Date: Wed, 10 Jan 2024 07:28:07 +0100 (CET)
From: Boris Chen <borischenaz@mailfence.com>
Subject: Captured chapter 16 (Revised)

Chapter 16. Daniel gets the last word.

Cyril Hammersly was a villain in this sad story, he was the Deputy District
Attorney who hid the evidence proving the innocence of Daniel Davis, my
best friend since high school. Not only did he know Daniel was innocent he
lied repeatedly in the court room to convict an innocent man. They were
trying to hide the fact that they botched the investigation and fabricated
a story to explain how an intoxicated cyclist wrecked his bicycle in a
heavy rain, crashed, and broke his skull on the curb. The man was riding in
a storm because he already lost his driver's license due to a history of
DUI convictions. Soon after his parole Daniel obtained enough money to hire
a private investigator to prove his innocence, a judge reviewed the case
and then Texas dropped the charges and released him from parole.

Two months after Dan's parole in Houston Cyril fell ill at home one day and
died of a sudden severe case of pneumonia and septicemia. Two months after
his burial his wife held a public memorial service near their home in
Austin, near the cemetery.

----

The day of the memorial service in Austin for Cyril Hammersly
arrived. Daniel told me he was driving up to Austin and staying one night
at a hotel and only bringing a tiny pepper sprayer for self defense, the
size of a roll of dimes. Cyril Hammersly, the guest of honor could not
attend because he was buried months ago. Dan still felt the need to get
even for his loss of freedom and reputation.

I had multiple honest conversations with Daniel about his plans. Many times
I tried to talk him out of going up to Austin to disturb a memorial service
but he was serious about doing it regardless of personal risk. He assured
me he would not touch anyone and his speech was three paragraphs long, it
should last less than thirty seconds. He said he wrote it on the computer
and edited it down and composed it to keep unfortunate truth to the very
end.

It was a long day full of anxiety for me with a close friend in serious
jeopardy; I kept the sat-phone powered-on because that was usually how he
called. I kept checking that it had signal sitting on the desk in my
office, even with two floors of leather factory above me. The lack of a
phone call from Daniel made me worried. The cheapest way to call me from
Texas is to call the sat-phone because it had a Washington DC phone number,
area code 202. I've been using a State Department owned Iridium satellite
phone for personal calls since it was issued to me and nobody has ever said
not to. I think State pays a flat monthly rate for overseas employees using
sat phones, so the bill is based on the number of users, not the number of
calls. I also assume all my sat calls are recorded and stored forever so we
have to be careful what was said. But then again I've heard all phone calls
in the USA are recorded by the NSA and stored forever regardless.

At home that evening Daniel emailed me and Jen and described what happened:

"I'll get to the point quickly. Yes, I went to the memorial service. His
wife was there and his brother and one of his elderly parents and a few
people from his office and some others but there were no kids. I think I
counted 17 people total, including the funeral home dude. Everyone got a
chance to stand at the front of the room and say something. I raised my
hand and was 4th to speak. The room was silent as I stepped up to the
microphone, nobody recognized me. We were supposed to introduce ourselves
but I forgot to do it and everyone was too polite to interrupt and ask.

"I knew Cyril, I met him in a court room. He was the DDA who sent me to
prison for felony DUI, hitting and killing a man on a bicycle at night in a
heavy rain storm, and they said I left the scene but was later caught in a
DUI checkpoint and arrested. The big problem was none of it happened, Cyril
fabricated all the evidence. And under Cyril's direction I was tried,
convicted with no evidence or witnesses. I was sentenced to prison for two
years despite the fact that I was over a mile away when the accident
happened. I was the only motorist they caught in the sobriety checkpoint so
they blamed me for everything, without evidence. It turned out the guy on
the bicycle was very drunk and rode his bicycle over a sewer cover, lost
control, flew over the handle bars and smashed his head on the curb, his
body and his bicycle never contacted any vehicles. The guy on the bicycle
lost his license for life after repeated DUI convictions and he was
completely responsible for his injuries."

"Cyril Hammersly had evidence that my car was never involved in hitting
anyone on a bicycle but kept that evidence locked in his desk to ensure I
was falsely convicted. I spent two years in a state prison on charges that
he fabricated to make himself look like a competent DDA. He was a liar and
an incompetent lawyer. He cared about himself and money more than anyone or
anything else on Earth."

"You all should be ashamed to admit you knew him because Cyril Hammersly
was a disgusting liar and just as guilty as many of the other people he
sent to prison. He also graduated dead last in his law class, in 2005 at
the University of Little Rock, and had to take the state bar exam three
times just to pass."

Then Daniel said he stepped over to the large framed portrait of Cyril on a
stand and spit on it and pointed at the face, rotated his middle finger
upwards and yelled "THE WORLD IS A BETTER PLACE NOW THAT YOU'RE DEAD!
FUCKING LOSER!" He said he marched proudly out of the building but hid
nearby to watch what happened. Moments after he left everyone else quickly
left too, his wife was in tears and was helped to a taxi by
relatives. Daniel drove to the cemetery and located his headstone. Using a
hammer he pounded on his name until it was no longer readable.

Then Dan chuckled and said he felt much better now that he got that off his
chest, he got his revenge.

I asked him why being dead wasn't good enough, but Dan said he wanted to
ruin his reputation with his family, and then he was done hating the guy
now that he had been erased from history. Although he never said it I
expect before he left the cemetery he also pissed on the headstone.

"So you never got busted for all that?" I asked.

"Nope."

"Well good for you. Now move on with your life."

Daniel angrily told me that was a fucked-up thing for me to say, "You
didn't waste two years in prison for something you didn't do," then he
paused briefly to calm down then went on: "Oh hey I got my new passport
finally. I can come to Africa if you'll have me." He said as sort of an
awkward request.

"Okay, we need to plan your trip. Please email Jen to get the details how
she buys tickets and what airlines to use. She's worked out the cheapest
and best flights from Austin."

"I'll do that."

"Email me when you're ready to set dates, okay? But don't buy tickets yet."

"Sure."

We had a few moments of silence, then I said, "Sorry if I upset you."

"It's all good Bro." He replied softly.

And then we got off the phone without actually saying good bye. The rest of
my week and the next two were routine. I had dates next month set aside for
flying the Ambassador to Ghana for the day. He's part of a regional group
to promote business and trade between the west coastal African nations and
North America, instead of China and Southeast Asia. Morocco is actually a
big producer of European brand cars for the African markets. The auto
factory is the single largest employer in the Tangier metro area. And Ghana
is slowly ramping up exports to the world and they're always looking for
new markets, which is what his meetings in Accra were usually about.

Most of the cars, vans, and SUVs built in Morocco are for the Dacia brand,
popular in Europe and Africa. I think the Ambassador likes the prestige of
arriving in Ghana in a private jet, but it's his decision to fly private
instead of commercial from Rabat to Accra. If he flew commercial it might
take a couple days due to infrequent commercial flights to those cities.

----

Days later I got an email from Jen about teaching Daniel how she flies to
Morocco. She said she lectured him about getting off the plane and walking
to the correct luggage carousel then out the nearest exit and that's where
I will be waiting. Dan laughed because he was actually the guy who invented
that rule amongst our circle of friends. His trip was two months away; I
reserved the dates and applied for time off work. She said she mailed her
itinerary from her last trip to Dan so he could fly the cheapest and most
direct way.

Jen explained that when scheduling a trip that crosses so many time zones
you really have to route it backwards. You start with your target
destination arrival time and day, and then schedule flights to connect to
the one before it. But always start with the last segment of the trip. She
said you don't want to arrive in Bumfuck Egypt only to discover all the
busses and taxis are shut down for the night and you have to hang out on a
steel bench outside the airport with the homeless beggars in a strange
land. I thought it was funny the way she said it, but that's my Jen. It's
no wonder why the snowflakes she works with can't stand her, but she
outranks all of `em!

That evening I was sitting on the sofa with the windows open listening to
the fog horns out on the strait, some of the freighters also have a very
distinct engine rumble, the sound carries rather far. I wonder if the RF
sniffer outside my window had a microphone, the INR should know about
that. It could become a way of fingerprinting ships day or night. US Navy
fingerprints all ships based on sound (sonar), but I doubt they did it
above the waves for non-military ships.

I got to thinking about Daniel visiting here. I could predict at least once
he would try to get his dick in my mouth by whatever means he could invent
on the fly. And he'd probably try more than once because the next best
thing to oral sex is oral sex twice!

He sent an email that day after he purchased his tickets.



You know my relationship with Daniel is tricky. I love him like a brother
but I am not in-love with him. I really liked his dick, I think it's a
technically perfect appendage. But he did nothing special to earn it other
than the luck of being born to decent parents whose DNA combined to give
him great looks, a fantastic body, and a flawless boner. He's almost seven
inches long and as thick as a genuine bratwurst. His rod is perfectly
straight and cut. His head is the perfect helmet shape and it's a bit wider
than the shaft so technically he'd be called a mushroom head. His head is
the same red color as his lips and his nipples, despite being half
Mexican. And if he's really horny and sober he can shoot semen nearly four
feet, and stay hard after an orgasm! His rod sticks out proudly erect like
the flagpole on the front of the library.

I suck his dick because I love the way it looks, feels, and tastes. I'd
probably make the same offer to whoever owned that specific dick. I think
Dan doesn't understand my feelings for him. I'm not in love with him, but I
love his dick! The rest of Dan's body is kind of average for a guy in his
30s. He's in good shape, he's fit and healthy, he has a decent sense of
humor, and he's pretty smart. I especially love his hair. Dan has that
thick black Hispanic hair that feels so nice to run my fingers into and
mess it around and grab a clump and pull gently on it. His hair feels so
thick and healthy it's very luscious just feeling it. I don't think he
likes or appreciates his hair at all. It makes me wonder what it must be
like growing up in rural Mexico or Japan where everyone everywhere has the
same thick black hair. And Dan's eyes are also black, they look like black
holes in his face that leave me wondering if he even has a soul because you
can't see his pupils. I find myself staring into his eyes, and then he
tells me to blink at least once an hour. He tells me I'm staring him down
but it's because I'm mesmerized by his eyes. Inappropriate eye contact is
another symptom of autism, it can mean not enough or too much eye contact
with people.

Something else I should say about Daniel and Hispanic men in general, if
you blow men from Japan, China, or Korea then come to the States and blow
men born to the Indian tribes like Apache, Hopi, Navajo, Maya, Aztec,
Polynesians, and others you start to notice that when you strip them naked
below the chin they all look the same. That is why I believe most of the
DNA of today's `Indians' crossed the Pacific on boats and settled western
North America and those brave men and women are the ancestors of today's
Indians and many of us. There was no `ice-free corridor' from Russia to
Canada during the last Ice Age, they sailed across because they settled the
Pacific Islands along the way and kept moving east. When-why did they cross
the ocean? I have no idea, but they did it for hundreds of years so it was
a big deal to them to keep expanding east, toward the rising sun.

As I mentioned before I also doubt the theory that human life started in
Africa. I believe humans originated on Australia (or New Guinea) and they
migrated west across Indonesia toward India and around the coast and into
Africa. Some of them moved north up the Red Sea and into the Mediterranean
Sea, then west across Africa, across the Atlantic, and settled the
Caribbean Islands and the coastline from southern Florida around to Yucatan
Mexico and down to Brazil. So the black skinned people from Jamaica and
Texas were the distant descendants of the Aboriginals of Australia. It's
just my theory, and it runs backwards from what they taught us in school
that humans first appeared in Africa. I mean if you think about it, DNA
cannot show if someone migrated eastbound or westbound. All they have is
fragments of skulls dug up in Africa but they have complete skulls found in
New Guinea and the only difference it makes is the migration story is the
same, just in the opposite direction. The entire story is just a theory
anyway, there is no concrete way to prove or disprove any of it.

When I watch the TV and an anthropologist says "Our ape like ancestors" I
always say to the TV, "Your ape like ancestors, mine were always human, not
apes." I think their theory of human evolution is mostly bullshit they wish
was true.

----

There was a bulletin issues by State about another group of people
organizing refugee boats crossing the Med and sailing to Spain where they
surrender to authorities and request asylum as a means of escaping poverty
in African nations. Most of the refugees came up to Oran on board the
freight train from Congo and Sudan. It appeared the same group was now
operating a boat lift and somehow the passengers mysteriously vanished
during the crossing. My mission was to sneak into Oran and investigate,
take photos of the ship and crew.

INR told me our long time CIA contact in Oran, the elderly lady Aafia is
retired now (living quietly in Canada), after her cover was blown to save
her life. But I was told there are some new contacts that might not have
the resources she had for recruiting helpers or equipment. But all I was
bringing into Oran would be my automatic pistol, 2 magazines, my knife, and
three spray cans of anthrax. He said I would be updated along the way over
my cell phone, which always worked in Oran. INR also reminded me they
probably had an arrest warrant for me in Algeria since I was no longer
welcome to enter their country. I decided to wear disguises and for my
safety I also decided to limit my time there to less than one week. I'd
leave home early in the morning and take the first AM train to Oran, a five
hour train ride. Luckily, the trains are in great condition and none of the
countries on this commuter line check passports. These commuter trains have
been running this way since the 1930s. Most of the passengers are little
old ladies who travel across the border to shop and visit relatives.

----

Needless to say I was scared and trembling. I applied skin color and facial
hair appliances: a heavy moustache and sideburns. I also added coloring to
my eyebrows and put colored contact lenses over my eyes to make them look
dark brown. I nearly looked like an Arab except the shape of my nose was
wrong, and so were my cheek bones.

I texted the people in my contact list and advised them not to contact me
for the next 7 days, I would explain later.

When my alarm clock rang at 4am I got up and took a mini shower, trying not
to get my face wet. After the shower I added more skin color to my neck and
upper chest and shoulders. I had my Arab clothing set out and grabbed a
black taxi to the train station, it's about one mile south of my
apartment. I wanted to get there before the train left because I needed to
get to Oran on time.

I tried to sleep on the train but couldn't because of the anxiety I felt
the entire way. So I sat there enjoying my sense of fear and kept my eyes
closed hoping those seated around me left me alone, I was posing as an Arab
but didn't speak the language.

The train arrived slightly late at the end of the line train station near
downtown Oran, in the oldest part of the city.

The train station like everything else in Oran has a French name, it's
called the Gare Centrale d'Oran. It is a white building with a tall clock
tower and a golden dome like a mosque. The station sits about one mile from
the waterfront in an area with lots of small hotels and places to shop and
eat. And it looks like a scene you'd expect to see in Cairo, lots of horns
honking, lots of pedestrians and people on scooters. It's a very busy area
which makes it a great place to disappear into the crowd if you are being
followed. That entire area looks like it was still 1935 outside. It looked
like an Indiana Jones movie set.

----

I decided to walk to the waterfront. In the distance off to my left I saw
the cargo cranes in the port for unloading containers, so I headed toward
the waterfront to the east. I was going to walk to the area where the INR
said they were loading refugees onto boats east of the actual
port. Supposedly, there is only one group of coyotes running the scams on
the unsuspecting refugees from central Africa.

INR told me this time they are using an old freighter and loading it over a
period of a few hours, as many people as possible who arrive on foot at the
waterfront pier with cash (Euros) in hand to pay for transit. The fare is
lower now, about $500 to cross per person and it includes food rations of
rice and soup (Halal). What I was told about an hour ago was some were
forced at gun point to jump into the sea without a life jacket or hope of
rescue. For more chaotic groups like women and children they welded a 12x12
steel compartment and filled it with refugees, telling them it's time to
eat. They are told this steel room is the elevator to take them down to the
dining hall. Then someone on the top deck opens two steel hull doors and a
steam powered ram pushes an entire wall quickly towards the
opening. Everyone in the room is bulldozed through the opening and falls
twenty feet into the sea. It happens fast so there's no time to
struggle. It is believed the greatest cause of death is hypothermia. The
ship keeps moving north and soon another group is loaded into the elevator,
the doors are opened and the process is repeated until all the passengers
are gone.



They unload a few hundred people (men, women, and children) all splashing
and screaming in the sea as the ship motors on at 11 knots. The goal is to
get them off the ship halfway across so no bodies wash-up on the beaches
and blow their cover story. They also have to check that there are no ships
nearby on radar when they start dumping passengers. Most will be dead
within 30 minutes due to the cold water, many drown because they cannot
swim, some are taken by sharks, and some slowly decay on the surface and
eventually sink to the bottom.

The armed crew rummages through their belongings for anything of value, the
rest gets tossed overboard. The walls of the top deck where all the
passengers wait after boarding are built up so they cannot see the water or
hear the screams as the people are shoved out the side of the
freighter. According to the INR, they have killed thousands of Africans
seeking asylum in Europe. About 85% of crossers are Muslim, the rest are
Christian but they all end up dying together. I've heard the scene on the
water is probably similar to what happened when the Titanic sunk.

Oran does nothing to stop them because they do not have any resources to
handle that many refugees. And each day another train arrives loaded with
hundreds of refugees. I wondered why they were running such an elaborate
scheme to get rid of these African people.

It took almost 45 minutes for me to arrive at the waterfront. But I saw no
signs of any kind of operation going on so I decided to walk west toward
the port. The ship I'm looking for is on the small side, maybe 200 feet
long and forty feet across at the middle. It has freight loading cranes and
two large hatches on each side for forklift loading. They probably load
passengers with a steel gangway like the oil tanker we crossed on several
times years ago.

By the time I got to the first pier it was 4:45pm. And for the first time
since I arrived I saw a group of black skinned people standing around on an
empty concrete pier. The pier had no signs or gates, it looked like a 300
foot long concrete fishing pier sticking out into the sea. I could see the
buildings and cranes from the port ahead on land, and the seawall around
the harbor out in the water. My guess was it was about two miles further
west down the coast.

In this area there's a 2-lane road running along the shore. The shoreline
is mostly rocky here with a few small areas of sand, but those are
tiny. Sometimes I saw kids playing on the rocks as the waves crashed. Nice
weather to play near the water but everyone seems to be aware of the shark
danger. I was walking west along the shore between the road and the
boulders along the waterfront. I wondered why the rocks were there. Many of
them looked like old chunks of coral reef that were dug out and dumped on
the shore to help protect it from storm erosion.

As the pier got closer I decided to keep a safe distance so when I was
about a quarter mile away I climbed onto the boulders and found a place to
sit and watched the crowd of mostly black skinned men wearing Djellabas,
like me. I took off my sandals and pulled up my skirt so an occasional wave
splash sprayed my feet, which felt nice but the water was cold. My guess
was the temperature here on the waterfront was in the upper 80s to low 90s
and the humidity was nearly the same number. The air felt heavy on my chest
because I was used to often dry desert air, even though I live a few
hundred feet from the beach, we rarely get wind from the north. Our winds
in Tangier often come down off the Atlas Mountains.

At my first count I saw about 50 people on the pier. The only obviously
female people numbered maybe six. And I saw a few children in the crowd
too. Looking out to see all the way across the horizon I saw nothing but
water and sky, not a single cloud to be seen all the way across.

After a while I managed to lean back and close my eyes and try to take a
short nap. There were cargo trucks running along the waterfront road, they
kept waking me up. The clock ticked off the minutes and the sun went down
and I stayed in that spot. Sometimes I was on my side, other times I was on
my back. The boulder I was on was rather well polished from millions of
years underwater, but it wasn't flat. I used my arm as a pillow and tried
to sleep. Nighttime arrived and the sky was beautiful with millions of
stars. There were no streetlights in this area so the night sky was
amazing. I wished Jen was here, she'd love this spot too. I pictured her
standing in ankle deep water, mostly naked doing her erotic belly dance to
some kind of Arabic music, a veil partly covering her face and eyes. I
started to get hard when I imagined myself pressing my face into her soft
lower belly and kissing her flesh. Then another one of those smoky cargo
trucks roared by and ruined my moment. Asshole!

As I pulled my hand out of my clothes I felt my thumb was slippery and wet
from the pre-come I sometimes profusely create. I've been told several
times I was a major producer of salty pre-come.

----

I napped off and on all night. From where I was I couldn't see the pier or
the people on the pier but I heard people talking all night. I bet a bunch
of them slept on the bare concrete pier overnight. I never saw where people
peed or shat. I also never saw any signs of food or water being handed out.

Around sunrise I noticed a cargo ship on the horizon headed toward
shore. As the sky got brighter I could see more detail and color. At the
same time I saw a fishing pole had washed up on the sand near me so I
grabbed it as a prop so I would fit-in on the pier, posing as a local just
fishing like the others seated along the pier with a line in the water.

And by the time the sun shone on the ground I saw the number of people on
the pier had swelled overnight. I'm not good at estimating crowd size but I
felt it was at least 300 people on the pier now. Across the street I saw a
few dozen more in line at a food truck that also appeared overnight.

Author's note: Alex later learned many refugees exited the Sahara Train in
Oran and spent the night in a public shelter near the train station then
walked to the city pier early in the morning, a 1 mile hike on city
streets.

With my fishing pole in hand I climbed off the boulders and walked toward
the pier. The closer I got I could tell the crowd was much bigger than I
witnessed earlier, it could easily be 500 people of all ages. The biggest
majority were male but I saw maybe 30-40 children. Out to sea the ship
slowly approached, heading toward this pier. I guessed near the pier they
would turn around and back into position and use ropes to position the ship
for boarding. I was tempted to warn the people what might happen but it
would blow my cover and I was sure someone would call the cops and I'd
become a political prisoner in Algeria. I was here to gather intel, not to
stop the operation. I took photos of it as it slowly moved closer.

Down at the pier I walked through the crowd with my fishing pole over my
shoulder so it was fully visible all the way to the end where others were
sitting on empty plastic 5-gallon buckets trying to catch lunch. Most of
those fishing were elderly men and women, and most looked like Arabs. I saw
no animosity or conflict between the locals and the refugees. I even saw
they had a squat toilet in the open installed in the pier, it dumped
directly into the water and had no privacy.

Standing at the end of the pier I looked down but couldn't see bottom since
the sun was too low. Out to sea the ship was close enough I could almost
see the name painted on both sides of the bow. I'd say it was 2 miles out
now. It flew a flag but I didn't recognize the country.

People began to crowd near the end of the pier where someone set up a table
to sell tickets. At the far end of the pier people were selling hot snacks
in paper cups. There were empty cups blowing all over the pier since they
had no trash cans to collect waste. I saw some men pissing off the pier
where there was nobody fishing.

I smiled and nodded at several people, the crowd on the pier seemed very
excited to be leaving Africa, they were actually already off the land and
over the water while standing on the pier, and so just being in line to
board was almost as exciting as being on the ship itself headed for Spain.

----

Out to sea the ship came to a stop and began a turnabout procedure. Slowly,
the freighter turned itself around and began to carefully drift backward
toward the pier. Slowly, foot by foot they drifted closer and by the time
someone could catch a rope on the pier they were about 60 feet away. People
caught two ropes and ran them through giant cleats on the pier and used big
iron cranks to winch the ship against the pier cushions. They used two
cranes on board to place their own gangway stairs and with a blast of the
horn the crowd cheered and the ticket sales table was open for
business. Cash was the only form of payment accepted, Euros was the only
currency accepted. Each bill was carefully examined first.

I witnessed a few skirmishes between anxious people standing in line,
someone cut in line or tried to sneak ahead and a couple minor fights broke
out, that caused some women to start screaming loudly but overall the
fights attracted little attention.

I moved to a spot a little closer to the ticket sales table and carefully
took several pictures and video to try to capture faces of the people
taking the cash and speaking to the passengers. I also took photos of the
ship, including the name and registration ID plate on the side of the
hull. The ship was flagged and registered in Libya. I sent encrypted texts
with some of the photos attached to my contact at the INR, which is just
another 202 area code phone number in Washington DC.

By 1pm Oran-time the line was down to less than 50 people and the ship
blasted its huge steam horn warning they were going to depart soon. On
board the ship everyone located mats for them and their family so they
could sleep together, and hopefully stay warm. The top deck was open to the
sky and the sides were built-up so they could not see the sea, just the
sky.

Everyone getting on board looked happy to be minutes away from finally
escaping Africa for the Promised Land. I started to wonder who told them
Europe was the Promised Land and the best way to get there was this
ship. Because from what I knew, and I could be wrong but in 23 hours all
these people will be dead.

Anyone who struggled was beat and shoved overboard with serious
injuries. There is no place on-board to hide, they are all unarmed since
they are wanded for metal before going up the steps to the ship. Any knives
or other weapons are simply tossed overboard on the spot. We also heard
that on the first night at sea they actually start tossing troublemakers
over the side, anyone they catch alone after bedtime goes over the side if
nobody else sees. That first night they are fed rice and tea and sleep on
thin rubber mats on the top steel deck with no shelter from the
weather. The top deck is like a prison yard with squat toilets that drain
over the side and no view of the sea. They are told the sides were raised
to protect them from the ocean spray, but it's to prevent them from seeing
or hearing people being pushed off the ship.



After the main event they inspect the ship for anyone they missed and turn
around and slowly motor back to Oran for another load. They arrive by the
train load like prisoners arriving at prison camps in Poland. I texted INR
that I estimated they had a crew of 10 to 12 and most of them were armed
with automatic weapons, but those were only on display once land was no
longer visible from shipboard.

I found the entire scene bizarre and sickening but there was nothing I
could do. I had no idea what language these poor people spoke or who lied
to them about this being the best path to freedom, but I didn't speak their
language. I hoped I might bump into some of them speaking English or
Spanish but my odds were low.

One thing that surprised me was not hearing anyone speaking English or
Spanish in this huge line of African people.

This entire situation really pissed me off and I was considering accepting
any mission to sink this ship as soon as I could, but I wasn't sure how to
do it. Explosives is the only way I know to sink a ship at sea, but I don't
have any or the means to get it on board. Maybe it would be a good idea to
fly a plane over the ship once they shoved almost everyone over the side so
they had photographic evidence of the genocide: the ship's wake and
hundreds of bodies in the water, in a line that stretched five miles across
the Mediterannean Sea.

----

I slowly walked along the line of people listening closely to people talk
and noticing how they were dressed. I saw a rather large family, all
fancily dressed nearly the same. It looked like three generations, a family
of 10! They had an entire herd of children. One skinny young man looked to
be in his mid teens, we made eye contact and I smiled and nodded, he waved
and spoke.

"Oy Maytey!" He said showing off his brilliant white teeth. He looked to be
about 5'6" maybe a little taller than Octavio's oldest grandson Hadi. I
slowed and complimented his colonial British English; the young man nodded
and asked me where he might urinate. I smiled and gestured at the edge of
the pier but the boy blushed and nodded no. The rest of his family were
engaged in loud excited conversation, so I grabbed his skinny bare arm and
pulled him out of line to the edge of the pier and spread wide my Djellaba
and told him he was safe, so he reached in his clothes and then I heard him
moan as his piss started hitting the salt water 15 feet below us. With some
kind of British Colonial accent he said he already felt better but the piss
kept flowing. I told him my name was Ahley. He said his name was Joachim,
but everyone called him Joe. He still pissed, I think he'd soon reached a
half a gallon emptied and was still going.

I turned to look at his family but none of them noticed his departure so I
told him to put it away we gotta go. I held onto his skinny boyish elbow
tightly and walked him like a prisoner off the pier toward the street, then
we turned away from the crowd and I walked him fast. When we got far enough
away that his family couldn't see us I stopped and spoke urgently to him.

"Listen Joe, if you get on board that ship you'll be dead in 24 hours, it's
a death ship they push everyone into the sea halfway across, your family,
everyone dies. They're never going to reach Europe, it's is a killing
ship. You can come with me, I'll smuggle you to safety in Morocco if you
want, or you can go back and die with your family tomorrow. The choice is
yours. I was going to ask him how long could he swim in 68 degree water but
decided wait for him to decide first.

The young man was so wide eyed he didn't know what to do except cry. He
asked if I was kidding and I nodded no, this ship was paid for by an
international group to prevent Muslim migrants coming from Africa. He asked
me why.

"Because they have a lot of money and a lot of hate and they love killing
people and children, it's their sick religion; it's too complicated to
explain here. You gotta choose: Ship of Death and die in the ocean tomorrow
with your family or go with me to Morocco, I'll help you live but you gotta
work hard and be willing to sacrifice too.

He ran his hand over his face and forehead and took off his matching
African tribal hat, tossed it on the ground and looked me for several
seconds straight in the eyes and proclaimed, "Let's go!"

I grabbed his elbow again but gently this time and walked him across the
street and disappeared into the city. Our destination was the downtown
train station. Along the way I found a small men's clothing store with a
manikin outside dressed in a men's Djellaba (jah-LAB-ah), I rushed Joe
inside and paid for one in his size, then I lifted his tribal gown (with
gold threads) to look at his shoes and they were very ornate (almost
Tibetan looking) and bright so I purchased sandals like mine, made of old
car tire tread. They were two bucks and came with a spare pack of goat
leather straps for when his broke. Every poor person in Algeria wore car
tire sandals and carried extra straps too.

After paying and cutting off the tags I escorted him into the dressing room
and told him to take his clothes off. While he undressed I asked how old he
was and Joe said he just turned 15. I asked what religion he was and he
said Christian. I asked if he had any diseases and he said no, he was very
healthy and had shots for malaria and yellow fever, he said he never
catches anything. I told him I was bisexual and asked if he knew what that
meant and Joe said basically it meant I would sleep with anyone. I told him
that was essentially true but never had much sex in my life, but I enjoyed
it with good friends. I asked if he had a problem with that and he said he
didn't care. He said he was not a virgin and wanted to know if I felt any
desires for him and I said no. He asked if it was because he was black and
I said no, I don't know you, I don't care what color your skin is.

Joe was one of those very dark black skinned Africans. He had thick lips
and large eyes that really looked nice, he had wide bushy eyebrows, but
below his ears he was hairless. He had a few curls of pubes in his arm pits
and a few above his dick but otherwise he was nearly bald except a thick
head of closely packed African curly hair. He even took off his burgundy
red brief underwear but I told him to put them back on for now. While he
did that I couldn't take my eyes off his belly button and his limp dick and
balls.

I told him I had autism and he said he heard the name but didn't know what
it meant so I told him I'd explain later.

We left his fancy African tribal garb in the trash along with his dress
boots and left the store. Back out on the street we walked like two local
boys (dressed nearly the same) toward the train station in downtown Oran. I
kept trying to get him to walk faster but I think my pace was faster than
his, maybe because my legs were longer. Joe was about five inches shorter
than me.

We stopped again and purchased a gallon jug of cold drinking water and a
pack of gum. We passed the gallon back and forth and drank the entire
thing. We got to a very busy street at a traffic light and had to wait for
the light to change, Joe told me he had to piss again so we crossed with
the light and down the block and into an alley. I stood beside him to give
him cover and he pissed on the side of a building and like the last time he
seemed to pee half a gallon. We laughed as the piss formed a small stream
that ran between his feet toward the center of the alley. Since he was
stuck in that spot for a while I pulled mine out and peed on the same
spot. I kept looking down at the head of his dick and then at him. He was
looking down at both of them and then in my eyes, I smiled and told him,
`nice dick' and he smiled and said `same to you.' While we were standing in
the alley I told him I was wearing a disguise, my facial hair was all fake
and so was my skin color. He laughed loudly at the idea and said it was
just like in the movies.

We got back to the sidewalk and kept moving quickly. About 20 minutes later
we arrived at the train station. I texted INR that I rescued the only
English speaking person I met in the line to board the ship, he was coming
back to Morocco with me. Ten minutes after the text my cell rang and I
answered it then handed Joe the cell so he could explain his identity to
the lady on the phone in Washington. He handed the phone back and I ended
the call.

"Who was that on the line?" Joe asked.

"It was someone in the State Department in Washington DC. She'll work on
getting you to the US legally." He smiled and said "Awesome!" I knew his
attitude would soon turn sour when he started to realize he'd seen the last
of his huge family and they were all about to die together. In fact I'm not
sure the importance of what we were doing really clicked in his head yet
because I saw little emotion.

I purchased two adult train tickets with cash and learned the next train to
Tangier was due in one hour, so we walked out onto the platform and sat on
a hard steel bench. I asked about his family and he said it was a long
story but he didn't get along with his parents because he struggled in
school and didn't want to go to medical school, he wanted to be an artist
or maybe to work with animals. They offered to send him to trade school to
become a carpenter but he said he wanted to paint flowers and nature and
they were furious. That happened two days before they left on the train for
Oran. But he said his father always seemed disappointed that he wasn't the
man his father expected him to be, like his four brothers.

When I asked if he might be gay too he said he knew very little about sex,
then he repeated: very little! "My parents did not allow me to have
friends." I asked why and Joe said they felt it was a privilege he hadn't
earned at home. I asked what his parents did for a living and Joe told me
his mother had a nail shop and his father was a bookkeeper for a few
businesses and the local Witness church.

"Ahh, that's where you learned English?"

"Yes, the church was run by two couples from England, they taught English
at night school, so I went since it was the only reason I was allowed to
leave the house. They had milk cows in the barn behind our church so we
always got cheap fresh milk. I loved taking care of them too. I made
sketches in the barn because technically I was at church and my parents
allowed that."

"Oh man!"

We sat there in silence for a long time. Then I told Joe he could be my
friend if he wanted. And Joe replied "I think I am already!" We laughed and
he mumbled, "Nobody ever tried to save my life before. Are you sure about
that boat killing everyone on board?"

I told him yes, I worked for the US Government, I was assigned to come to
Oran and identify the crew. I took pictures of the crew and the ship. Based
on what I learned I expect that ship will be on the bottom of the sea
within the next few weeks.

Just to be honest I also told Joe I didn't practice a religion but I
believed God exists and designed all living creatures.

I asked Joe how he lost his virginity and he said he was outside in the
brush with a group of neighborhood boys and one of them brought a girl, she
was drunk and let each boy screw her so she got down on the ground and they
all took turns doing her beside a small camp fire in front of all the boys
in the neighborhood. He said he had no idea what to do, she had to steer it
for him, but he orgasmed inside her and pulled out and put his clothes back
on. His friends cheered him on while he was humping her. He said he was not
proud of what he did but he was glad he didn't catch HIV.

He said he had blood streaks on his underwear that his mother saw in the
laundry and he confessed what happened so she took him to the doctor for
testing but he was negative. I told him a little about Jennifer and Daniel
and he said she sounded like a nice person. He said he's only seen red hair
in movies.

I asked him what God put him on Earth to do and Joe said he was here to
make art that was pleasing to the eye of God. He said his father nearly
disowned him over that because good African boys don't do such things. He
said he was beat several times for not being a proper boy. He also admitted
he'd been raped by boys in the brush before, it was part of life in their
tiny town in Congo.

We talked a lot getting to know each other and eventually a very bright
light appeared in the distance way down the train tracks, he gestured
toward it and I told him that was probably our ride. When we get on board
it would be best if he let me do the talking. I would identify him as my
cousin Joe and we were returning to our home in Tangier, let me do all the
talking, okay? He nodded yes. Then I told him I was heavily armed and would
protect him.

----

We boarded the train and got seats facing forward. I could tell he was
scared when the conductor approached to punch our tickets, I actually
considered leaning over and kissing him while handing the conductor our
tickets, since the conductor was probably an Arab he would be disgusted,
punch the tickets and move on to the next seat. So that is exactly what I
did, but seconds before I whispered to Joe to just go along, and I held up
our tickets and leaned the other way and lip locked with Joe and lip kissed
him (no open mouth and no tongue) and I felt the tickets pulled from my
fingers, I heard the punch work then he slipped the tickets back between my
fingers and moved on to the next passengers.

I slowly pulled off Joe and he looked at me and sighed deeply! Then I
leaned over and whispered, "I wanted to stop the conductor from asking
about who you were." Joe said it worked great. I apologized for not warning
him first. He reached up and wiped his mouth and told me it was okay. I
could tell he was embarrassed and a little uncomfortable. I think that was
not his first kiss from a male. His lips were large like most Africans and
they felt wonderful against mine.

I looked down at his crotch but his clothes were too loose to see
anything. He never commented about it after that. But the train soon left
the station heading back toward Tangier. I told him we'd arrive about 5am
tomorrow, it was a 5-6 hour ride. Then I pointed out the bathroom.

I asked if he was hungry but he said no and he pulled out the pack of
Trident gum and said he had gum to chew on. I told him they turn off the
lights inside train about the time it left the last station at the edge of
Oran.

It took ten minutes to reach the station at the western outskirts of Oran,
after that there were two quick stops in Algeria then you crossed into
Morocco and there are two small towns with stops then the last stop is
Tangier. After the last Oran station they shut off the lights in our
passenger car. The car was probably 80% full, mostly of old ladies with
shopping bags. Luckily on this car there were no crying babies.

After lights out he said he had to pee so I kept an eye on him as he
carefully got out in the aisle and walked to the end of the car and went
inside the lavatory. It's tricky to use a train toilet because everything
is rocking side to side. You have to lean against the wall then pee.

----

We both woke up at every station when they turned on the lights. A few
people got off and a few got on even though it was in the middle of the
night. We made it to Tangier at 5am and walked out of the station, I texted
INR my location and status. They texted back that my young friend had no
criminal or political history, he was just an average unknown African kid
with no history, and his parents had no history either. They also said they
were watching the ship but the info we sent was valuable and they now know
who owns it and who funds the killing operation. It turned out the guy
selling tickets to board was the captain, so they had his photo and already
ID'd him.

On the long walk from the train station to my apartment I realized I had no
clue what I was doin with this African teenage boy; I couldn't keep him as
a pet! But I felt compelled to try to save his life, it was the right thing
to do. I already saved his life but I couldn't just abandon him in another
country and tell him he was on his own. To be honest I sort of felt some
higher power wanted me to do this but I had no idea where we were headed. I
wondered if they asked about his parents when INR spoke to him on the
phone.

"We're almost home." I told Joe.

He said he "...needed to lie down and relax his back for a while, ... stiff
from all that sitting."

Back at the apartment he said my place looked nice, he checked out the
faucets and was amazed with hot and cold water from the same faucet. He
noticed my lack of a TV and I told him I used the computer, but he only
used the ones in school.

So one of my first lessons was: what is a personal computer, what is the
internet, internet safety and security, email, and media online. He asked
if I had a bible and I told him I might have one in a box under the bed or
sofa, I'll look tomorrow. And the next thing I knew was he was in tears on
the sofa, so I quickly offered him tissues and got the boxes out and found
my old King James edition and handed it to him. Joe hugged it and said it
was the best book he ever read.

I also found it necessary to teach him how to curse in English and sex
slang and language differences between Congo and Morocco.

Joe told me a little about himself. He was born in a rural farm community
near the north outskirts of Braazaville, Congo, he was considered
Protestant/Christian and his race was Bakongo, it was like a tribal thing,
like being born Navajo, it was one flavor of being an Indian. He touched
his fingers to his cheeks on his puffy cheeks and said Bakongo have big
cheek bones, like his. He smiled at me to show off his bulging cheek
bones. He was born on the farm in July, 2002 but didn't know the date. At
least he knew his parents names and the names of his nine siblings.

When he said he was born on the farm that means his mom was working in the
fields on the day he was born. She felt the contractions start and when he
got close she walked over to a fence post and held-on and the baby dropped
out onto the dirt and she cleaned him by hand and carried him in her
clothing the rest of the work day. That was how Joe was born back before
his mom found a job in town doing nails at a salon. He said his family
worked two acres of potatoes. He said he was the youngest, the last child
born. His mom was 45 the day he was born, during the potato harvest.

We walked to the store and bought stuff for a few meals and went back home,
he said he was not allowed in the kitchen at home, so I start teaching him
kitchen basics.

How to boil water on the stove.

How to make minute rice, instant potatoes, fry an egg, make and butter
toast, make a simple sandwich, how to wash dishes and pots, and how to
operate the oven and the microwave, and how it worked using radio waves to
heat food. I also taught him how to use the coin-op washer and dryer. How
to clean the toilet, sink, and shower. All it took was one lesson and he
understood and remembered what I said. My guess was Joe was well above
average IQ but he lacked a lot of information.

He seemed to be a really decent kid, he wasn't embarrassed about nudity at
all, his or mine. But he was sort of fascinated by my pale white flesh and
wanted to feel my shoulders, chest, and arms. I told him I was totally
unfamiliar with African hair so we spent time playing with his hair and he
had me shampoo his hair in the shower. I was surprised by how much it
compresses down and teased up. He said he'd never seen a circumcised penis
before, so we closely examined mine and I told him it was usually done on
your first or second day of life and babies really never felt it and it was
done with different steel devices, the most common were interlocking steel
rings. He pointed out that his erection was much larger than mine. So I
told him my erection was much more experienced than his!

In the bathroom we discussed bodies and I pointed out his nipples were tiny
and mine were much bigger and very sensitive, I tried to tell him if you
rubbed my tits I could actually feel it as if my dick was being touched but
he didn't understand how that could happen. I cleaned his shallow cup of a
belly button. His belly flesh was hairless and super soft but very dark
black. His skin in places was very oily, especially his face. I took a wad
of toilet paper and wiped his forehead and found it came up with dark brown
smears, he said that was skin pigment, not dirt. He said African skin was
heavily pigmented and it constantly leaked out to protect them from
sunlight, like natural suntan lotion. I told him it was amazing how soft
his flesh felt all over his body.

He let me turn him around and rub my hand over his naked buttocks and as a
joke I scolded him that he should be ashamed to walk around with butt
cheeks that felt as soft as an infant, he laughed loudly and said he never
got in trouble before for being too soft.

----

That evening I called Jennifer and introduced her to Joe over the speaker
phone, and told her the story. I asked if she had any advice what would be
best for Joe and she said she would call me back, but she heard of a group
in Oklahoma because they beg for money on TV in Austin all the time. Maybe
it was called African Children International, they have a farm school and
cattle ranch north of Tulsa. It's a Christian trade school, K to 12, with
college scholarships and residences. I asked Joe if he wanted to be a
cowboy and he shouted YES! he loved animals. She said she would call them
tomorrow. They're north of Tulsa on 106th Street at Sheridan Road.

The school makes money raising steer for the beef they sell as grass fed
organic all across the country. They breed and raise, graze, and do
veterinary care of the herd on a 300 acre ranch. All the work is done by
the resident students, all of them are from Africa and they usually have a
resident population of 60 boys from age 8 to 22. Many go on to college and
some even return to Africa once their education is complete but they all
have the option to become US citizens. Joe told me they got tornadoes in
Congo too during the monsoon, but they were rare. I warned him they get
huge killer tornadoes in Oklahoma, he comment was `Meh.' But he grew up in
a village that dealt with wild elephants, man eating tigers, and vampire
bats the size of eagles.

We spent hours teaching him how to curse-out people in American English so
he survived his next life in the states better. We practiced new sayings:

That's your dick?

Blow me!

You kiss your mom with that mouth?

Up yours! (Blazing Saddles)

Kiss my ass!

Grow Up!

Get off my back.

We shared the wine glass and had a great time. But getting a teenager drunk
was probably not a good idea.

----

That evening I showed him photos of Jen and Daniel and we talked about his
life while we sat on the sofa in our underwear with the windows wide
open. Joe said his family was middle class, they owned an old ranch house
and part of it had dirt floors. They had an outhouse and bathed in a tank
outside by the water pump, driven by a small windmill. They had some
electrical service but it wasn't on all day, just at times like 7pm to 10pm
and 5am to 7am daily. His father had an old truck and drove his mother to
work seven days a week.

He said his siblings were all about a year apart in age so his oldest
brother was 28, he was the youngest child. But they all came together to
make the trip to Spain. I told him it was highly likely they were all dead
by now. He asked how it happened and I told him information about the
freighter but didn't say it was top secret, since he had nobody to tell. I
said they pushed everyone on the ship off the side with a mechanical wall,
steam powered thing that pushed them out a cargo door on the side of the
ship. I said they got pushed out and fell into the water and watched as the
ship sailed away. I said a few might get sucked into the propeller since
the ship ran kind of high and often just the very top of the prop was above
the water if the seas were calm. That story made him start to cry a bit, so
I reached over and rubbed his silky soft back. His flesh felt extremely
soft, maybe because he was totally hairless.

After he calmed down I turned him sideways and he got on his back with his
head on my lap. I rested my hand on his chest and continued comforting
him. Joe had tiny black nipples, at a glance they were impossible to see
(in the dark) but I felt the tiny bumps. His belly button was a small round
cup with creases in the bottom, but his flesh was extremely soft. He never
tried to stop me from feeling his body.

We changed the subject to school and friends and he talked endlessly about
soccer and art class and going off by himself on Sundays to sketch scenes
in the brush near home. He said you had to be careful where they lived
because there were wild cats that escaped from the game reservation. When I
asked what he'd like to do in life in the future he said he wanted to go to
art school and maybe teach kids how to make beautiful drawings.

I asked him if it bothered him, my hand on his body and he said it felt
nice. So I reached down and outside his burgundy red briefs I rested my
hand on his limp dick and balls and gently cupped them but he never did
anything and never changed the way he was talking, so I left my hand there
for a while. I noticed he started to get slightly hard. He reached down and
adjusted it so it pointed toward his hip, then we kept talking. I took that
as sort of a go-ahead.

We started talking about sex and I told him about Patrik and the party in
Cabo Negro. He said it sounded great and by then he was fully hard. It
amazed me that his dick went from rather small to rather large so
quickly. I mean he was probably nine inches long and oozing as I described
in detail how I performed with Patrik's boner on the pool stairs in front
of a large audience, in broad daylight. In fairly short order he had a
puddle of pre-come below the head of his dick. Joe said he never got dick
attention like that in his life, but he fucked a girl once.

After that story I got up and got paper towels and dried him off and the
wet spot on the sofa too. He said he needed to wank soon or his balls might
explode so he went in the bathroom and wanked standing in the shower, I
heard him grunt and the spurts land on the bath tub floor. He walked out
with a smile and a wet spot on his underwear. I applauded and he turned red
faced.

That evening Joe slept on the sofa and I slept in bed, I told him I was
going to wank too but he seemed disinterested.

----

The next day I got a call from Jennifer, she talked to the ranch school in
Oklahoma and they said they would gladly accept Joe but we had to fly him
to Tulsa, she said they said they never turn away African kids, even if
they are at capacity and mid-semester.

I got a call from the INR that they were tracking the cargo ship and late
this morning they did a slow turn around in a five mile wide circle and
were slowly headed back to Oran. I asked what would be done about it and
they said they'll sink it soon, a small US Naval helicopter was en-route
from Italy to intercept it with a small air-dropped torpedo. The crew would
never see it coming, just a sudden explosion and the ship would sink
quickly, probably within sight of bodies floating on the water. The ship's
crew would be welcome to join them.

I emailed Jen and asked her to buy us a USA burner phone at Walmart and UPS
overnight it to me for Joe. We also authorized a temporary passport using
his actual name and the address of the facility in Tulsa. We researched
more online about the camp and watched videos on youtube and he agreed to
go, but said he'd stay with me if he could, but I said I was gone too often
and the police in Tangier would eventually arrest him and send him back to
Congo. I told him I loved him and wished he could stay but he'd end up in
police custody and back in Congo again.

----

Two days later I got notice from State that a temp passport was enroute. We
spent the time close together, he stayed by my side every minute of the
day. At work he spent his day on the sofa or nearby outside sketching
things on paper with pencils. I had to buy a sharpener for him.

He sketched the entire front of the building my office was in. It included
the leather store, my office, the US flag in the window, the two floors
upstairs, and the street vendors who sold produce and other edible things
on the wide sidewalk in front of this building. It took him six hours to
make that one sketch and I told him I would frame it and keep it on the
wall in the office. I made him sign it too.

Since it went so well, every day we showered together, meaning we took
turns but he sat on the toilet and we talked while I showered, then it was
his turn and I stayed in the room while he showered. He wanted me to stay
nearby all the time. I think I was about the first person to show him
respect and affection, the first adult that valued his thoughts and showed
respect and he devoured that kind of attention. Every day he had me get in
the tub and shampoo his hair for him, then rinse, dry, and comb it out.

He told me in rural Congo lots of villages lived with no clothes. It was so
hot and humid you couldn't wear clothes so that's why it was his nature to
be naked at home. I complimented him on his dick and he told me that was
the tenth time I said it, so I apologized and explained in US culture
nudity was not normal so I was a little awkward due to a lack of
experience. He might find nudity was a little bit against the rules in
Tulsa and he said he'd adapt to whatever the rules were.

I tried to explain to him about the USA with a federal, state, county, and
local government but he said it sounded weird and confusing. He said he
never voted but his father did, but you often had no choice since anyone
running against the incumbent was often found dead.

That evening at shower time he went first, I sat on the toilet. This time
he decided to wank with me watching. He spurt all over the floor of the tub
then turned on the water and pulled the curtain across. I was rock hard
watching him perform, but to him it was just like all the boys did in the
brush back at home, they all did it together a few times a week but he said
it wasn't a sexual thing, just a way to relax and reinforce community
bonds.

His passport finally arrived at my office and I purchased airline tickets
for him: Tangier to Madrid to Atlanta to Dallas to Tulsa, $2100. I paid for
it out of my own pocket. And that evening we went clothes shopping for a
few things and ran them through the wash machine and dryer in the building
next door. Like me Joe actually started to like wearing a Djellaba.

The next morning we rode to the airport and sat outside the security area
eating. On a TV in the terminal I saw a news story that a cargo ship sunk
on the Mediterranean Sea yesterday, all the crew was lost, it was
registered in Tunisia, no spokesmen were available for comment. I pointed
the TV out to Joe and told him that was the ship he almost got on but he
had nothing to say, just a solemn straight face and some tears.

One hour later we reviewed his entire trip, which I printed on a sheet of
paper, he had his tickets, his boarding pass, his passport, his clothes in
a backpack, his charged but powered off cell phone, with my cell number,
the sat-phone number, my bible, and Jen's number already programmed in. The
camp people had his arrival flight and time and would meet him at baggage
claim in Tulsa. I gave him five US twenty dollar bills for food and drinks
and we hugged and we even kissed (no tongue) and he stepped into the
security line and I stood and watched until he passed the machines and
began the walk to his departure gate. I never met his parents but I must
say Joe was a really good kid. I hope he did well in America.

It took days until I got Joe out of my head 24 hours a day. I wished I
could see him a couple years from now, wearing a cowboy hat, on horseback
in Oklahoma rounding up the cattle, chasing off a group of coyotes with a
broad relaxed smile on his face. He was the fourth boy I rescued and it was
super rewarding. Sometimes I cried thinking about all of them. The one kid
I cried for the most was little Naji Hassan, now Naji Bustamante. I wished
I could have him come down every year at Christmas to visit for a few
days. Naji should be old enough to register to vote soon.



Contact the author: borischenaz mailfence