel glass frames. That was a custom in Germany of the early 19th century inside students fraternities and they simply regarded us as secretely their prey – the non nationalists. As in the German revolution 1917/18, and we totally underestimated that they were still moving below the surface. Officially and in the public they just rejected us with cold voices but there was more. It was them who were sitting around with a pour le merite, fighting class in light blue colour in the early twenties in the coffee houses of the Weimarer Republik waiting for the final solution for their attitude they were hiding inside for a long time, after the disastrous defeat they suffered in the first war.´To show their will to sacrifize – us, civilization, poor soldiers, and women and children, not them – they often had a Schmiss in their faces, a several centimeter long old wound, that turned into a scar. The worse it looked the better, so some of them put a hair in that wound of the mensurblade and stitched it together with it. The result was remarkable. Some looked like monstrous dogs at their Berlin coffeetables in the 1920th waiting to bark and attack anything that was responsible for their loss of honour 1918 with kaser Wilhelm. Otto Dix painted them with disgust like aggressive dogs of the old nobility. But in 1983 they were under the table, still in existence but so far from us and the world that we believed would just arise from the ruins of the Spanish republic 1939 hat nobody took any notice. We were the freaky avantgarde of a promised but non existing new society and one of its cores was in anthropology, sociology, Third World studies of many kinds. The other core was in arts. I was not good enough for those I thought and their behaviour of pretentious and overfreaked girls and gays of the Bourgoisie that I passed. Artists were actors in my private life a bit and I underestimated their viciousness profoundly, being the master agents of the AOI at all or were found dead in their beds early mornings. But ermany had enough of them – now they are absent or work for the AOI. Everything was to be examined and taken apart in cultural anthropology and put together another way. I mean everything. The wisdom of the world had to be searched and found in the smallest groups and cultural niches all around the globe, myths were read, digested and destroyed, behaviour patterns and economical systems studied wit structures and functions. The world suddenly became transparent in a new, different colour. The colour of The Real. Then solutionists appeared. For some and the most it was obviously the Sandinistas and the Farabundo Marti and for others even the curious Sendero Luminoso and others just living with fishermen in Papua New Guinea and sharing their economy or with gypsies in Germany. Dreaming away with Castaneda and his early two books was not in that game at all. Students and professors shared that and accepted each other for that. I very much later studied all of his books in a row and examined the separate reality hidden in it. I excerpted the core philophies of CC and wrote it down in a scriptbook to understand that gigantic occult universe hidden in it. The scriptbook was stolen by AOI agent Winterbottom out of my flat in 2017. Nevermind what it was, not the CC, but The Real, most of it worked in the real world and just had to be not adopted but seen as a way, that a solution in the real world is possible, whatever it may be. And that is that what the AOI feares as hell until today and keeps records of us around the world. Why they even hate the late books of Castaneda, not the early curious anthropology of him remains a mystery. They follow and harass anybody worldwide who dives into this universe. It was nearly dark when I arrived at Punta Gorda in Belize by taxi 2008. I read Tony Wheelers recipies for a disastre overnight stay in Third World countries not to speak of US colonies as Belize and todays German and French colonies as Morocco before and felt safe – then. I still had not found the clue – nobody could, except those who manufacture the keys. They would appear later, much later, when they show of as Merkel. „He is into may things“ a black rastaman told me when I asked for the way to the Milky Way guest house. „What does that mean?“ „You can stay here not with people into many things, you better listen“. I was stupid enough to ignore that, I was far away from the clue but had to learn to slip back into it. The white American was about 50 and had a typical civil war union army old fashioned mustach. His US buddy looked similar. They owned the Milky way Guest House and started their game show with me. „Oh yes, we should always spread that around, Donny, always“ he blurted into his old black telephone hanging on the wall at the entrance. When I arrived, the first moustache spurted to the phone as if fire has broken out, without a ring tone to listen to. I smiled as if I smelled the rat. „yes, yes, they should not be allowed to do that, Donny, I agree, all have to use condoms anywhere, we have so many AIDS cases here, it is so horrible, we have to teach them.“ I was waiting until he had reached an end in his little show of dispersing streamline behaviour and being Mr. Universal douchebag. The other moustache did not respond to my friendly questions for a room, except: „He is the man, I am just another client“, „yeah, off course, that is obvious, you are“ I said, because I can't stand straight in the face and obvious lying of Americans of a certain ilk and kind as him. Reminded me of Mr. Cheese, the American foot stinker I met in Belize City with a similar but smaller moustache and younger, who walked with me in the garden of our hotel there at night and suddenly screamed „fire ants, fire ants, help, help“ and a black athlets guy jumped by with a Bloods T-shirt who tried to steal my money belt while he was pretending to jump around in tears of pain. I was just watching the whole idiocy while the black guy tried to rob me. „What do you want, you two assholes, sirs?“ I asked politely and turned my money belt away from the skanker. „You can't smoke that crack in my room“ Mr. Cheese screamed, „you just can't do that“. „Yeah you know, we all can do that in my part of Europe and nobody cares, it is more legal than weed, you know.“ He did not expect that as an answer to his idiotic lie and showing me off as a crackhead. „Yeah man, Europe, huh, Europe“ said Mr. Bloods. „Yeah, pretty cool, should go there, the girls dig black cock all the way in all holes. By the way, his crack was lousy, smells like his feet, do you score better?“ „I go back to the house, see what I can do, give me 20 bucks dude“. I grabbed the 20 dollar note from my front pant, not my money belt and slipped it over to him in a greasy, slimy mode that was fully accepted. He pissed of with his 250 pound muscle body I had no chance to fight of at all and Mr. Cheese was standing there, the head bowed down, arms on his upper legs. „You fucking German asshole, you goddamn fucking German asshole“ he shrieked, what do you think you do here, they will send you to jail and he will rape your goddamn arrogant asshole there, the niggers.“ „I did not say you cant have fireants on you“ I replied. „They don't like your cheese feet, run the other way and die“ and turned away to my room. I knew this was the end in that hotel. Mr. Bloods would appear with something he called crack, would rat out Mr. Cheese for selling crack what he did not to me and I would end somehow in the arms of criminals, the DEA , police or all. So what to do? Survive the night and leave to Punta Gorda, the fucking mudhole, as it was called by expats in Belize. After half an hour nobody had appeared and I thought that 20 bucks were enough for Mr. Bloods and his brothers to leave me out for more shenanigans. Maybe they would slaughter down Mr. Cheese for attacking their turf. „He wants to talk to you“ Mr. Cheese yelled thru my wooden room door, „that man wants to talk to you, do you understand?“ I opened the door as Sir Walter Raleigh would have looked at him not, but at his feet. „Are the fireants better?“ I asked „You cant smoke crack in my room, man, don't do that again, who sold you that?“ „Where is the black guy“ I asked him without even given notice to his lie rant he had learned somewhere in the white trash territories of Mid West USA to totally squeeze out an visitors and the hand them over to he sheriff. „Outside where we met.“ I went outside and Mr. Bloods stood there with a hollow smile and a gun in the back of his Bermuda shorts, I could tell, because he did not have a belt on before. I knew I had no chance except buying me out, knowing Belize for a while before because I had fraternized a bit with Mr. Cheese on the balcony. They would take me out tomorrow night somewhere in town, if I would pass or I had to stay in my hotel room until the end of times. That was my mistake: just to talk to Mr. Cheese. Instead I should have left with the cool Mexicans from Mexico City there. It is just one tiny micro decision in a country as Belize, that changes ones fate, sometimes forever. Sitting on the common balcony and accepting Mr. Cheese's interesting White Trash rants about everything as in a movie from the nineties instead of the healthy Mexicans. Fucking interesting lingo on that creep also, spiced up by an enormous foot smell. Bloods passed me a small poach of something and demanded 100 Dollars more. That was cheap for my life, I thought and gave him 80. „That's cool“ I said and he agreed by just doing nothing and being silent. I knew now he just gave me some aspirin or his grandmas diarrhea medice but that was good. I rushed into Mr. Cheese's room he left open for me. „Look what have got“ and passed him the poach. „Feel invited“ He did not even hesitate and answer but searched for a tin foil, loaded it with some greyish substance from the Blood's poach and chased the dragon with a bic lighter. His foot smell was suddenly absent. Cheese odor was replaced by a horrible chemical evaporation that filled the room and made me feel to puke and shit. Bloods had just mixed ingredients from his pharmacy to form some horrible grey substance. Cheese did not look too good suddenly, a bit like The Crack's colour. I snapped the poached and ran with it to the toilet. I opened the John and threw the shit into the water. „What are you doing, you fucking asshole, what are you doing? You can't throw away my crack!“. I flushed the toilet and he pushed me away and shoved his arm down where his shit was released into the near carribean sea before. It was sad: Mr. Bloods was gone, his poison was gone, Mr. Cheese was gone too, soon he would leave me alone, I was alive and in good respect with the criminals in Belize City, and the police had no contraband to seize, because Cheese had lost it. I sat down in Cheeses chair again and did not leave now but decided to watch him. „Why did you do that, for Christ sake, why did you do that?“ „ I wanted to save our lives, it smelled bad“ „But we all live to die soon or whatever. What we do now? I mean do you want some girls here? I May ask“ „What is next?! I answered, and he sat there like a statue. „Have a good night“ I said and left to my room, and never heard of the two assholes again, no police arrived and I bought a White Trash cum Bloods and Crips Belize City story for 100 US Dollars. They loved me dearly, Mr. Moustache and his boyfriend in the Milkyway Guesthouse in Punta Gorda. They had just laid out their carpet of intriguing mediocricity for me, to walk on it to be the nice guy from Europe, I thought. I remembered the angry words of my new black friend before: "They are into too many things" I decided not to be, but take them on. They were too much on the asshole side of life and I just could not resist this aura to check it out. "Yeah man, for how long is this story around now?" I bloated out loud. I could not stand the AIDS hypocrisy stories at all, since I had seen to many healthy hookers around the world for too long, for decades then, even in Bangkok Biergarten. It was better than a health and diet council there in the “AIDS time”, they imagined, everybody who wanted to ge laid was there for years, mostly cheering, feasting and greeding for money, jewlery and pussy almost inhibitedly and nobody was suffering from anything but from bad squarehead company sometimes and maybe lost jewlery and an empty bed in the morning.

Two grand moustaches were suddenly fixed in their rough and motionless faces. Pure contempt was oozing out of any pore they had available. "We teach this everywhere and to everyone as anybody does who has responsibility". This hit me as a cheesy fart in an empty bar. I didn't know what came next but I knew I had met the wrong company in Belize again and prepared for war.

I just can't stand this attitude of repeating government newspaper excrements to lost souls and polluting them with it. It is a bit like eating frozen readymade Pizza and belive in an imagined Italian soul in it. And that is a double lie, because there is no Italian soul anybody outside "a family" likes to share and todays Pizza is really a Kitsch swindle as well. Add it to a frozen German supermarket surrogat of the Pizza swindle you are exactly there, where I do not want to be. To add up, an "Italian family" thing usually includes being paranoid about anybody outside the family you met by chance 25 years ago at a fuckin Italian restaurant and talked about the sauce. That is enough for havoc. Another thing nobodys wants when you really know it. And that is exactly the new Beat Wisdom we have today – completely different from the lovely paradigms of the 20^th century and its 70's and 80's that you meet a good soul everywhere with his oder hers unique culture that is sooooo interesting, intriguing, just dive in there and get wisdom for free, honey, it is all good. Kerouac was on of those who got the axe in the head for this, after Dean Morietary and many more. Only Burroughs knew about the evil itself, hidden in everything if you research enough. He decided to play with it too much and searched for it in Ancient Egypt and the Necronomicon. Hassan I Sabbah and the Assasins were one of his pillars of inner knowledge. Coming too close to those always meant schizophrenia for some, slipping into pure evil for less, pretentious behavior for the most and a feeling of greed hat could never be fulfilled for me for example. Seeing that and feeling it at the very beginning I turned away from those energies. Nevertheless, he was the best of the Beatnik bunch, acting out in the world also and had his special way to get alomng that was magic. He needed that bleak and violent energy of gods with faces made out of intestines and faeces to go through the other side. It is just a decision not to do but respect his ways and that bis what I did since I was 16 years old.

I paid for a night to Mr. Moustache and received the room key. I could not resist to take them on again but this time for a harder ride and plced myself next to them on a chair without an invitation and asked for a "big shot of rum". Moustache 2 went inside whlie the other one was staring at me with slight contempt still about what I wanted like "what the fuck do you want here, sport?" and that was exactly what I was longing for. He returned from the hotels kitchen with a water glass half full of a brow liquid that turned into a quite good carribean rum. "A lot of poor blacks here, looked pretty hopeless that btown when I arrived", I said. "That's why it's called mudhole, Punta Gorda". "Who made it a mudhole? I mean the people here are far from being lazy druggers as far as I could get it but just starved out of life, right?!" That made it for me and I knew it, I just could not resist. "Fucking radical thinking on this guy" that Moustache to his friend. I knew what had to do. I emptied my glass of rum, felt a bit dizzy and walked to the toilet in sight, a small hut, independent of the other buildings. When I got out and returned to the table they were yelling: " no drugs in town here, right, no drugs. We do not have anything but some weed here, no coke. "I will check out your bar scene here to get my rocks of" I said, disrespecting their consent to tun me in for soemthing they had not projected but decided to turn against me. They were staring at me in silence, the moustaches motionless in pale empty faces.

I walked along the shoreline to the town centre and knew that I was on a list I had not felt before so intense. I felt like this, this shitty little conversation would have consequences. And I was longing for that, not out of masochism but out of trutherism to know the inner meaning of the fucking littkle sentence "They are into too many things". It did not take more than 10 minutes when group of black and mulatto young to lower middle age boys and girls of the town approached me. "hey man, looking for fun tonight?!" "What do you think, know some cool bar?" "Yeah man, join us, we will take you with us all night if you want". I had a huge hole inside me just from the few sentences I exchanged with the hotel guys and was just feeling released that somebody was not a complete asshole suddenly. Mostly spontaneous meeting like this in Belize lead to bizarre and funny events after while so I was not in distrust. In Hopkins I meet a black guy from the Garifuna tribe who looked close like a Touareg who offered me a ride to the next town in his car. The journey was halted after about 500 meters and I was invited to his sisters home for dining and fucking – the guy never talked about that but the air was full of it. I was into a blacks family wooden palace with a chubby black young woman in pink dress and underwear in front of a giant cooking pot with a giant spoon turning the fish soup inside. Boum were were sitting there an the soup was oin the table steaming into my face and the black girls magnificient ass wiggling in front of me while I tried to eat. Her brother was not inerested at all in that but just shoveling fish into his mouth and throwing the bones on the floor. Our journey went on like this, stopping every kilometre or two to visit family and friends, drinking and smoking until we were back to Hopkins again at midnight totaly drunk and wasted. That could be expected from Belize.the groovy grotesque. But just take care when they slip mickey into your rum. They tried this at Still Grass junction and then drive me into the bush but failed because I exchanged the rum glasses. So I had no bad vibe about the black folks there but something was wrong this time, it was too slick, it missed the roughness of black folks who really bump into you and dig the scenery with you.

We arrived at a dark and strictly local little bar with a lot of room inside and good music where I ordered a beer and was immedatley approached by a nid twenty black girl sliping next to me and laid her arms around my hips and crawling around with her fingers. That felt good and I went with it and we strated kissing around when another female voice said: "you two birds should move away into privacy before you fuck here in the back in front of all, you hear me". That was even more flattering when I felt my purse was removed, my pockets were emptied and they all tried to catch my money belt. I felt the click in my head and saw myself rsing up, jumping at the purse thief, catching him and telling him in loud, stern voice: "give me the purse back, you Mofo, keep the money in it, we stay friends here." He handed me the purse, I tok out al the moeny, about 80 $ handed it over jumped around and yelled as loud as I could: " beer and trum for al and everybody here, all free now, nothing has happened." That turned everone into a calm and silnet mood again, I didn't even look at my girlfriend anymore whe the bottles arrived. The rum came some minutes later and I nplayed as if nothing ever happened and that worked out. Try it in Belize, it worked then. Hours later I stumbled home at the shoreline again and nobody harassed me at all but I knew the scene was set up by the Moustaches to teach me a lesson: stay with the white assholes who turned everything into a mudhole inside the fort and shut the fuck up. The walls in Milky Way Guesthouse were paper thin, the room was a disastre and felt like many bad things had happened there. I tried to sleep and could not. The moustaches were down there.

"Anthropology is just a piece of shit if we do not fight for the people we do research on", a tall blond muscular guy with long hair and pony tail shouted. "We can not do just research with participant observation all the time while our people get fucked over with impunity." I listened to The Owl's and his frieds rants for quite a time without being really interested. It was to flat, that theory was to flat, made for people without any experience on the beat and hippe trails of that world in 70's and 80's. Just as the MG's rants about all and everything we had to witness day by day in the early 80's especially until 1989. The Marxist Group of clean and unspoiled Marxism. It did not feel like reality but as a movie script made by some scientists. "Action Anthropology is the only we we can continue with Ethnology and Anthropology without being traitors, otherwise we have to stop" they yelled in Bonn anthropology department. Later they continued in Cologne with the same lingo and attack on us. Was that radical? Not even that, it was mediocre to walk into people in the Third world as an Anthropologist and then teach some revolution, that was cheesy and phony and it smelled like young girls wishful thinking. I you know the ways of the authorities in Third World countries, somebody with a brain would never start a revolution or uprising like this: on a plate for being shot down. I never engaged in radical politics out of anthropological departments per se, that was an unspoken rule if you were serious about things there and protecting yourself and the people down under. That was the most serious lesson of the Beats I had learned on my trails around the world – knowing the AOI - and exactly that was looked down upon by radical anthropologist. That bis why they failed in both: revolution and science.

"There is a meeting of action anthropolgists in the hills outside Cologne a sympathtic fellow student told me. "Join us there, it is important, a professor form the US wil be there". The guy had long curly brown hair, late twenties and was full of energy. He was one of the real guys in Bonn and Cologne but always on the open side of things even when they brought back our people in body bags from Central America or buried them there in the jungle. But ok, I thought, this is just about Native American shit in the US, who cares, no guns invlved, just lame US things and I was not involved in this at all, I was in the Asian wisdom thing still, somehow and regarded any close contact with US affairs as a suicide attack on myself after their performance in Central America in he 80's, after Peanut Jimmy from Georgia gave us a free ride into a better world with his own Beat that no one would have ever expected in the late 70's after Nixon and Ford.

"We all have to fight again and again for the Red Indians, no one can ever get out of it if you are an anthropologist by heart" the US professor said in a convincing and phony slimetone. It was just like the session with esoteric communities where the invited Red Indians from "spiritual backgrounds". We always looked at each other, did not talk about it and felt a bad rush at our back moving up and down. The AOI had his presence there but had no clue only our gut feeling and that meant: fight but survive.

I looked away so his gloomy and interested eyes could not meet mine in the hills east of Cologne in 1989. He was eager to know me there and get close, that was crawling up and down my spine there and I played the Ex hippie with the India bias, not the Red Indian. The Owl was there and was watching too. My colleague from university who brought me there tried to convince fellow students to meet him privately to "get things on" later.  "He is just a youngster" I thought, who should be out on the mean roads of the world, "man start with a brothel in Istanbul or a bus through Honduras but shut the fuck up". "It is not the time" I told him, "not here and now, do you get this? And who are those Red Indians surrounded by the mightiest army in the world? Think!" I said and left.

Three days later I visited the library of the Anthropological Department in Cologne where they were waiting for me with a tabloid newspaper. Our fellow stúdent was shot dead by Cologne police the night before in the middle of the southern town of Cologne by order of the AOI. They gave him a full page photo on the frontpage and shot him from his bycicle. "They police is here and wants to know his friends" the left wing German professor told me with a disgustingly slimy grin while walking only to me. He was the star of the institute teaching about texts of the Red Brigades in Italy in discourse analysis. And waited for interested hand signs of the students – I never gave him one. The Red Brigades of Italy were even worse than the MG and their action group, the RAF of the police and the AOI and had to fuck themselves.

After the party in Punta Gorda with my wanna be robber friends, courtesy by the AOI, I woke up and they were waiting for me with a slimy smile for breakfast in the Milky Way Guesthouse. "Here, have a free milk shake". I took the glass and poured it on the floor in front of the two Moustaches and got the fuck out of there. I saw one of them an hour later crossing over to Guatemala by ferry to buy and sell children for rich fucks. He was steaming with hatred, that I had all my money and made friends with the wanna be robbers and murderers who were paid to stab me down by him and his friend but did not do anything for them. He could not believe that he and his friend were my prey from now on when I smiled at him when his ferry left with him to Guatemala.

Copyright by Ronald C. Kaiser 2020

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