After walking and observing the scroungy streets of town, I made my way to what I feared to see most--the actual stalag part of Stalag Ranville:
Of course I made no attempt to enter any buildings. Made no attempt to inspect anything up close. I wandered about like a lost fool (which, in many ways, unfortunately, I am) and observed, discreetly taking photos as I ambled.
There was no one. Absolutely no one. But I knew I was being watched. I could feel the eyes of cameras, the eyes of humans, the sad eyes of prisoners and hopeful eyes of rats, upon me.
Yes.
It was a huge place. A seemingly empty place. Decrepit and forbidding at the same time. Scattered about amongst the many looming and imposing structures were small, cubicle-like buildings:
Whoa! I apologize for showing such images of captivity and torture and despair. No doubt inside these hot-box outhouse confinement structures, poor prisoners--(but only one-step down the ladder of prisondom from myself)--are housed. Possibly there are members of the aboriginal race--The Habs, they are sometimes called--trapped in those odd little claustrophobic and brightly numbered structures!
Scary.
More scary:
This I believe is the prisoners' Mess Hall . . . It is certainly a mess and was quite smelly, even from the distance I kept.
Here. Here! A watchtower! . . . True, it is not a tall watchtower, but then, what is there to watch in a hideous place like Stalag Ranville?
A closer look:
No doubt there are real or even robotic guards, resting their blood vessels or circuits, beneath the parapet-like walls within the structure . . .
Mas:
A taller watchtower, no doubt for taller people.
Can't you just see the machine guns? Pistols and whips? Bazookas? Robotic killer lasers, too, no doubt . . . Yes.
No wonder no one was about and there was only the bright and shiny emptiness of despair:
This last one appeared to be but a long bench in the middle of long nothingness . . . No doubt this is where they have the Handcuffed Picnics for the prisoners who are well-behaved.
And Stalag Ranville has a missile.
Did I say missile?
Indeed I did say missile:
Perhaps the missile is to blow up a building such as this:
Destroy it in one fell swoop, should the big building contain a great number of prisoners who were revolting . . . Not just because they found them revolting. No. I mean because they were rioting-revolting. Yes. But maybe the missile is for someone like me--to blow up and obliterate an intruder, a spy, an infiltrator with a camera and a blog post!
Onward: Look. Just look!
They appear to be quite fond of rust and numbers and shuttered windows, of blocked doorways and blacked-out insignias and ugly machinery here in Stalag Ranville.
Where do they get the energy? The power? The lack of human compassion to run such a place?
Here, perhaps:
That looks like a power station to me.
Eventually, my fear got the best of me and I began looking for a way to escape.
I thought I should get back to town. I was so perturbed and dizzy with contempt and fear that I could not get my bearings. I could not recall the proper direction either to town or to the Transport Vehicle Station from whence I came, from where I was dropped off in this odious, abhorrent, nauseous, shockingly repellent compendium of horror. (Though it was a nice day: sunny, warm, low humidity.)
All I saw was more of this:
Finally I sighted what looked like a possible TV Stop and made my way towards it:
Yes, here I rested. Alone. Confused. Frightened. Because I realized that my problems were only beginning--potentially, at least. My dilemma was more than wondering if this was an actual Transport Vehicle Stop/Station, one that would transport me safely back to the somewhat-less-disgusting confines of Soybean Island City, but rather how did I get back? What secret code words or secret Special Pass did I need to return and not be found out as a wayward spy?
I did not know.
And I waited.
Alone.
In the empty shade.
Waited. Waited.
Waited.
And then a TV came.
There was no one else on board.
The driver did not ask me where I was going. Did not ask for a special pass. Did not respond when I simply said "No tengo El Blanco. (Though I had a fake El Blanco in my pocket.)
But I did step willingly through its open doors and let the silent man take me back to the city. I got only one final shot of Stalag Ranville as I left its borders:
What rubbish.
As you no doubt can surmise--you, who probably does not even exist--I did make it back to Soybean Island City. I have returned to my normal abnormal duties as An Object of Curiosity.
Yes.
But now I live with even a greater fear than before. A fear that The Apparatus will come knocking on my thin door in the thick of night and haul me away.
And where do I fear they will haul me away to?
To Stalag Ranville, of course.
Goodbye from Soybean Island,
#OneNineFiveSeven
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