the Diary Reinhand Kurtz

For the first time, follow the studies of German anthropologist Dr. Reinhard Kurtz as he ferrets out the "savage" customs of his hosts in travels in Saharan and sub-equitorial Africa in the closing years of the nineteenth century. In order to personally witness these practices, the open-minded German encouraged indulgence in ancient rituals considered "horrorific" by western "civilized" standards. His hosts were only too happy to oblige and the good doctor himself gave new meaning to the term "going native."


In l945 Berlin's famed kunsthistorisches museum on its island in the Elbe River wound up in the soviet sector of the bombed out capital. Many of its treasures had been removed to safety during the war but there was still much there to be looted by the occupiers before East German authorities were given control of the museum with its unique anthropological and architectural displays. Among the items that disappeared that have still never surfaced is the famed golden treasure horde of Heinrich Schliemann uncovered at Mycenae in Greece as he sought, successfully, to prove the general truth of the legend of Troy.
        Of course, it is a bit hard to find much sympathy for the Germans in that regard. The Nazis looted their neighbors' treasures with a fervor reminiscent of their Visigoth ancestors and vast quantities of that booty have yet to be recovered. One ofthe great mysteries is the fate of the incredible amber murals of Catherine the Great from the Peterhof Palace near St. Petersburg. They're out there waiting to be found in some hiding place or perhaps are being enjoyed in a secret basement in the schloss of some private collector. A current theory has them in waterproof containers in the bottom of a lake along the Baltic coast of Poland.
        Soviet scholars scoured the library and archives of the museum and selectively removed back to the Rodina, the Motherland, rare or interesting items uncovered. Among the latter curiosities was the diary of one Herr Doctor Reinhard Kurtz, found locked up in a vault of "sensitive" materials not available even to the most noted scholars. The doctor was the scion of one of Germany's oldest families and had enjoyed a distinguished career at Heidelberg University, dying at age seventy-three in l943. His diary of travels in northern Africa, l897-l898, meticulously detailed and illustrated with rather well-worked sketches, was obviously viewed by his contemporaries as so shocking that it was suppressed and locked away.
        The doctor himself had prudently realized he could not report the events of his excursion into the dark continent without bringing Victorian approbrium upon his head. He had never published a record of his trip, but had deposited his diary with the museum with instructions that it could be published ten years following his death if "the state of academia was liberated enough" to be able to "rationally appreciate" his record of "certain native customs and historic events."
        The diary languished in the dusty basement of the Hermitage Museum in Leningrad until the collapse of the soviet system. Eventually stolen, it was sold on the black market and came to rest in the collection of an anonymous owner who has been kind enough to share it with me. I have translated it from its original German text and "modernized" some of the convoluted terms and wording characteristic of a turn-of-the-century academic. Otherwise I have attempted to render an unaltered rendition of Reinhard's diary which is most definitely not midnight reading for the squeamish.
        I have not had to further introduce Reinhard, as he was kind enough to do so himself in the opening pages of his diary.


March 3, l897, 90km north of Kara, German Togoland

If anyone is reading this, I am pleased. It means I apparently survived this probably insane trip alone into one of the most primitive regions of the globe. Not that any particular human life is per se of any great importance in the search for knowledge, and that certainly applies to my own. In any event, I have no intention of spending my life shrinking from threat or risk. I liken myself to my "primitive" forebears in that regard. The ancients, with a life expectancy less than half of ours, had a greater appreciation of the thin line between life and death and were far more stoic about the latter. For that matter, only within the past one hundred fifty years even within "western civilization" has the concept of value of an individual life and so-called "human rights" risen to significant force within society. It has been but thirty-four years since the self-appointed "bastion of morality", the United States, even abolished their slavery of an "inferior" race and they continue with cultural suppression of the indigenous "Indians."

Unfortunately, technical superiority of the west has lead it to world dominance and imposition of it's morals upon other cultures whose values are arrogantly dismissed as "savage". The abhorrent notion of the white man's "obligation" to impose the "blessings" of his world upon the other eighty percent of mankind makes my skin crawl. Sadly my own Deutches Reich, Imperial Germany, has belatedly seen fit to join the madness and has run around grabbing the poor colonial pickings left by England, France, Portugal, Spain, the Netherlands, Belgium and, most recently even Italy and the United States. That was a decision by the Kaiser with which I markedly disapprove. For that matter, his military policies cause me great concern...his challange to the supremecy of England on the sea and continued pricking of French pride may soon lead to a devestating conflagration.

But I digress from the purpose of this journal.

Sitting in my camp along the banks of this jungle river, I reflect on the incredible myriad of wildlife witnessed on my trip upstream. Elephants, great cats, baboons, all manner of ungulates, hippopotami, buffalo, crocodiles, seems inexhaustable. And yet there are already disturbing indications that man's wasteful use of nature's resources are fatally destructive to species drawing his attention. For example, the great American bison has been, for practical purposes, eradicated.

Similarly western colonialists are destroying native cultures on a terrifying scale. I fear that soon there will be only a mundane "sameness" throughout most of the world and we will have lost much original ideation. My doctoral thesis was on "The Dangers of Loss of Cultural Diversity Through Supposed Civilizing Practices Among Native Peoples." It was not popular among certain of my professors at the University of Heidelberg, but neither was the fact that I was the youngest successful doctoral candidate there in nearly a century. Many of them resent my taking a professorial seat when I return from my post-doctoral sojourn here in the "dark" continent and I expect some would be pleased should I just disappear. I hope to disappoint them.

I felt a need to personally experience some of what will shortly disappear, to witness the "barbarism"...practices developed over thousands of horrorific to my fellow westerners, but utterly fascinating to me. I have enjoyed a sheltered, privileged life for my twenty-seven years, but deep within me lurks the primieval creature that my society tries to deny. Man is, after all, an animal, predatorory, competative, territorial, violently aggressive and carnivorous by nature. Perhaps by seeking out these other, different peoples, I am seeking my own roots, looking to at least momentarily unlock my inner beast and experience it in all its power and brutality. I think that only then can I really pursue my attempts to understand mankind and teach others about it.

So, reader, understand my mission. I am not in Africa to study weaving or wedding dances. I seek the raw impulses that have governed man's behavior towards his fellow man over the millenia.

Tomorrow the guides who accompanied me here from Lome on the coast, far to the south, leave and I strike out on my own.

That is so unusual that in it, ironically, lies a degree of safety. The peoples I encounter will, hopefully, be more curious than concerned about this sole traveller who has versed himself in their tongues and seeks to understand their ways. I pose no threat to them coming without bearers, guides or guards, but I fully understand the risks. In that very danger, however, I am experiencing an amazing exhileration that is almost erotic. I imagine I am learning part of what Marco Polo must have felt.

My first objective is the N'Kibo tribe dwelling along the northern border of German Togoland and French Equitorial Africa. Rumors of certain of their practices fascinate me and I hope to determine their truth. My travel will be demanding and I will not make daily entries herein, but narrate my experiences when they merit inclusion.

March 22, l897, north of the Togoland frontier.

After travelling through some of the roughest terrain I have ever imagined, I finally made contact two days ago with the N'Kibo some distance into French Equitorial Africa where I suppose I am now illegally present. I am surprised and concerned at the openly hostile reaction of my reluctant hosts. I am being kept a prisoner in my hut and I detect it is only my ability to communicate with them through a dialect of the Mokomo language that is keeping me alive. They repeatedly demand to know where the rest of my party is, especially the soldiers, apparently not believing I have come alone, much less that my only purpose is to learn of their ways. Once they are certain I am, indeed, alone, I suspect I may be treated even more harshly.

I do note that the N'Kibo warriors are an impressive lot. They are tall, lean and handsome with almost delicate features compared to most of the natives I encountered to the south. Their ebony skins are sleek, smooth and shiny and really quite beautiful. Their village is clean and orderly and their personal hygiene remarkable. I detect high, cunning intelligence and they seem to hold other tribes surrounding their terrain with scornful disdain. Their women are subservient and obedient, staying in the background in this clearly warrior-dominated society.

March 24, l897, N'Kibo Village

The puzzles are resolved! I am both relieved and delighted! My arrival in N'Kibo terrain could not have been better timed for I am not the only foreigner in their custody! Just days before my arrival they came into possession of three young British soldiers, part of a patrol ambushed and captured in that nation's nearby colony, The Gold Coast.

I finally managed to convince one of the N'Kibo sub-chiefs of my honorable intentions in coming among them. He is amazed that there could be such a white man, their impression of my race being quite negative. My interest in observing their customs without criticism or attempted contravention seems to fascinate them. They believed at first that I was a scout for some military column on its way to rescue their new acquisitions and that I am not is a great relief. They are delighted that I am not only willing that they proceed with their plans for the soldiers, but clearly quite anxious that they do so. I am being treated now as an honored friend and have full run of the village.

Captive enemies of the N'Kibo are viewed not as human but as property. They are mere livestock to be utilized by the tribe as a much prized treat to supplement its diet while providing entertainment. The rumors of cannibalism among the N'Kibo are, it appears, quite factual and I am going to witness the process tomorrow when the English boys are served up in a great feast.

I found the disposition of the captured British patrol to be interesting as it reflects the relationships among both the Africans and

the colonial powers. I learned from the three soldiers, Nigel, Andrew and Peter, that their officer, apparantly a junior peer, was ransomed back to the English authorities in Accra. The NCO's were sold to the French colonial authorities to the north to be interrogated under torture about defenses in the Gold Coast colony and then executed. So much for French honor towards their erstwhile ally! But then no-one has ever accused the French of being a particularly honorable or trustworthy people.

The majority of enlisted soldiers in the patrol were castrated and sold to Arab slave traders to the north and the three eighteen year olds, fine strapping smooth-skinned youths, were expressly earmarked for trade to the N'Kibo whose culinary practices and preferences were obviously well-known.

The white boys at first hoped that I might intervene in their fate but I made it abundantly clear that I had not the slightest intent

of doing so and, in fact, anxiously awaited the opportunity to observe how they were to be prepared for the feast to come. Their sacrifice seemed such a minor price to pay for the knowledge I would gain. They seemed most displeased when I told them that.

March 25, l897, N'Kibo Village

Despite the claim to regard the prisoners as mere cattle, there was a really elaborate ritual centered upon the killings. I thrill to the knowledge that I am the only white ever to witness it all and survive.

The drums started at dawn, a slow, steady thud every few seconds. I was startled at the fierce attire of the warriors. Adorned in elaborate jewelry and feathered headdresses, their faces and bodies painted, they were engaged in various dances or mock battles with each other, whooping and screaming. It was a male-only show. The women and children, not permitted to join in the feast, simply disappeared into the jungle for the day.

Toward midday, the men assembled all around the prisoners' hut, shouting challenges and taunts, working up into a lust that was truly intimidating. I sensed the real action was about to begin and felt my own excitement rising. Almost before I realized I was doing it, I joined the group in the chanting, repeating their words. That seemed to both amuse and please them a great deal.

Two of the young soldiers were to be pit roasted in a fashion strikingly similar to a method ascribed to pacific island cannibals. Small pits had been dug and lined with rocks heated to blistering strength and buried under a thin layer of dirt. The carcass would be wrapped in leaves soaked in various herbs and juices, laid over the rocks and itself buried beneath another thin layer of dirt. I was told that this popular, effective cooking process had come from Berber traders just a few years before and I considered that probable. There had clearly never been direct contact between the cannibal groups and the likelihood of spontaneous invention of the exact same cooking process seemed remote. That Arab tradesmen should have been the conduit for spread of such knowledge over a distance of thousands of miles intrigued me.

The third boy would be prepared in the "old" fashion I was told, but I did not learn the details until I saw it done. All three had been well-treated in general despite their fate, maintained in a very clean, well-groomed condition. But then, that is how one deals with prospective food isn't it?

They had been under preparation since their arrival, kept on a diet of exotic fruits and raw honey and made to drink vast quantities of water. I was told this would cleanse their innards and sweeten the taste of their meat. They had also been kept in a sort of mild daze by use of an extract from a jungle root. It made them really quite tractable and easy to work with as they went through the final stages of their slaughter. I shall contrive to obtain some of that root to take along if I can.

The shaman or witch doctor in charge of the ritual turned out to be Jakombo, the brawny young sub-chief who had first accepted my sincerity and trusted me. He now invited me to join him in the prisoners' hut. I wanted to witness everything and he obviously intended to accommodate me. We were alone with the three bound boys who had been stripped naked the day before and their clothing burned. I could see why the tribe was excited at possession of these fine animals, each a lean, muscular, smooth-skinned bull of exquisite beauty. Jakombo advised that they preferred youths like these eighteen-year olds as they cooked up to be more tender, succulent and tasty than older men.

Jakombo rubbed a hand over Nigel's flat, corded belly and licked his lips in anticipation. "This is the best part, I think. Meat from the belly is really good. This is nice too." He squeezed one of Nigel's heavy curving pecs.

I watched as the shaman mixed powder and water into a sticky goop in a wooden bowl. He produced a thin wooden reed and dipped it into the mixture, coating it liberally, then reached between Nigel's thighs and gripped the boy's huge penis. He pressed the tip of the reed to the slit lips in the cock-head and slowly forced it up the length of the organ. Although the soldier cried out and flexed at the obvious burning pain, instantly he began to harden into steely erection. Jakombo ran the reed in and out of the cock several times to be sure the inside was fully smeared with his concoction.

"Keeps a boy hard throughout his killing," he explained, though precisely why they wanted that phenomenon was not yet clear.

He recoated the reed and used it on Andrew next. When he too was solidly erect, it was Peter's turn. Peter was such a stunningly handsome boy with silky blond hair that I found it most pleasing to see him in his fully aroused state.

I was very startled when Jakombo then began milking Nigel. He moved his hands with deft expertise as he fondled and stroked the boy, rolling his big balls around in their sac. He eventually lowered his mouth between the splayed thighs and began to lick the turgid organ, then lightly nibble and suck at it. In short order, with a soft murmur of deep pleasure, the teen exploded into a hot, deep orgasm, spewing his thick dollops of cream into a bowl that Jakombo used to catch every drop.

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Afterwards, Nigel remained in full arousal, obviously in discomfort. When he moved to Andrew, Jakombo looked at me and grinned.

"You help! Do that one."

He gestured towards Peter. I lost no time in starting to stroke and caress the boy's massive genitals, rather enjoying it. I had never masturbated a young man before and found it quite delightful. When I lowered my face to his crotch to employ my tongue and mouth, I liked the fresh, musky male aroma of him and the slightly salty taste of the skin of his penis. Jakombo, having finished Andrew, was waiting with his bowl when Peter at last ejaculated with tremendous hydraulic pressure, contributing a great store of his seed-rich fluid.

"You pick the boy to be cooked special. He will die slow and painful."

I knew I was being extended a high honor. My choice, of course, was easy. Without hesitation I designated Peter for death in whatever the more agonizing historic mode might be. The prospect of seeing the slaughter of such a gorgeous specimen was already rousing me powerfully and the ability to condemn him to enhanced suffering just made it that much more erotic. I realized it was the exercise of power over him that was giving me such pleasure. With a jolt, I understood the primeval beast was free within me, just as I had hoped, but I had not realized how all-powerful it was when unleashed. It was completely in control and I quite willingly gave in and just enjoyed the experience.

We exited the hut and Jakombo raised the semen bowl high. There was a great cheer. Nikoko, a strapping young warrior, stepped forward, his chest swollen in pride. Jakombo explained that he had been selected for the special role of wielding the knife on one of the captives. He offered the bowl to Nikoko, who took a hearty slurp.

Jakombo himself was to do the second boy and he too drank from the bowl. I wondered which warrior was to deal with the final prisoner. To my amazement, Jakombo presented the bowl to me.

"You drink. You will cut the blond white boy...the special one you chose."

The beast within me howled in barbaric ecstasy. This was beyond any hope I might have harbored! I brought the bowl to my lips and downed the remaining dregs of the English youths' mixed loin nectar. I rather savored the salty, smooth fluid.

And now Nigel was dragged from the hut for execution. The warriors went wild in their pleasure at the sight of the trim, pale-skinned body of the naked muscle-boy. Some were weeping for joy at the knowledge that he was about to be killed.

He was strapped to a series of bamboo poles in somewhat of a sitting posture, his legs forced widely apart. His penis remained utterly erect, bobbing up before his gut, his big balls starkly outlined in their ample sac.

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With relish, Nikoko accepted an ancient-looking dagger from Jakombo. The blade appeared to be bronze, mounted in a heavy wooden handle decorated with two large, exquisite rubies. He knelt before Nigel, seized the boy's big genitals and jerked them up and out to fully expose the slim neck connecting them to the body. He brought down the knife.

I gasped as I realized that Nigel was to be castrated! I knew many African tribes practice such rites and was immensely pleased to now be able to witness the act. I leaned in close to get a good view as Nikoko began slicing through the neck with a slow, steady cut. Every muscle in Nigel's body contracted powerfully and he began to scream as his blood spurted from the steadily increasing wound between his splayed thighs. That really roused the group of warriors who whooped in high glee. The whoops became a roar of approval as Nikoko suddenly stood and held Nigel's amputated sex parts high in the air to display them, blood curling down his powerful arm as the still erect but wilting penis drained.

A warrior accepted the organs in a bowl and hurried off towards a cooking fire as Nikoko turned again to Nigel. He pressed the point of the knife to the teen's flat gut just within his pubic brush and drove it in an inch or two. Then he began pulling it upwards, slicing the screaming boy open, gutting him alive. His entrails began to spill out and warriors used their hands to seize these and pull them fully forth. Nigel lived an amazingly long time as his abdominal cavity was cleaned out, ceasing his weakening screams only when Nikoko finally reached into his chest and tore out his still beating heart.

Nigel's carcass was removed from the frame and carted off to be skinned and stuffed with fruit, his head, feet and hands chopped off before he was deposited in the roasting pit. Andrew was brought forth and strapped onto the bamboo posts and Jakombo repeated Nikoko's work, slowly castrating the dark-haired soldier while the crowd screamed approval, then gutting him alive. Shortly his dressed carcass was being deposited in a second cooking pit.

My heart was pounding with anticipation as Peter was brought out and placed on the frame. Jakombo handed me the knife and took up a heated, glowing iron from the campfire.

"You take the boy's manhood, but do not slice him open."

I was just a bit disappointed. I had been looking forward to slitting the boy's smooth, flat gut and eventually ripping out his still beating heart, but I was also excited to see what was in store for the blond stud.

I had never castrated a man before. I found it to be one of the most exhilerating and erotic experiences I have ever known.

When I had Peter's organs in my tight grip, the vulnerable neck exposed, I looked up into his blue eyes. He was staring down in abject horror as I brought the knife between his thighs and began to scream as I started the cut. There was a great deal of blood, of course, and it coursed in steady, pulsing spurts from the widening wound, curling down my wrist and dripping to the ground.

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Though I deliberately cut as slow as I possibly could to protract the Englishman's suffering, eventually the big organs came loose in my hand and I raised them high to show the crowd, loving the delighted reaction. Jakombo, in the meantime, darted in with his glowing iron and thrust it to the spurting wound where Peter's sex organs had been. There was smoke and the stench of burning and Peter fainted.

The boy was unbound, revived and then tied stretched out between two bamboo poles. Warriors began vigorously rubbing his skin with salt-encrusted damp cloths abrading it until it was so thin it barely covered the muscles beneath. Then various spices were rubbed in all over his body. Slices of fruit were forced one after the other up his rectum until his belly was clearly stuffed almost to bursting. All of this was, of course, dreadfully painful and I enjoyed watching the process, even assisting in forcing fruit chunks up inside his tight little anus. He was moaning and squealing more or less continually.

Finally his living carcass was smeared with some kind of sticky buttery basting mixture and the poles were hefted up and taken to a thick bed of red hot coals. The ends of the poles were cradled on a bar running parallel to the ground between two upright bamboo posts suspending the castrated soldier's legs, buttocks and back a foot or so over the coals. His head was kept away from the heat and I realized that was to keep him living longer as he was cooked alive!

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Every few minutes they turned the frame so that his front was roasted evenly with his rear. The basting mix was continually reapplied and soon Peter's sweating juices were pouring forth to boil and sizzle in the coals. As the cooking progressed, the air was filled with the most delicious aroma. It made my mouth water.

I learned later that Peter had been given another of Jakombo's herbal mixes that somehow prevented him from fainting or going into shock as he was cooked. It slowed his bodily functions enough to keep him living for a remarkably long time, moaning pitifully in some half-dazed state. He was still fully concious when the first layers of his buttock and thigh muscles were done to a golden brown and thin strips were sliced from him bringing forth feeble flinches and groans.

I sampled a few bites of both the glute and thigh meat and found it wonderful. Jakombo made a short, shallow slice in the teen's belly and very carefully removed a small bit of that meat for me. He was right. It really was the best! It literally melted in my mouth. He also made a tiny incision just below Peter's right nipple and extracted just a nice bite of pec for me to sample as well. It was a close second to the belly meat.

I was pleased that Peter was still living when they brought the penises and balls to Nikoko, Jakombo and I. The sex orbs had been roasted en scrotum in some kind of herbal sauce and when the crinkled, parchment-like bag was slit open, savory steam poured forth. The testicles had shrivled a bit and were just about the right size to be taken as a small mouthful. They were juicy and tangy, with a taste all their own as I fished each one out and consumed it right before Peter's staring blue eyes.

His penis had been skinned, veined and roasted on a stick inserted the length of the piss tube. I showed it to Peter before I slit off the crown head and popped it into my mouth.

He died just seconds later, his last sight that of his sex pole being eaten.

Peter was devoured bit by bit as each successive layer of his meat was done. By the time he had been reduced to his skeleton, there was dancing and celebration until Andrew and Nigel were fully cooked. To a great cheer their steaming carcasses were produced and the feast began in earnest. I was surprised at how much meat there really is on a fine strapping teenaged boy. Noone went away hungry. Because I was a guest, Jakombo insisted that I be given all of the sweet belly meat that I could devour. I wasn't sure whether it was Nigel or Andrew upon whom I was dining but it obviously didn't matter.

When I drifted off to sleep that night I had the most extraordinary dream. I had returned to the N'Kibo, bringing a dozen tall, wonderfully built German teenaged boys, mediocre students whom I had tricked into coming to Africa with me. The warriors were overjoyed when they viewed the fresh-faced Nordic angels trudging along behind me. When I confronted Jakombo I turned to the nearest boy and put my arm around his shoulders as I brought him forward. I had instructed all the young louts that N'Kibo tradition required visitors to demonstrate that they came in peace by stripping naked and presenting their bodies for inspection to assure there were no hidden weapons.

While the bulk of my young gifts eagerly peeled off their clothing, I personally stripped the boy I had selected for Jakombo. When at last I drew down the teen's underwear and he stepped free of them, I saw the amazement in Jakombo's eyes as he viewed the mammoth genitals between this youth's thighs. As the naked boy stared at me with puzzled blue eyes I ran an admiring hand over his pecs and flat belly. Jakombo replaced my hand with his while I drew the boy's hands behind his back to bind them. He was watching the black warrior and wondering why he was licking his lips as he gently felt his tender young belly.

This boy was taken directly to the castrating frame while a bed of coals was prepared. He began to scream hysterically as he realized what was about to be done with him. Jakombo and I dined on him that very night in celebration of my return while the rest of the warriors eagerly began preparing the other boys for the feasts to follow in coming days. I was declared a god by my grateful N'Kibo friends. I awakened with a massive erection and actually salivating.