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 5th 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…)
No comments:
Post a Comment