And let us not speak falsely now, for the hour is getting late. –Bob Dylan, All Along the Watchtower

In the garden at Bohemia there’s a brick circle laid into the gravel, and some months ago a young man called Theo fashioned a perfect yinyang inside it, using pale brown pebbles and the black gravel. Maybe that’s what it was originally, and Theo was in fact restoring it, I don’t know. But after he’d finished I stood looking down at it with a German friend of Ranel, a technical journalist, and he said, ‘It’s an engine, of course.’ I asked him to explain, and will have to ask again, but the word ‘hysteresis’ figured in it somewhere, which I remember from descriptions of Tesla’s invention of the electric motor. And once you think of the yinyang like that, it seems obvious — the figure is dynamic, capturing motion so eloquently that once you see it you can’t imagine how it could ever be in stasis. Not just inert states of light and dark, but a perpetual motion of light within dark and dark within light, never at rest, always turning.

I say, ‘An engine for stories,’ and he thinks about that.

These are good times at Bohemia. Ranel has bought out his original Thai partner, who was holding him back and stressing him out, investing nothing and not even supplying him properly with product to sell. In has come his good friend Alik, a boat skipper who is both highly competent and highly chilled. Finally Ranel can mobilise some cash to make improvements. He and Alik have taken down portions of interior walls, opening up the space very effectively; Oliver has decorated the upstairs rooms; there are new chairs in the garden, a big fridge in the bar and a washing machine on its way; and talk of getting a proper cash register and an electronic sales system operable through mobile phones. Things are looking up.

At the same time, a big dark cloud has parked itself on the horizon. Ranel’s mother, who was vaccinated — and boosted, crucially, since Thais are being given the mRNA shots as boosters — and has been complaining of fatigue ever since, now seems to be going downhill fast, losing weight and strength to the point that she is becoming bedridden. She’s passing blood, and the doctors say it’s her liver. Ranel is very worried about her; she herself blames the vaccines.

Hardly anyone around me is vaccinated, as it happens. Of that group drawn every evening to Mia’s encampment under the trees, two have since succumbed: Mod, because he has a diabetic and vulnerable wife who hardly ever goes out; he thought he was protecting her by getting his two doses of Sinovac. But when he started to receive text-messages inviting him to go for his first booster, he couldn’t believe it. By then he had spent a fair amount of time talking it over with me, and was happy to decline the offer. The other was Sasha, my young Belarusian friend, because he wanted to get into Bali. He’s fine, and in Sasha-logic that proves there’s no problem with the vaccines. He’ll let me speak on the subject for only a few seconds before cutting me off with his usual ‘everyone have their own opinion’, so there’s no point in discussing it any further. If I gently point out that an opinion that’s not based on evidence or logic is worth precisely jack shit, to use the epistemological term, he tends to get a bit irascible, so forget it. I don’t have time for running round in circles.

But that’s about it, as far as people I spend time with. Take Bohemia, for example. When I dropped in this morning, Alik the boatman was half way up a tree with rope, suspending a yacht sail across the courtyard for shade. Old man Loy was firing up his kratom brew, a big black pot full of water and leaves over a fire of coconut shells, the smoke rising in the still morning air. Kiwi Oliver emerged, lightly spattered in white paint, from the upstairs room he’s redecorating for us, a fine professional job for which he’ll take no money, just bed and board for a few days. There was Joana in the improvised kitchen at the front, asking if I’ve already had breakfast; Ranel, looking rested, I’m happy to see, tying back his hair after his morning shower. There’s music from the old garage, which Thierry is converting into a bakery with his boy Lennie. So that’s… eight people, including me, and how many shots have we had between us? I’ll give you a clue — it’s a nice round number.

The ratios won’t change much when the Russians arrive. There was already a growing presence of Russian expats on the island, but from February, the beginning of the war in Ukraine — almost a year ago, now — there has been a massive influx. In the early days, almost all our customers were Russian millennials, in their twenties and thirties. They kept us going — especially since some of them were hardcore all-day smokers, happily getting through thousands of baht of weed each day. With the September mobilisation, the Russian diaspora went into overdrive. And it has been good news for the island, in my opinion. Russian money kept the place just about afloat through the Covid shutdowns. And they must have raised the average IQ around here by about 10 points, not to mention the variety of female beauty on display. Of course there are many filters to pass through before they get to us, the first of which is having the money and/or mobility to be able to settle in another country, but I have to say that the ones who come through are quite an impressive bunch. They were growing up and making their way in the nineties and noughties, difficult crazy times in Russia, so everyone has a story to tell, as well as bags of initiative and insane computer skills. Traders and coders, product developers and graphic designers, the occasional gambler or online scammer… I find them educated, polite, generous people, good to hang out with, and definitely worth talking to. There’s the full range of opinion about the situation, though naturally enough with a selection bias towards anti-war sentiment; I do know two or three who, if you ask them about the Russian intervention, shrug and say ‘No choice!’; but the fact is that none of them wants to be in their homeland right now.

Their situation is comparable to that of young Americans running from the Vietnam draft in the sixties and early seventies. There were a lot of them wandering the planet as well, not just the few thousand who made it to the Canadian border — estimates reach as high as 100,000 who left the country. 27 million men were eligible for the draft in America, and about a third of those were called up; almost exactly ten percent — 2.7 million — were deployed as combat troops in the jungles of Vietnam. More than 300,000 of those were wounded in combat, and over 58,000 were killed over the course of the ten-year war. Their names are listed on two polished black granite walls in Constitution Park, Washington DC; names are listed chronologically by death, and crammed together rather than given a line each; in this manner the list extends for over 150 metres.

For propaganda reasons, it’s hard to get realistic figures either for the numbers leaving Russia or for Russian casualties in Ukraine, but even the most conservative estimates of the latter tend to put them much higher, pro rata, than American losses in South-East Asia. Even so, there were apparently around 70,000 volunteers who came forward in response to the September mobilisation; a friend tells me that these are almost exclusively men from the provinces, driven by poverty — to them the military salary represents many times what they could possibly make in their home towns.

Hideous as it is, the Ukraine conflict, as with Vietnam, is a small war inside a much bigger one; I don’t think my Russian friends would dispute that. It’s possible to have realistic discussions with many of them, language skills allowing. I have to say find them generally much more grounded and sceptical than their Western counterparts, which is natural enough given the hardships and upheavals they have experienced within their lifetimes. For the most part they were not so foolish as to trust the needle when it came to that, though one or two couldn’t avoid it. The vast majority have fake vaccine-stamps in their passports. Some who left in a hurry and had no time to make those arrangements were forced to take one shot. One of those guys was quite nervous about it, I could see when we talked. He’s a poker player, who lives by calculating probabilities, and he obviously wasn’t happy about the odds; but as a political activist he had thought it best to get out of the country after Alexei Navalny was sentenced to hard labour, just like in the good old Soviet days. Another, a family man, was also forced to roll up his sleeve to get here, but has since organised counterfeit certification for his wife and four children so that they could join him in Thailand. The Russian Sputnik vaccine, like the Chinese Sinovac, is not mRNA-based, I believe, and less deadly; I have heard of some people being hurt by both, but the numbers are not remotely comparable, as far as I know. In the West, the toll is phenomenal, and no longer possible to hide.

It’s about six months since the dam cracked, with the revelation of mortality figures from insurance companies in the United States. In August of 2022, the American Society of Actuaries published its annual report, and followed it up with a supplement in September. The most influential voice assessing and publicising the SOA’s figures is that of Edward Dowd, a former Blackrock portfolio manager, who with his collaborators has gone over the data in detail. His most shocking headline finding concerns the millennial demographic cohort in America, born between 1980 and 1996, which is now taking the brunt of vaccine damage in the West; there has been a mix-shift from old to young, with the employed population suffering disastrous levels of death and disability. A stark illustration of this is the ‘Group Life’ insurance data. Group Life insurance policies are given as a benefit to employees of Fortune 500 and mid-size companies, and this is historically the healthiest section of the population; the 2016 SOA report confirms that Group Life policy holders died at a rate of only 30-40% that of the general US population. In 2021, the year of the vaccine, this flipped: the demographic experienced 40% excess mortality over the five-year average; meanwhile in the general population excess mortality stood at 31.7%, which is terrible enough in itself. But now the healthiest group in society was suddenly worse off by an 8 point differential. What changed in 2021? Vaccine mandates were imposed on all companies with more than 100 employees — i.e., the entire Group Life cohort. In the general population there was more choice. 28% of the overall population declined the injections; in the Group Life cohort, I assume, that figure must have been zero, since any refusers lost their jobs and Group Life policies are void upon termination of employment.

Now get this: between March 2021 and February 2022, 61,000 millennials in excess of the five-year average died in the USA. That’s a Vietnam war right there; a silent massacre taking more young American lives in a single year than that appalling war did in ten.

In terms of disability the figures are even worse. In Vietnam 300,000 servicemen and woman were wounded, half of those requiring hospital treatment. Since May 2021 an extra three to four million have left the workforce due to disability.

Dowd’s thesis — that it is incontrovertible that the vaccines must be held primarily responsible for this carnage — is confirmed by perhaps the biggest smoking gun of all, which is the fate of 0-14 year-olds. In the UK and some other countries, vaccination of this age-group was approved later than for the rest of the population. Throughout 2020 and most of 2021, mortality among children was falling, because accidental death (on the roads, for instance), the biggest killer in this age-group, was reduced by the lockdowns. Once vaccination of children began in the autumn of 2021, however, excess mortality in the age-group went into reverse and started rising.

So for millennials, then, it’s like this: taking an mRNA vaccine is about ten times as dangerous as getting shipped out to fight the Viet Cong in a steaming jungle full of venomous snakes and disease-bearing mosquitoes. As for little kids, they should just run, run like scorched Kim Phúc and her siblings from the napalmed village of Trảng Bàng. And if you think that’s sensationalist, I would ask you where you get the idea that our rulers are any more merciful now than they were half a century ago. The politicians, government advisers and medical shills still pushing the vaccines and ignoring this flood of death and disability are war-criminals under the Nuremberg Code, accessories and accomplices to an unprecedented crime against humanity.

The vaccine fiasco, if you want to call it that, or vaccine holocaust if you’re brave enough to handle the implications, is a powerful reason why the West is seeking all-out war with Russia. It wants the ‘power of forgetting’ that is granted by war. Only the trauma of war has the power to wipe the slate clean; war remains the most powerful tool of social transformation, which is the end-game: the Reset of everything. The more the elitist psychos of Bilderberg and Davos are backed into a corner, the more dangerous their desperation will make them. So be it: the Third World War is already upon us; fifth-generation hybrid warfare includes all other generations; includes, that is, the hottest of hot war.

Well, what will be will be. All we can do is hold to the truth. There are many, many more than before who understand where the battle-lines are really drawn, and who the real enemy is — and it’s not Russians.

So meet me at Bohemia, friends; these are the days; we will look back on them, I hope, in comradeship and affection. Let’s smoke and talk and make music and smoke and talk some more; let’s pool our experiences and trade stories while the wheel keeps turning. I hope you get your country back; it is, for all its problems, a source of hope at this dark time in history. As are the Dowds of this world and all the dissident doctors and scientists and lawyers and morticians and nurses and farmers, yes and writers too, who are standing against the new totalitarianism. This is our generational conflict, and we have to go through it. That’s just how it is. The wheel keeps turning.


Dowd’s findings are published in his book CAUSE UNKNOWN: THE EPIDEMIC OF SUDDEN DEATHS IN 2021-22 with a foreword by Robert F Kennedy Jr.


An interview with Ed Dowd by Greg Hunter of USAWatchdog.com: https://rumble.com/v1lv4dc-unpayable-debt-and-vax-causing-hell-on-earth-ed-dowd.html

4 thoughts on “A VACCINE VIETNAM

  1. Shocking that this is not shocking. How about a “wall of death” for the vax fallen? D.C., what say you?

    These establishment guys “turned whistleblowers”– do they not have a stink to them? Dowd, Malone, McCullough et al, who speak freely, regularly and breezily without encountering any apparent negative consequences of their own, nor are there any to those they’ve whistleblown, these guys don’t strike me as particularly heroic.

    Not that the information they cite is not true, just that they are slicksters born and bred in the same waters they swim in throughout their lives. Dowd managed Blackrock (possibly the dirtiest, most successful usg contractor in history) money. Having been peripherally associated with these waters in my childhood I can say with some certainty that he didn’t just waltz out of business school as a regular apple-pie american kid and get lucky with a gig like that. All these guys operate by close association long vetted, by asking around within their inner circles “Hey do you know a good (insert skilled occupation highly valued by the ungodly rich and powerful)?”

    If folks like Dowd are digging up publicly available facts and waving them around for all to see, you can bet your keister they are doing that for a purpose that serves another far greater (and more sinister) than the simple one apparent. Genuine whistleblowers/truth tellers always come from the stands, not from the playing field. We know them by the heat they suffer– Mikovits, Assange, Snowden, Madej, Manning…

  2. Fair enough, sir. Being well-acquainted with rats, one smells a rat where there may not be one. Certainly all of us, regardless of our origin/background, are capable of breaking the spell of power madness. Coming from where I do, this past of mine in the belly of the beast– no doubt it colors my view.

    The phenomenon of the whistleblower is, to me, a somewhat befuddling one– one that strikes me as having, in all genuine cases, a high degree of naivete. Here you are in the Roman colosseum, along with everyone else cheering on lions devouring humans, and suddenly you come to your senses, stand up and yell out to everyone around you in fierce condemnation of it? What exactly do you expect to be the consequences of that?

    Without exception, the crowd rallies together and wastes no time tossing you onto the dirt floor of the arena to be eaten by the lions. Nobody gives a shit. Indeed, the crowd is offended that you have made them aware of themselves by exposing just how brutal, savage and ugly the common citizen really is underneath the cold veneer of appearing “civilized”.

    “What the hell was I thinking?” you say to yourself. The lions circle. The crowd roars.

    The sad fact is this: The power of truth to destroy delusion is absolute. For those who live by their delusions truth can be utterly devastating. They will fight it viciously as they would against death itself. Very few of us care to engage the difficult and often humiliating work of ego-mastery necessary to acquire strength of spirit sufficient to stomach the pain truth may bring. Nobody likes being slapped awake. Unless you are prepared for, and willing to defend yourself against, a raging faceful of sharp teeth coming at you, let sleeping dogs die.

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