As a younger man I did missionary work. Loved it. I still love the idea of it. But a sad part of growing up is sometimes good men have to know better. I broke my soles in on Guatemalan soil doing missionary work. Yes, it’s true. Three tours. Three weeks. Not much to give, but it was enough. On my first tour I was young, unenlightened. On my second, I was wrestling with what we used to call the Awakening Process. Pre TRS relics will know what this is, for the young and younger it’s a nicer way of saying “red pill.” My third trip was one of the last nails in the coffin and the permission slip I gave myself.
A word of warning; memes do not do the Third-World justice, and in this writeup I shall be honest. What you do with that honesty is in the purview of your own prerogative.
The Guatemalan aeroport was not unlike the one I had left behind in my turnover in Texas. The aeroport had been built by Americans during the Banana Republic fiascos. This would become a theme, a leitmotif if you like. It was full of mush-mouthed racial strangers, loud, expansive, ominous and haunted by entirely too much daylight revealing each and every stain. Just like Texas, which by all accounts had been reconquistaed as the Mexicanos had promised. Leaving the curious mixture of agoraphobic and claustrophobic confines I was greeted first by the smell. A wash of what can best be described as open air sewage curled the hairs of my nostrils. Between the sudden smell of human detritus and the blinding jungle sun, my senses were overwhelmed. Being a good boy, I stiffened my lip and put on my best poker face. We were ushered onto a bus. The chicken bus. So called because the way one stands, acked like, well, chickens. As we wove in and out of traffick like a band of roving psychopaths, horns blaring, hands waving, it occurred to me… the streets about looked like any American city. Leitmotif. Americans built them during the Banana Republics.
Everything was in a state of decay. The roads were more of a whisper. Segments of faded tar stretched over perpendicular tracts of grit and gravel. These were flanked by endless brick and mortar shops, replete with busted windows – some of which were even boarded! Their construction was not unlike what I recall seing in Florida, albeit with more brick and fewer actual Hispanics overall. The streets seemed curiously empty. Why? Most of the shoppes were closed. The people had withdrawn to “other” sectors. Here I began to come to terms with the meaning of the leitmotif. When the Banana Republics were dissolved and the Americans withdrew, the Guatemalans did not keep the infrastructure. What a mystery. How exciting. Adventure. When the chicken bus slowed to a crawl that allowed me to see better, I noticed that the streets were absolutely covered in litter. And sadly I forget, but they were overwhelmingly covered by the Guatemalan national equivalent of cheetos. Cheetomalan bags. Everywhere. I watched, and sure enough, the few Amerindians walking freely threw their trash about. The answer? There used to be infrastructure. When? Banana Republic. Another thing that was hard to ignore was that there was no national costume. The few Injuns about wore run-of-the-mill American garb from decades past. The cars were the same question. It was like I had entered an episode of the unfortunate Twilight Zone sequal series in which I had returned to the most congested of childhood memories only to find that all the people in it had been replaced by Injuns.
Finally after what seemed to be a stinking, trash encrusted eternity, we came to the end of Guatemala City and the chicken bus. A curious thing happened, were it not for the stench of inferior petrol, there would have been fresh air. I chanced a glance back at the hulking husk of the city. I hadn’t noticed it before, but there above the city was a visible falling cloud of smog – ominous and depressing. I quietly wondered how many weeks of life expectancy that cloud, a mixture of failed industry and literal vapourised shit, had just cost me. What a wicked thought, how rude, to judge a people so crassly. It was a weak reprimand upon my psyche, because in my soul I knew it was not true. Still. Now the real adventure could begin! Real alien wilderness! And how alien it was. As the people were, so were the plants; strange, wild looking, and unhealthy, and sparse. A vast tract of unarable soil saw us to our destination, a remote village in the shadow of a dormant volcano. What shocked me was the absolute lack of suggestion that a civilisation could have ever arisen here. And, without the Banana Republic’s ghost, there would have been less. Finally we came to our destination, having passed several small enclaves of peasants. Each of these peasant enclaves lived in shacks made from corrogated tin sheets, the kind Americans typically used to roof coops. It was like I had walked into a bunch of random encounters from Fallout 1. All I had to do was wait for Frank Horrigan to come shoot me. He didn’t. The shocking thing I noticed was that towering over every post-apocalyptic ramshackle village was a sign, a billboard from a company called Contego. I vaguely recalled seeing one of the obnoxious valley girls with a Contego bottle, but I reckoned they weren’t related. I began to ask questions. Have we left the Leitmotif? No. We can’t, there aren’t enough IQ points. When the Banana Republic collapsed and the Americans bowed to scrutiny and withdrew, they left the infrastructure, the corporatism, and the capitalism behind. Of course, all humans being created equal in the court of bad opinions, mad self-evident, they should have had no trouble keeping it up.
Not so much.
The Guats, in fact, could NOT keep it up, and in a desperate, typically Third World scenario I have since learned played out often, and everywhere, the wealthy magnates and elites squabbled to gobble up the resources. The corrupt, incompetent government had had several meaningless civil wars, and the real powers in Guatemala were a bunch of goddamn cell-phone companies. The biggest being Contego. Ah, now this explained why EVERY. SINGLE. VILLAGER. I had seen, from remote outposts to the bowels of deathcloud central, was gabbing on his cellphone like your rinse and repeat American Negro. Of course. Like with Obama Phones, as it happened, Contego Corp had subsidised phones at cost to get peasants hooked on PRODUCT. There was a similar story when it came to Guatemala’s various junkfood subsidiaries. Which explained why the average Guatemalan I had seen seemed to subsist on a steady diet of Cheetomalan crisps and Rico pop. Savage. It was a very strange and overwhelmingly dichotmous experience. As I plodded the cobblestone roads of the village, surrounded by yurts and Fallout rust huts, there were mercantile stands. Barter. There was no money here. Quetzals were for the city folk. You want something here, you had best have something to trade. Now, materialist economy being what it is, cheap American goods are still superior to chintsy Amerindian bootlegs. A scum trader could have got rich quick, become king of turd mountain. Regardless. Here was a village with what out-of-doors, approximated at best, hunter gatherer technological prowess – without much hunting to speak of. There was no plumbing. People did their business (including drinking) in what I came to dub the Shitty River. Perhaps this is why their water is so famously parasitic? Hush, hush with your preconceived notions. Now I want you to contrast that with this; this is perhaps the end of the Leitmotif and the revelation of the Telos. Inside of these Fallout rust huts and these yurts were televisions. Right good ones. I have trouble recalling the brands, but I knew at my college starved income I couldn’t afford one back home in Maine. Also, the bright, painful blue, powerlights contrasted to the open fire cooking stoves made it hard to see. It wasn’t just TVs. There were ghetto blasters. How the hell did they get their power? Contego Corp. Here is a new Leitmotif. In the wake of vapid American materialism was sinister coloured people materialism. Nobody trusted the cops because they were all heavily armed thugs (my first time seeing an assault rifle was when our Theology teacher thought it would be culturally enriching to go visit what would later turn out to be a Communist Camp. FUN!) In the same town where women would shamelessly hike their skirts to become true Squatemalans, there were… big screen TVs… inside of tin shacks. Why on earth were we building houses here? Humble as they might have been? Surely their problem is merely lack of education.
Checkmate, enlightened former liberal. In fact another kinsman from Maine had been there and tried to educate them. The life expectancy of the Amerindian had been drastically cut by drinking their own faecum encrusted water. If you can imagine. There were other reasons too, like the steady IV drip of Rico and infinite supply of Cheetomalan puffs whose insufferably loud crinkle foil must have been further contaminating the ground water. Anyway. My Maine man had gone, brilliant engineer, to implement a patent of his. Here he came with these vats with layers of sand and grit, how they worked was by forcing the water down through the sand layers. This approximated a simulacrum of how pure spring water keeps pure, the sand retains the impurities and particulates while the emergent water is to a huge percentile, purer. But lo! The peasants refused to use the machine. They refused to do the labour. Refused. I asked why. The answer was dubious and insufferably liberal. ‘They would lose part of their soul.’ I remember looking about at the infinity garbage on the ground, the stench of Shitty River, and the neon glow of expensive televisions that almost surely cost more than the shacks which housed them. “What soul?” Now, despite the grimmery there was a tension between the Amerindians of nationalist opinion, whose yurts contained no television, and whose larders contained no Rico, and no Cheetomalans. But these were a minority. In the primitive national unconscious there was the memory of the Banana Republic, when there was prosperity. Now outside the small tribalist minority, the entire country lived in the shadow of that epoch of consumerism. Ruined.
Eventually my week there ended. At the time I focused on the positives. These were an obviously conquered and broken people, but they were tribal. Villages were communal, children had free leave. Women treated chores as a village affair. Everything was open, organic – except for the obvious stain of capitalism. My opinion has obviously changed since then, become dour as I grow older and learn of the insidious nature of the world I live in. On my final trip, the thing that plunged me full bore into no-return mode was seeing a Chabad Lubavitch house on the docks of the mercantile quarter near Lake Atitlan with the biggest shekel grubbing star of david I’d ever seen. There were other instances. But it was revelatory for so many reasons. Mostly being the plane ride home. Flying overhead, passing the generic -Uh States like California and Florida, seeing the roofs of pueblo buildings and the occasional glint of tinfoil moving north haunts me still. As does it still when I reckon every year, simple routine maintainence on our infrastructure becomes slower, less organised… more southerly. In short, what happened there can happen here, and has by all means long since begun. Why? You know why.
Of course, there is math and there are statistics to make the case. But I shall make use of reference, and you reader, can do your own homework. Simply put, there is a carrying capacity of societies in general. This refers to their gross population in respect to national average IQ, to maintain resources. In coloured populations, and it is a sad fact you can debate if you wish, the national average is simply lower than that of White-majority nations. Demographics is destiny and all that. When the Americans controlled the Banana Republic there was a surrogate IQ because 120+ IQ nationals pulled the strings. In the not-so-many decades following the passing of America from Guatemala, the transformation was stark. The Guatemalans, being of a lesser IQ, simly could not maintain the industrial monstrosity left in their lap. Things fell apart. What else could they do? Here their government was posessed and crippled by baser instincts and typically third world problems. So corporations freely filled the void. And the people? What of them? They go with the plan. Guatemalans were half wild before the Banana Republics, but after they were mainly pacified, hooked on product. Most were all too willing to sell their souls. But here we have a people who for thousands of generations had lived a primitive lifestyle. The littering business, if you think about it, makes more sense when you consider that a hundred or so years ago their trash was bones and skins. Biodegradable stuff, and if you have the equivalent IQ of what in this country was once called functionally retarded, then perhaps you don’t make distinctions between Rico bottles and chicken bones. When some Paleface from the dourest state in the Union comes to you with this big vat that makes water clean, it becomes more understandible to see how the peasant might fear the tech. It’s a curious mix of superstition and indulgence, but a mix that’s nevertheless deleterious and harmful. Education won’t fix it because the problem is genetic. There are caps on IQ. American Renaissance has done endless dissections of studies showing it.
And what happens when you suddenly and forcefully import mass quantities of -100IQ migrants into +100IQ nations? Law of averages being what it is, one of two things. If there was segregation, nothing. The declination of the less endowed would continue while the evolution of the more endowed would do the same. But that’s not how immigration works. Instead you throw savages into an otherwise civilised pot. What happens? The infrastructure is quietly strained. Maybe the cost of waste disposal goes up when massive trash, beyond the inexcusable amount you already see in “white” countries. Perhaps the cost of healthcare goes up. I know for damned sure that the cost of local General Assistance goes up because I was a security guard for one of their offices. And here again I can tell you; Third World impulse does not magically evaporate upon admission to civilised States. The migrants do things like try to cook turkeys in their oven by fire. (Brilliant!) Wash electronics in bathtubs. (bravo!) The incomptenence displayed in third World nations becomes evident in changing American landscapes. You start to see corrugated shacks in Southwest Ghettoes. You start to see barrel fires in Portland ghettoes. Because carrying capacity refers to IQ as well. The collapse of the Banana Republics proved that it takes a certain level of IQ to manage a large infrastructure on account of all the variables you have to calculate. But they can’t do this, they have less delayed gratification prowess. And so they all-in. and burn out fast.
As the immigrant tide rises, our infrastructure is slowing. Immigrants aren’t to blame they say, but is this true? No. That is a lie. If birthrates among White Americans are falling, a fact cheered by the retard left,
and yet the population is growing at alarming rates, a fact booed by the retard left, then what else is there to blame? We are straining our carrying capacity by overpowering our country with brainlets. And again, with
segregation it could have worked. The American South was able to pull it off until things went… well… south. However, we can’t have segregation because like with all Fratricidal wars, nobody actually won the “Civil” War.
Except Contego Corp.
The proof is in the pudding, and that pudding is being served with heaping slices of HUMBLE PIE. My turf is Maine. For a long while we were among the Whitest states, and still are. Despite the best efforts of scum
everywhere. Anywho. In Maine you had mill towns, and there are other articles here, many of which are abandoned or being converted into diverse living quarters. Towns like Lewiston, we’ll use as an example, or Westbrook.
In both cases these towns were often peopled by a curious mix of French and Irish and working English. They were overwhelmingly regarded as quaint. Somewhere after 9/11 the mud-flood began. It was quiet, at first,
the elites were testing the waters. Brown Street (how appropriate) here, Jacque du Jeuf Avenue there… Never a main street, never a public roadway. But sure enough. Inside of a decade, fifteen years tops, the buildings
began to rot inside out. White folk in the surrounding burroughs quietly made their exit. Some because they could not afford the raising rent – a third world problem – crooked landlords charge balls deep rent to flush out
potential movers and to ensure they get government assistance cases so their checks are on time. And with those premises vacated, the browning continues. Now in Lewiston you see the news, and if you’ve ever been there, (I have) I can tell you it feels an awful lot like visiting Guatemala. Litter in droves, unemployed coloured folk on subsidised phones. Except, if I’m not mistaken, Lewiston has a higher murder capita than Guatemala.
When I worked in Portland ME there were coloured quarters. I can tell you again, from having volunteered as a college tutour there, that the infrastructural cost and educational cost imposed by these people is vast. Again, lack of delayed gratification powers. They tax energy demands by doing things like tricking the heat to run overtime – this they do by covering the temperature readers with ice. They show no real foresight beyond satisfying basic immediate needs. Apply this manner of thinking on a broad scale and calculate what the gross energy demands become? Heat often costs oil. Oil costs money. Oil requires complex, often pollutive machinery to mine.
And that is one microcosmic problem applied to the macro.
Unsustainable, and frankly undesirable.
We don’t have to live like that.