15 Last of the Rhodesians: Chronicles of an African anarchist – The Gokwe Kid – Searching for Rhodesia 15

 

15 Last of the Rhodesians: Chronicles of an African anarchist – The Gokwe Kid – Searching for Rhodesia 15

 

Journal 05.02.2026.

 

Present location - Blue Beach Resort

Sam Roi Yot (Hua Hin), Thailand: Westen (Hua Hin, Cha Am, River Kwai), Thailand

 

Zim-Zala-Bim, if the peasants cry from laziness disguised as stupidity, and whipping their backs till they bleed is now illegal, one is forced to do the terrible task of removing a table made from concrete from X and place it at Y (that being my tiny veranda) themselves, because in the pre-historic age of socialistic liberalism, the peasants here are in for a big surprise sooner than later – just ask Donald.

 

6 days Barefoot through the Desert -  Eilat, Israel – continued all the way back to Taba.

 

I have a BUS PASS. Now I used it to get to, and check out, the underwater observatory and giant aquarium. This place is the last stop South and then there is nothing for about a 15min drive to the Taba border.  Lame stuff. Alright for kids and the entrance price nearly stopped my heart. Some bloke feeds the tame sharks. I would have preferred to give him a couple of stab wounds to his leg and then throw him in. That might liven up the show a bit.

 

Up to the top of the tower. Howling wind as usual. A single person spiral staircase with a sign ‘No Descent’. Really. Since no one was actually coming down the steps as I wheezed myself to the top, I guess they all jumped off and fed the sharks.

 

Maybe I am just too old for this sort of ‘amusement’. When it comes to fancy fish, I had several aquariums once. One was 660 litres. I took out an extra insurance policy in case it burst. It was just an endless drip-drip of money from my wallet as I would load it with bright shiny happy guppies and angels, white shiny eels, and things with teeth and spikes and often in the morning I would awake and gaze into the tank and wonder where 300 Deutsche Marks worth had disappeared to.

 

And that was that and get a bus back to my 50 bucks a night doss hole, for more Youtube documentaries and a 20 euro kosher hamburger.

 

# # #

 

Going up north the following day and with fuck all else to do to kill the day than walk it, I passed more of these pseudo entertainment and things to do which nobody wants to do because it is all fucked, I reach dead end at a bird sanctuary with a view of Jorden. But not before I saw some monstrosities of hotels and a couple more of these shopping malls. It is mind boggling that any one would even think the place could be some new Monaco. All they had to do was look at that last shit hole I was in where Prince Habby Dabby No Brains sunk 4 billion dollars in his version.

I am absolutely loving it. What a blast. You can only appreciate the whole wasteland if you wasted… I pass some weird pond. On the map and in the brochure the place was supposed to be…er. Not really sure. I did see some tosser taking his dog for a run by holding on to its leash out the window whilst he drove along the hard, baked sand of this…er…pond shore. I had decided that as part of my quest, I had to reach Jorden.

 

AND, there was supposed to be a bird sanctuary there which was a little caravan (just like the one I had in Münich once) being used as a shop with a weird French Jew running the joint. Loud speakers blaring out Frog love songs. As the place is so popular according to the blah-blah, the owner shat himself when I rocked up. I must have looked like a tourist who has arisen from the dead. I certainly looked the part. Anyone would have thought I had ordered a pint of blood instead of…a beer, the way his face drained into that podgy complexion of a broken croissant…

So, I am sort of squatting/sitting in one of those awful hanging chair things on a fake grass lawn, and there is like, a couple of trees or three or four and surrounded by a wire fence. The bird sanctuary. It seemed rather quiet. I think. I had to replace my headphones onto my head blasting out Trance music to cover up the yowling of various versions of Je’taime.

 

After rolling another blunt, I decided to check the place out. Fucking weird man, I tell you. There were, deep amongst the foliage, some colourful parrots or whatever but…but, (now I started to giggle) they were in cages and…you will not believe it…the fuckers are dead and stuffed and tied to their perches!!!

I kid you not!!!

I started to look if they might have a Norwegian Blue parrot pining for the fjords! (See pics.)

 

I was thinking – This is fucking too much man! I can just make out the Jorden border fence with a mini look-out post, with a flag pole with their flag and not the Jolly Roger, so I had some idea that this was the end of the road, so to speak, and not the end of the world as we know it, because – why on earth would you have this listed as a place of interest unless you are as insane as I am!

 

How many lunatics actually visit. NONE. Not only are the birds dead, everything is dead! Common sense never prevailed here. The Promised Land – God help me… and he did because…

Actually… the sanctuary and border crossing is still some schlepp away on the main road, not the dirt drag that I dragged my stupid feet through. I had to backtrack, turn right and follow the pictures on the roadside signs and I was there!

 

The real bird sanctuary was all very nice and laid out for quite bird watching and free because I didn’t see one bird nor anyone who runs the joint and I was the only person there.

 

The border was extremely busy at this time. Hah-hah, you can hardly believe it. Bus after bus packed with Lebanese day time poorly paid slaves with fast-track visas, going through the spinning gates at a rate of one a second before the last rays of the sun hid behind the huge, dark aboding mountains of naked rock.

 

THAT is because if they do not, they will all turn into pumpkins. That is because yours truly in his idiocy had decided to stay over Sabbath, which, it turns out, the Jews have managed to actually stop the planet from spinning and everything turns to stone till Sunday - when I caught the bus and almost fell weeping into the arms of my driver taking me back to Sawa Camp.

 

THAT adventure cost me 600 euro for basically having the pleasure of wishing the Israeli lunatics well, and good luck, but in all honesty, Rhodesia had been a better place worth fighting for because - beer was 25cents, coke 5cents, a packet of 30 Kingsgate 25c, a fillet steak sandwich cost less than a Durex condom, we had Kariba for our shoreline and beaches where we could hand feed crocodiles, we would stuff as many birds as possible and never worried about shot-gun weddings because you had a good chance of getting shot fighting for a real promised land, and get wasted on booze cruises and more pleasures of the flesh than described in any fairy tale book found wrapped in  two thousand year old scrolls in caves that only retarded Barberry apes would classify as home - God was obviously blind picking this place for you lot…

AND – I still have no new shoes…

 

To be continued…

14 Last of the Rhodesians: Chronicles of an African anarchist – The Gokwe Kid – Searching for Rhodesia 14

 

Journal 04.02.2026.

 

Present location - Blue Beach Resort

Sam Roi Yot (Hua Hin), Thailand: Westen (Hua Hin, Cha Am, River Kwai), Thailand

 

That is where I am at the moment. Crazy, bat shit place but first I have to wrap up the last insane trip…

 

6 days Barefoot through the Desert -  Eilat, Israel - continued.

 

So, I just wandered and shuffled along the main drag following the coast. First -South. Beach areas with grass canopy shelters. The fancier ones with booze and snack bars charging an arm, leg and pension. All almost empty. A few divers diving just a few metres from the shore. I drifted slowly past the harbour. Closed. A small grey, coast guard ship cruises just a little faster than my own crippling gait.

Considering all the argy-bargy that had just recently paused in another bit of the Holy Land, the only military presence were some uniformed kids with guns getting on and off from an occasional bus, coming home from a tour or going to one. The security guards outside any shopping malls were all puffing away on mind dulling smokes and the whole place just had the feel of capitalist cabalistic rot. Oh, you see the odd concrete air raid shelter. No idea how you get into one. I tried of course.

 

Just like the entire Egyptian strip but costing millions more. Beautiful empty apartment blocks, half-finished hotels, one in construction next door to the kip I was staying in had about four people on it and three were black, one worked, the others debated. Even a small shop being ‘renovated’ had ‘workers’ loafing and explaining to their Boss as to the reason that almost fuck all has been achieved was due to the fact they needed to be paid more to loaf about and shoot the fat…hah-hah. Man, have I seen that bull shit before?

 

And amid this weird mixture I take an interesting look at one particular block of flats. They also on ‘Main Street’. People actually live in the place. Ethnicity - I would hazard a guess at Somalian. Refugees from Israel’s very weird latest plan with respect to that area of the Middle East.

 

And, of course…fly tipping.  Just the same all, same all where ever I go. Just dump your rubbish over a fence or on the side of the road and let the wind blow the millions of plastic wrappers, shopping bags and bottles around.

 

Walking on...

 

Surfaces one would see in other towns and cities covered with placards, stickers, graffiti and such, had here postcard to large banner size pictures of the killed IDF and the hostages from the latest round of hostilities. We never did that in Rhodesia. I don’t recall anything more than a small line in the Death and Condolences part of The Rhodesian Herald.

Not my business anymore. When you have the nonsense of ‘my land and your land is my land, and so says the all-encompassing super deity in a book of fairy tales’, me thinks -yeah, whatever… roll a joint and dream on…

 

Still, I am not the kind of horrible person I started out to be, and hopefully continue to be, till either I take myself out (accidently) or taken out (accidently questionable) without my tangent way of thinking. As the great Guru Carl Sagan said ‘Without imagination, we are fucked.’ That might not be a perfect quote but somewhere along that line, because I am going to capture yours…

 

Imagine. There is poor little me, stumbling, shuffling barefoot, incoherently mumbling along to some music playing at full blast on my new headphones, being overtaken by camels, the sky is cloudy, rather windy, and I follow the road past an occasional turnoff (one is for a bicycle trail that goes ALL around Eilat donated by some idiot Jews in Holland. See picture…hah-hah) – when, now well stoned out of and off my kipper, I come across a historical monument to a brave ancestor of mine - Captain Gokwe Kid, the famed sea faring smuggler, siege breaker, drug runner and to be honest, a complete fucking lunatic.

 

When I read the monument about him and his merry crew of cut throats and the amazing act they pulled off, in, what can only be described as not being much larger than a leaking bucket filled with your death wishes as a list. Which had been Christened (do Jews Christen their boats? No idea,) DOLPHIN! One look at it made me conclude that this particular dolphin would not come up from its first dive as it was one, and a much more appropriate name would have been Porpoise because it is like how these loons think in double entendres as in – to what Purpose and is it on Purpose? As I will now explain…

 

On the 5^th of June, 1967 with fire and flames being hurled Topsy-Turvey everywhere, the beleaguered land thieving rightful owners (depending which side you’re on,) were in a bit of a pickle. The Gyppo fucker Abdel Nasser, having been treated as nothing more than an uppity monkey by the British government, closed the Straits of Tiran.

The poor Eilattians were cut off from whatever they thought they desperately needed such as designer hand bags and shoes that would still sitting to this day unsold, but worst of all – NO GANJA. And those newly named Israelis love the stuff. And vodka. Their own homemade shit. Cheap as fuck and they use it as tank fuel as well.

 

Now, with the slit of water between the ‘Them and Us’, being used as a ‘no float’, siege/blockade type scenario, Captain ‘Cool Beans’ Gokwe Kid volunteers to bring in the much-needed supplies to the suffering. The chosen ones. Not sure what they were actually chosen for, but I would chose them over- pricing bastards to wear my shoes.  

First, he needs some kind of floating object, and fuck me up the arse with a frozen stave, you can’t in a million years guess where he got one… the same place where they are doing their dodgy shenanigans again - in a place that has been recently been recognised as being an independent state called Somali-la-lo-la-la-land, by non-other than…Israel (hah-hah, you can’t make this shit up!,) and…

 

Completely off his trolley, Captain ‘Cool Beans’ Gokwe Kid buys from Israel’s secret best friends, outside of the United States, several tonnes of the finest hash that the sneaky brothers-in-arms  make in the desert, six pairs of fake Addidas trainers and a whole carton of Victoria’s Secret handbags, bursting at the seams with nothing in them - loads it on his converted and brilliantly disguised fishing boat proclaiming every known disease was on board - that not even Somalian pirates would think of shit ship-jack, and sets sail.

 

And the rest is history. There was some confusion at first, which is usual with this race as the other hearty crewmates had no respect what so ever for the captain because he pointed at NORTH on the map, but the compass showed only MAGNETIC NORTH and who was lying and where was the TRUE NORTH, which caused a short delay after landing up somewhere which was definitely not Eilat - because instead of cheering mobs screaming in happy delirium and throwing kisses of  Sholom’s and Mazeltoves, it was more like screaming hoards of smelly savages throwing Molotov cocktails made from dried camel dung.

After flogging a few of the mutinous Jews, their ancient DNA recognised a Pharoah when he tickles their back with a bit of cat O’ nine, Captain Gokwe Kid soon had them finally pulling their weight and almost without further incident –

besides finding a stowaway that when discovered she kept saying some right croc like ‘Jesus help me. Merciful saviour spare me, Lead me to the path of righteousness!’ They gave her a pair of trainers, pointed to her where the Sea of Galilee was, and to follow in her saviours footsteps and - tossed the mad cow overboard – and then THEY ARRIVED and…

 

Everyone got high, the rest of the trainers were exchanged for a couple of Soviet made tanks, the handbags were converted into breasts implants and sold to the Chinese who promptly sell them on offer on TEMU.  

 

The aggro died down and everyone waited for another rainy day when they can all kick off once again. Which it is has. Several times, I think. Nothing new as we know. It’s been going on for a couple of millenniums so far…

And on I walked.

To BE Continued…

(Just toooo funny…)

13 Last of the Rhodesians: Chronicles of an African anarchist – The Gokwe Kid – Searching for Rhodesia 13

 

Journal 01.02.2026.

 

Somewhere in Thailand. I tell ya later…

 

6 days Barefoot through the Desert -  Eilat, Israel: Day One.. continued

 

The main drag that was from the bus station as the center of town …hah, hah, yeah right. That place had improved since 1982 but you couldn’t buy a bus pass as it so happens. That’s another place. But first – the main drag down to the beach. Same incline and the shops, malls and assorted coffee shops designed either by cabbage head architects or former socialist paradise lost designers.

 

The 1982 version had just been some shacks flogging a bit of food and drink with air-con. Just as well, as in 1982 when Lady D and I were there it was June and average temp 40 plus. Snorkelling meant sun burn on your back and the agony of the hill to our rented luxury abode (some penniless bum’s pad that he renting out), dodging from one shop to another so to recover before the next 100 steps. Those were the days…

 

But now with my feet hurting more than a pilgrim’s after walking barefoot across broken glass and fag end butts, the actual wide new roads and pavements were immaculate. I wouldn’t consider eating off them, but it was a blessing to go bare foot.

 

First stop. One of the many rondavels with shady people changing money. They don’t have an ATM, but I found a bank where the security bloke who eyed me up in my hippie trousers, shoeless and spaced out eyeballs, concluded that as the only tourist in town, it was hardly likely I was there to rob the joint.

 

Now having NEW shekels (the old ones went the same way as the Zimbabwe dollar,) in my mitts it was SHOES and earphones. With wires. After half a dozen of small shops flogging the same shite at (wireless – unless you want a pair for little girls with a penchant to wear huge pink, fluffy singing ear muffins,) it was bad news until my observant eye clocked hanging from a peg an antique from by gone days.

It took a while for the owner, who was gabbing away with two other loafing individuals who were simply shooting the fat (Israelis -aka Jews, don’t chew the fat. It is shoot first and then ask what they wanted. A delightful way of life I so enjoyed as a policeman,) and eying me up as I asked about them, the owner of this tiny electronic toys and phone cards shop was VERY curious with my appearance and perfect Rhodesian/Pommie/Bavarian dialect of English and he asked where I was from, as he brushed the dust off the plastic blister packet.

 

Looking at him and his cronies aged all about mid 40s, it was simply pointless saying Rhodesia.

‘I am from Rhodesia.’ Which was pointless, but worth a try. I was pleased to have proved my point because the idiot had never heard of the place but as I then pointed out to him…

‘...now called Zimbabwe, but I live in Germany and I have come here with hope that I can have a conversation with people whose intellectual conversation is more than the chatter of monkeys. (This all true.)

‘Aah, then welcome to the donkeys, I wish you luck.’ He smiled wolfishly. I recognise this style of wit from personal experience and the fact I am rather good at it.

‘How nice. It will be fun since I am half-Jewish.’

‘We can’t be all perfect.’ was his reply whilst…waiting for the come back if my now claim to fame is worthy of a duel. Agg, shame hey. Poor man. He and his now eves dropping clientele were waiting with baited breath…

I think I have seen the film at least 20 times. Whenever I am feeling well spaced, I put it on and lip sync the lot, just like I can with the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

‘Independence Day. 1996, the father of Jeff Goldblum, who saved the world and was rewarded by giving the last kosher sausage Elizabeth Tayler had had the pleasure of.’

 

That went down well. I thought of adding the fact that the Director is a German and who has made a small fortune using Jews in his films.

Smiling like if I had just shot off his circumcised dip-stick and enjoyed it, he sold me the headphones and rigged up an Israeli telephone card. Both were a reasonable price, so thinking I might not have arrived in the Sodom and Gonorrhoea of high prices for cheap shite, I continued on feet of flames, plus my back ischia’s was giving me some right gip and went looking for shoes.

 

They were only to be had in fancy shopping malls flogging the identical shite I had seen in Turkey for… well. A decent and fancy pair of ‘Name brands’, about 100-200% more than in Krautland – which means about 600% more than in Turkey which, with certain, they come from.

 

Fuck that for a lark. So, I went barefoot almost the whole time and walked over six days the entire coast part of Eilat. About 12 clicks. On the way I came across curiosities – the biggest were the prices for necessities such as…food, and at 20 euros for a kosher hamburger, I started to get a pattern of why this place was a huge fuck-up.

 

To be continued…

 

 

 

 

 

 

12 Last of the Rhodesians: Chronicles of an African anarchist – The Gokwe Kid – Searching for Rhodesia 12

 

Journal 22.01.2026.

Sawa Camp, Nuweibaa, Sinai Peninsula, Egypt

 

6 days Barefoot through the Desert -  Eilat, Israel: Day One.. continued

 

As one approaches the twilight of one’s life, we sometimes wonder what is must be like to be old. Older than we are now but not that much older. How quaint it must be. To be so unaware of one self’s very own reason for existing, for it is no longer becomes a question - but an answer of -  no reason at all!

 

To have existed once knowing that eventually one will have as much reason as a cabbage patch doll, with a real rotting cabbage as a brain – to, perhaps, but highly unlikely, fathom the concept of becoming a badly leaking, wrinkled leather, rancid old sack of offal - sooner rather than later.

One would wonder then, that supposing there was another way to be able to look at oneself deep inside, and honestly acknowledge the fact that –

my feet are really hurting me now and I must present myself for the next inquisition, which –

Now pay attention here…because I am about to meet and greet a strange tribe at their back door, which coincidently enough has an entrance fee. There were four pretty girls in dark olive unforms and well lacquered nails, not like mine, for unlike these idle women whose interruptions from watching Tik-Tok videos made them glance up and nod towards another Fagan machine, my nails had become worn from rolling little tubes whilst exploring the mysteries of the cosmos – which was now being scanned.

Not a word was spoken in jest as here one could be shot if one has no inkling to how the chosen people’s mind works. I have been blessed with some of their quaint idiocies of only asking questions with questions that have no answer for if you do, they know you are a foreigner and easy pickings.

There is a row of fancy machines that read passports in the hall. But these are only for Israelis. But why so many? One would presume that if you want to invade another country it would be time consuming to have to scan your passport to come home.

 

People, such as myself, a rare thing in these parts, find themselves with no help at all and presenting oneself at a window of a cabin, from which a bearded man with a black round bit of cloth covers what must be a bald spot, on his head, takes my passport and asks if I have been here before. I said that I had indeed I had but via the front door in 1982.

Flicking through my passport, he asked where I was coming from, which was a reasonable question since I looked like a Shmil Shleper with no luggage besides a tartan rucksack.

 

Blah-de-blah and hey ho, of we go donkey driving except, the donkey transport was behind me in Egypt and before me was a white Mercedes – a TAXI driven by a very happy gentleman of my age who had never heard of Rhodesia and…

‘You should have seen this place ten years ago. Packed with tourists from Russia, from China, from Germany, from everywhere - but now it is quite. First was corona and then some trouble, now only the Israelis from up north come here, but it is winter now. A lot just come for the casino at the border.’

 

Aah, now I understand the amount of passport machines. I had been surprised to see the building just a few steps away from the ‘Welcome to Egypt’ sign.

 

He drops me off at my ‘hotel’, where I have a room the size of the one deathrow inmates have but with a fridge and a TV to watch YouTubes of ‘The History of Israel’, which I had a rather good idea of, but all I wanted was a shoe shop and an electronic shop for a set of headphones as – I had lost one of the NEW pair of buds, the right one, in the coming and goings between countries.

 

Dumping what little I had and, in my slops, wandered out past the prissy cleaner woman who had scowled at my greeting of ‘SHALOM my Mon Cherie and what a remarkable facial similarity to the school teacher in The Wizard of Oz you have.’

And just as nice and forthcoming as some loafer in the background muffling from a room next to reception that check-in is at 11.00am.

 

He, a shaved headed Russian Mafia type figure, did eventually arrive and present me the key at 50 Euro a night. I wandered onto the main street of this 57,000 people populated city (like fuck it is,) and rapidly come to the conclusion that Tombstone in Arizona had a lot more to offer and at a fraction of the price.

To be continued…

 

11 Last of the Rhodesians: Chronicles of an African anarchist – The Gokwe Kid – Searching for Rhodesia 11

 

Journal 19.01.2026.

Sawa Camp, Nuweibaa, Sinai Peninsula, Egypt

 

6 days Barefoot through the Desert -  Eilat, Israel: Day One

 

My first inclination that trouble was brewing for me was when I arrived at the border post of Taba, the exit from Egypt, and entrance into the ‘Promised Land’.

 

I had shared a ride with a non-smoking French Jew that had also stayed at Sawa Camp. Not the wailing, farting one, the other one. As the driver also smoked, democracy ruled…hah-hah. It was only a short ride of three spliffs and almost the entire Jesus album I was listening to via my earbuds called Cold Fact. A popular LP record that most Rhodesians had owned.

 

And, to add to HIS frog miseries, he got fucked over for  Egyptian 20 pounds for some bored border tosser to lick a stamp and put it onto the Exit card, which had cost us each the equivalent of…I can’t remember anymore.

I wasn’t asked for a ‘twenny’ because MY passport was unique! It is a BREXIT one. He had never seen one before. He must have heard the rumours and took it for granted that I was,

 

A. Thoroughly lost, worse than Moses ever was and B. judging by my demeaner and appearance I had been walking for 40 years in Moses’s shoes - each with a round pebble in them.

 

Sort of like, proving your love for God by beating yourself half to death with a sjambok, like those plonkers down the drag in Alt Ötting where – coincidently, I have to go when I get back, because I have to pick up my AUFENTSHALTITEL - presuming I survive this experience.

 

After being screened for potential weapons of mass destruction, I was about to have my own version, when with passport in hand, weeping in pain from those shoes, I realised with horror I could not afford to pay the Israeli Entrance fee. As the only person who seemed to realise that us two were the only ones doing ANY coming or going through this border post - the only activity was extracting money from wallets and I didn’t have one anymore.

 

Well, in my case – money belt, WHICH, it so happened I had left behind in Egypt…on the black rubber belt that feeds your sacks of weapons through a scanner box because they don’t have plastic trays which means you just throw everything, coats, jackets, money belts, sandwiches, a cactus named BOB, mobile phones etc, onto it.

 

How clever was that! Now I have to drag my sorry arse, howling in pain from my crippled feet, and say 70 Virgin Hail Marys that the Egyptian security personal were not on the phone buying bitcoins after being sent manna from heaven in the shape of a cheap, black, nylon money belt – Made in China and bought from TEMU.

 

The cards and cash contained therein would surmount to a very nice holiday in…

 

Egypt -  as what transcends in the next few days, is that the promised land of  Milk and Honey are available in bottles a lot cheaper in the un-promised land than the one, Moses, took 40 fucking years to get to, on enough false prophecies to make a tarot reader wince.

 

Now I am in limbo and key suspect in very confusing diplomatic row that was about to unfold. This is a lot more serious than when the Brits first arrived here, in Taba, in the days when Britannia ruled the waves, to find three ‘Police’ huts full of Turks threatening to shoot them.

 

I was concerned that it could be possible that this gathered crowd of officialdom were hopefully not followers of Faganism.  This cult name was first coined Faganism, by David Copperfield in his best selling book ‘Magic Wallets – Pick and Pocket What’s Not Yours’ , when he tells the story of a mythical person, Fagan, who could teach anyone how to prosper easily from others - with a guaranteed free trip on a converted slave trader ship to Australia should they be in any way apprehended whilst making a comfortable living.

 

However, the book is relatively outdated now as most wallets are digital, and can be hacked with ease, and there are no more free tickets to Australia, or Rwanda either.

But the crisis that unfolded was relatively clear to me. I was in a serious need to roll a doobie, but smoking was not allowed.

 

In theory, I had left Egypt. No doubt about that. I had just paid to do so. Now I can’t get back in because I have no money! I was doomed to spend the rest of my life between two terminals and unlike in the film with Tom Hanks, whilst I could plaster a wall, I hadn’t brought a trowel in my luggage. And, what was I going to eat or drink? Here were no McDonald’s around with half eaten hamburgers, cold French fries and buckets of ketchup sachets.

 

The scenario gets worse. I had planned for six days but not at war – which seemed to be breaking out amongst the Scanner men, the Immigration men, the Customs men, the Policemen and for all I knew, the local Ambulance men, whilst passing the money belt around and babbling in Arabic to each other. Presumably about how to split the spoils and dispose of the body – mine.

 

Eventually, as I happened to be the only person hanging around not in dark khaki/olive uniform, someone who looked smarter than the rest, asked in good English if this (holding out the money belt,) belonged to me?

 

Assuring that it was a possession that had been wrapped around my torso containing credit sized cards and coloured wads of paper, that whilst the cards bore my name, the banknotes did not.

 

I was asked to check if all the contents were inside as previously been before it went into the Fagan machine, which had now taken priority for scanning for things that killed people that money could buy.

 

Hah-hah, I wouldn’t have a sodding clue. As readers of my books may recall a similar incident that happened to me at Checkpoint Charlie during the Cold War in 1980.

 

In that incident I had, along with a very prissy East German border STASI bloke, had been astonished with the fact that when I emptied that money belt out for inspection, more money came out of it than I had declared was in it when I was visiting their piss-pot poor, peasant commie paradise of a Democratic Republic.

 

And, here in 2026, much to the relief of this person of obvious authority - that I wasn’t about to start another war with the Israelis by screaming that I am half-Jewish and the Gypsy Gyppo fuckers have stolen my life savings and hobbling to the entrance of THEIR side for help -I confirmed that it was, the money belt, presumably, had not been faganised.

 

It was now possible to attempt once again to enter the promised land…

BUT – I desperately needed my friend BOB!

 

What issues could now present itself? Would the great Gokwe Kid again have to use his formidable talents to overcome all obstacles that he himself has thrown into his own path of his own making.

 

Stay tuned…

10 Last of the Rhodesians: Chronicles of an African anarchist – The Gokwe Kid – Searching for Rhodesia 10

Journal 11.01.2026.

Sawa Camp, Nuweibaa, Sinai Peninsula, Egypt

I expect an answer to my request to find me a shop from chatGPT later today. Although a simple request, it, like human intelligence, are prone to not having a clue about anything.

 

 Whilst I wait, I suddenly needed to, and wondered about it, and as such gave chatGPT another easy question. The answer is ambiguous…

    Question - What is the present estimation of greenhouse gases given out by humans in the form of burping and flatulence?

 

Source of Methane	Approximate Global Scale
Human burps & flatulence	~<1 million tonnes CH₄/year (very rough, not officially reported)

NOT officially reported??? And why is that? My present next-door neighbour in his shack, emits enormous amounts of methane during the night and especially at sunrise. He is an old Frenchman and leaves soon thank fuck, and he yowls for hours over a pray book, and I am downwind of his greenhouse emissions of flammable methane (see Youtube scientific experiment,) which are almost tuneful redemptions of Marche funèbre, which, under the expertise of a sound mixer such as Paul Oakenfold, would become a Club dance classic.

Whilst the winds of change are again storming the headlines with the instability of global markets, escalating geopolitical tensions, climate disaster, or the rise of uncontrollable artificial intelligence, I must suffer the appalling stench he emits whilst waiting for the wind to change and blow it away.

As activists around the world clamour for a reduction in gases causing the planet to heat up to the point that within a few years it will be possible to poach a couple of eggs at the North Pole simply by pulling your pants down to have a wazz, one does ask if, just for example, Gretzel Bumberg, realises that she and her attention-seeking hanger-ons are as guilty as the rest of us.

She does! THAT is because she refuses to fly as she knows that as the cabin is pressurised and depressurised the entire fuselage becomes a miniature greenhouse of trapped flatulence of various odours.

Pilots do have, as required by law, a panic button when the level of toxins reach above ‘flight sicknesses’ and releases oxygen masks for himself and the co-pilot but no one else as they are considered a waste of fresh air, and shareholders of the company would ask serious questions related to unnecessary overhead expenditures.

I know this because as I explained in a previous posting, the stinking old crone sitting in front of me in row 19 F, dropped her guts three times with such a magnitude that I tried unsuccessfully to get the overhead oxygen mask out its compartment, making me think there isn’t one in there at all – just smuggled cocaine from Columbia. Come to think of it – I would happily have a sniff of that.

And as such, since the success of my ground breaking Defibrillator Kettle, this entrepreneurial Rhodesian has come up with a Reversable Human Methane Prevention Kit.

 

Using materials and advise available during my up bringing in Rhodesia, I have created such a kit out of 100% organic stuff and includes the instructions of the usage there-of as given to me by my peers, friends, and family members from that time (1964-1978) in picture form. I sell them on Ebay for $200.00.

I personally have tried and tested this kit as I love animals and wouldn’t dream of buying  The Body Shop shares as that fad is now a lost cause.

9 Last of the Rhodesians: Chronicles of an African anarchist – The Gokwe Kid – Searching for Rhodesia 9

 

Journal 10.01.2026.

Sawa Camp, Nuweibaa, Sinai Peninsula, Egypt

 

I am going SHOPPING –

 

First, I must make a list here. That way I can’t forget it at home. Unless I forget the telephone – tra-la-la – I’m a poet!

This morning there was no power! In my room.

‘Heaven’s forbid,’ I exclaimed, ‘What have I done to deserve no hot coffee with my first doobie of the day at 6.45am?’

This was just as the Saadian Mountains glowed from behind in front of me, in magnificent silhouettes, as the huge glowing, red and yellow orb of hydrogen and helium arose - that some arsonist had set a match to.

No answer. No problem. Rhodies make a plan. Using my Swiss army knife I stripped plastic coverings and boppa (joined) the bare wires of the 240 volt cable to an equally stripped USB C type cable and plugged it into my fully charged traveler’s battery pack. According to the picture on the back it has enough power to restart your heart.

 

Actually, the thing got a shock of its life when I turned the kettle on. ‘BOOM’, it said. ‘Aaaah…’ screamed the kettle – ‘Fuck me up the arse with a frozen stave,’ I screamed in astonishment at the amazing failure of my now cancelled plans to patent this new Rhodesian invention.

 

I then went to the seating area of the restaurant, horse whipped awake the sleeping staff and after ascertaining that they had Whiteman’s Magic called electricity, and I had two coffees and two doobies in a row and I felt as happy as can be.

 

I might add that one coffee is included in my inclusive packet which includes water, BUT I refuse to pay for the second coffee because it is not my fault that the Whiteman’s magic stopped working because you lot kicked all the Whiteys (Mukiwa or Masungu or Pommies,) out – just like you did with the Jews!! And you can replace my kettle and power charger.

 

Fat chance of that happening. Never mind, smoke another spliff, man – everything gonna be alright now…

 

SHOPPING. Due to fact that the local supermarkets are poorly stocked and with a small variety of next to nothing that any self-respecting Rhodesian would even attempt to decipher its contents, and I would recall how in the good old days I could go down to Kambasha’s store in Gokwe and stock up for bush patrol. Kambasha had EVERYTHING.

 

Even lots and lots of Willard’s crisps. I actually once, as in my first patrol, and lacking experience and intelligence, I filled my rucksack full of them. Two reasons. 1. Extremely light and would supply me with the necessary energy to drag my sorry arse through the bush for three days and 2. It would make a great pillow.

Sadly, on that very first night as I laid on my back in my fart sack, sobbing quietly to myself that at even with the daily $3.25cents Bush allowance it was a fucking hard job earning it, that idiot of a patrol leader whilst trying to plant a coil in the darkness, sat on my head!

The chip bags burst with a mighty BANG, that announced our presence to every Gook within a 50 km radios and Patrol Leader thinks he was victim of a surprise mortar attack, shat himself and I got the blame, and, I had to eat chip crumbs and nearly starved. That was 1977.

Such is progress because the shops here do have loads of packets of crisps and the locals and ignorant tourists throw the empty bags away to float on the wind and gentle lapping shores.

 

Shopping – I then typed the following into chatGPT.

 

Locate my location if you can because I am not sure, but it is somewhere near where Moses hung about for 40 years, and then, look for a shop as close as possible that can supply me with the following – soft nylon trainers and please fucking note that I am not interested in its carbon fucking footprint because they are made in China, and,

Small ear phones on wires because I WANT ones with wires because the Bluetooth doesn’t work on this laptop,

And a small packet of evaporated milk which means small, about 250ml and not any fucking giant cow’s udder you find on special offer, and…erm..

 

And, a big fat felt permanent marker pen in black so I can leave ‘TGK Was Here’ onto lumps of weathered artifacts of biblical and historical importance, and,

Bread. The plastic kind the English eat so that they all look like lumps of dough left in the rain for a week, but still edible. For a week - for humans after that you give it to the dog if you can afford to have one.

That is it for the moment.

NOW, pay attention, otherwise I may get cross at your answer and beat you with Moses’s hammer…

Calculate my budget at just below the internationally and who gives a shit, United Nations poverty level for humans. Take into account that this is not the same as existence level which lacks necessities such as food, water and a mobile phone. Those beggers offered a choice tend to pick the latter so as to call for more aid rather than get a job.

Include in this search the cost of transport in any motorised vehicle (NOT camels) to and fro of such shop, as listed in the independently verified and acclaimed book, recognised as being as about as accurate as the Old and New Testament - African and English Post-Colonial guide for Knockers and Scammers - page 43, Capital 12 -Transport. Adjust for the difference from car-jacking to friends, family and cronies, up to stupid white tourist.

 

Take also into account my age and the inability of the locals to learn even the most fundamental basics of my mother tongue. Under Queen Victoria there was none of that nonsense with the peasants. Just take the Chinese for example when the Brits fucked them over in the Opium Wars. They soon learnt what Chop-Chop meant. Now since the decline of that once great Empire, they think it means the speed of handouts.

 

IGNORE any stupid offers to have it delivered by drone within 24 years by the likes of Amazon dot whatever, after it has been approved by the Israeli Airforce.

 

Now I press enter and see what it comes up with…