Tag Archives: Norway

Oslo’s Muslim Ghetto: A Photo Essay

I took a Saturday evening stroll through Oslo’s more Islamic sectors. Although dicey, it was certainly not a no-go zone. I probably would have felt differently if it had been dark. I sat on a ledge outside the mosque for about 10 minutes just to observe. The ‘locals’ milled about and seemed not to notice me as I sneaked snapshots. As I did, a tall, buff, blond Swede walked by, wearing a skin-tight pink shirt and cut-off jean shorts. Irritatingly, the Muzzies paid him no more heed than they did me.

For the most part I kept my distance from the fauna while shooting photos. I wanted to catch them off guard–you know, for the sake of art.

Streetscene near Oslo Mosque. During the Nazi occupation, Norway’s ancient Muslim community was rounded up and shoahed inside.
The Red Cross gives out food to the young, economically crucial immigrants. These newly arrived laborers will work tirelessly to support Norwegians in their dotage.
Gypsy woman looking sincere. Oil on canvas. Note the picture of her young, pretty, blond 2-d waifu.
BROS! Somali, Sudanese, Eritrean? Who knows. At top right is a drum section of red-coated American servicemen in Oslo for some reason.
Foreground: Childless woman. Background: the children of others
Foreground: Childless woman. Background: the children of others

After a few hours of trooping around, I went to the station to bus it back to the suburbs. As I waited, a shortish, East African man asked me about the bus route. I replied curtly that he was in the right place. A brief silence followed, wherein he checked his smartphone. Being a sneaky fucker, I saw that his background was a giant orthodox-looking cross. My racism ebbing, I decided to try my luck and asked, “Where are you from?” After establishing that he had no Arabic, that I no Tigre, and neither of us Norwegian, he explained in painstaking English that he was from Eritrea. He had arrived last year “by bus, though Germany.” “By God,” I thought, “he’s not just an immigrant, he’s a bloody refugee! That’s it, Game Over. I just won the SWPL sweepstakes. 1,488 points! No socialite in DC will keep me out of her bed with this story.” I pressed for more, but despite his easy style, his English really was barely rudimentary.

The bus came, and we parted. He got off a couple stops before me, at a place that gave off that thirdy vibe. His sort seemed to come and go from the same spot. It occurred to me the Norwegian government had to be putting the refugees up in different places around in the Oslo burbs. It’s not like these guys could afford anything, especially given the prices around here. The next day would see my suspicions confirmed. In the course of my morning run, I sought out that hill-peak up to which seemed to be the objective of my bus-route. There I came upon a school shrouded in trees and overgrown hedges.

This was it. Atop this labyrinth of quaint Scandic neighborhoods was a wasp’s nest. I saw an old hijabess on a parkbench in the yard and some young muhajiruun behind a window. I suppose this need not have been a refugee center, maybe they were just at the school at 9 AM Sunday for job-training. Regardless of their purpose, these Muslims had struck it rich. In Dante, Mount of Purgatory culminates in the paradise of Earthly delights. I can think of no more fitting description of Mohammad’s conception of heaven.

Oslo, Pozlo

My bus arrived in Oslo at 830, but, it might as well have been any other time of day. At this time of year, the Norwegian sky never rises beyond a dull gleam. I managed the transition correctly this time, and boarded a city-bus, bound for a stop in an obscure suburb where my host had arranged to meet me. The ride lasted half an hour, ample time for me to ruminate on the wisdom of electing to book a room with a total stranger. The bus’ route alternated sharp left with sharp right turns, all the while going up a steep hill. As it did, I delved ever farther into the Norwegian countryside.

Or really the suburbs, but European suburbs are not a proper Suburbia. Sidewalks are rare, and they are never cream-colored concrete, but asphalt or gravel. They are also messier. Despite the Nords’ well deserved reputation for cleanliness and order, certain aspects of the American Dream elude them. The areas between the road and a property’s fence is often unkempt. The houses, while often alive with gay colors, seem discordant with the grey roads, grey sidewalks, and the ever grayer sky.

I found myself in this dim world, well past 9, on a Thursday night. Alone. Despite what I thought had been the plan, my host had left me to my fate. Of course my cell plan only worked in Sweden. And obviously I hadn’t bothered to draw a map from the bus-stop to her house beforehand, when I had had access to the glorious Google. Not that any of this was all that big of a deal. It was cool, but not cold, and I have certainly slept outside before. Although usually not while sober. Or I could not be a lazy, stingy fucker, gather up my shekels, and ride back into town to find a hostel. But honestly I felt safer roughing it in the ‘burbs. It’s Norway for godsake. Continue reading Oslo, Pozlo

Jet-lagged and horny for Racewar

Jet-lagged and horny for racewar, I went for a 1am stroll around downtown Stockholm. I didn’t find what I was looking for. Everywhere was deserted. I had expected more from this place, even on a weekday night. But there was not a Muslim to be seen. I found myself walking by a massive stone building–a bombastic relic of Sweden’s former majesty. It felt like the White House–only three times bigger and not dumpy. Maybe it was the king’s residence.

It looked important

Regardless, no one would have stopped me if I had strutted up to the front door and slept on the stoop–no soldiers, no cops, not even a groundskeeper. Only when I tried to short-cut my way through a grandiose alley did I encounter three drunk-sounding cops in stupid yellow outfits who, upon noticing, gave me a “hej! odele odele,” which I assume was their attempt at “fuck off guy.”

Out back there was also an elongated igloo with a man/woman sign on it. It looked like a bombproof sauna. Perhaps this was the Swedish government’s way of encouraging degenerates to do their dirty work out of public view. Although, with the proper motivation, I’m sure we could put such things to much more suitable uses.

The tranny oven in fired up and ready.

Continue reading Jet-lagged and horny for Racewar