Tuesday, March 28, 2017

Roper 10 - The Beach

"Do you think he is dead?"

"Get away from the alcohol sick person honey."

"But mum, I think he is dead! He smells bad!"

"It is not polite to say things like that honey."

I opened my eyes and starred right into the scrutinizing face of a little girl in bathing suit and sun hat. I focused and the stick she was about to poke my face with came into vision. She followed my gaze, looked at me, looked back at the stick and then poked my forehead.

"Are you dead or just drunk?"


"I honestly do not know."

"Hm, why do you sleep under a boat?"

Two well manicured hands came into vision and pulled the little girl up and out of vision. I could swear that the stick made some poking motions as she went up.

"Now, what did I tell you about being unpolite to the poor, homeless people?"

The little girl looked at me over her mums tanned shoulder with a distatisfied expression. When she saw me, her face lit up and she made some more poking motions with the stick.

Her mums got a great ass on her. Nice.

"I see you made friends with the locals, better get up from there before someone calls the coppers!"

L. hiking shoes talked to me from the other side of the upturned boat and I crawled towards them.

An unreal beautiful  Danish summer sun graced the flawless beach of North Zealand with warmth and gave the water a  deep blue colour.

L. stood with a brown paper bag and two tetra packs with cacao. A mouth watering smell of buns and cynamon rolls emitted from the bag.

"Got breakfast! Come, there is a bench up there!"

He pointed to a path leading from the beach up to the Beech Forest. God, could it be more of a Danish stereotype?

The air smelled of sea side and the birds chirped in the trees. I sunk my teeth into the best buns I had for years and took a sip of my cacao. Some upper class girls with long sunburned legs and boobs to kill for went by and waved hello to us. Could life be more perfect?

"You probably wanna read this!" L. said and shoved an opened Ekstra Bladet in my face.

NEW NORDIC ROCKER WAR - Unknown Organisation At War With Scandinavias Largest Rocker Group.

My cinnamon roll turned to ash in my mouth.

I grabbed the newspaper and unwelcome pictures flashed from last night returned to memory.

Pictures! Oh my god! Pictures! Pictures of us taken from a CCTV camera at Copenhagens Main Train Station. This one showed how we ran away from a large group of Rockers and out on the street.

They had been waiting for us there, so many....and also at the other train stations where the trains going to Sweden or over the Great Belt took off.

Fucking Bikers EVERYWHERE.

Another picture showed our faces. Oh god, shit, fuck, shitfuck. Our faces! I took a deep breath and then looked again: Our faces actually only were black and white blurs. You`d had to know us very well to recognize us.

I looked at L. who opened a tiny package with cheese and carefully put it on a bun.

"Where the fuck are we?"

He looked at me, munching, and then lit up.

Took the paper bag from the bakery and read the bakeries logo.

"We`re in Gilleleje."

"Gilleleje? As in expensive-ass-summer-houses-Gilleleje??"

"Yes. It IS nice here no?"

"Shit! That's like far away from everything!!"

"Yeah, that was a long night!"

The little girl from before and her mum came up from the beach.

"Now, be nice to the underprivileged Clara!"

"Goodbye homeless persons! I hope you don't get Hepatitis!"

L. spewed crumbs as he smiled and waved.

"Thank you little girl! Have a nice summer!"

"Clara! What DID I tell you..."

"But you SAID they could have Hepatitis and...!"

"Quiet now honey!" the mum flashed an apologetic movie star smile "I am so sorry!"

"No problem at all!"

Monday, March 27, 2017

Roper 9 - Airplane Graveyard

We were playing Viking Chess on the left wing of a jumbo jet with small O2 cylinders as soldiers.

The Mandrake, princess of darkness,  tried to tune in on one of the few free radio stations the regime hadn't closed down yet.

She looked comfortable, leaning against the fuselage close to the emergency exit and gave L. the occasional, cat like stare. These stares always ended up with her shacking her head a bit, just as to ask herself what the hell was going on here.

I won and killed the King with an underhand throw...not bad at all if I may say.

We both joined The Mandrake in the shadow.

"Any luck?"

"Not at all, maybe at night. Amplitude modulation is a real bitch in these parts. I think I may have gotten Radio Free Germany, but they only managed to broadcast for a few minutes."

It is easy to forget that The Mandrake was communications Engineer before we pulled the plug on the Web, now she is operating with a crank powered SW/AM/FM radio and tried to figure what happened in the world.

I guess the last 8 days went on her nerves too, even though she seemed magically untouched by the desert, the heat, sun, the cramped living conditions and the weird tasting, condensed  water we harvested from aircraft wings before the sun got up. The whole idea was one of these weird things L. could fish out of his ocean deep collection of useless knowledge.

Well, whooping 30 L per wing gave us more than enough for hygiene.

But that did not justify The Mandrakes near magic ability to repel dirt molecules who dared to enter her gothic-negativity force field: Her tight fitting goth clothes were as flawless as the day we met her.

She did however let go of her make up and I could see that some very brave UV rays managed to leave a bit of colour on her face.

"Any luck on the police band?" L. asked. He fished one of the new Lariats out of his backpack and did that little cowboy trick James Dean did in "Giants".

The Mandrakes eyes went very hungry all of a sudden and her whole body radiated an unambigious message: "Oh yeah, that's the STUFF!"

Poor girl had the weirdest fetish I could think off. And looking at her,  moving closer to L. I knew, that sounds ... as if someone tried to balance a cat on a red-hot poker will be shacking the desert night again.

Probably a good night to try and sleep that Air Emirates plane .

"Ehm..." she licked her lips, visibly trying to concentrate "nope, we...YOU are still shit hot on all police bands. The GOOD news being that the bikers have buried the war axe and formed one big one. Serving the regime and finding you being agenda number one."

"Yay" L . said and let a figure eight knot magically appear on the rope.

Poor girl was going to be dehydrated if he kept that up.

She focused on me:

"When will your girl show up? I thought we only would stay here for 3 days?!"

I starred at the horizon, the sun was about to set and bathe the whole landscape in that orange/violet colour. Magic hour.

"I have no idea"

Roper 8 - Mafiosi Girl

"You OK there Big Guy?"

Loud retching noises from behind the bush.

She turned towards me.

"He`ll live. Pass it on man!"

I gave her the doobie.

She inhaled and let the smoke cycle between nose and mouth. Exhaled.

"So let me get this straight: You are the two guys from the News? And that from that youtube video, where basically every biker club on this planet promised full membership and a bike for killing you? THOSE  guys?"

More retching.

"Hey, I did not kick THAT hard big guy!" looking at me "I find that hard to believe!"

Not only her.


I flipped some doobie crumgs away and rested both palms on the sun warm trunk of the car.

"It was kind of not our fault and..."

Laughter. As crystal clear and cruel as a Finnish winter night.

"Yes, you poor boys kind of just ran right into that!"

More smoke cycling between her mouth and nose. How did she DO that?!

"And then you kind of just "ran into" some Chechnyan Mafiosi, and those Mafiosi end up beaten to a pulp at a rastplatz without guns, shoes or money"

An elegant foot touched the army green canvas bag I myself did not knew the existence of, until M. hauled it out from the backseat in search for her "fucking clothes". It was full of guns, knifes, wallet and shoes. L. had been very busy during my black out.

"I must admit, your cover is near perfect. Anybody would mistake you guys for some idiots. Right down to the stupid faces and big uglies" she pointed towards the bush "cheap prescription glasses. I seen a lot of heavy hitters in my life. But you guys take the price. Wow, consider me swimming in my panties."

For some reason my face felt very hot all of a sudden. Heavy hitters? Panties? How old WAS she? 21? 23? 130?

"Ehm, yeah. We are ..."

"Hey, don't tell me. I know how it is. Just tell me who...and you only have to nod here...did my mother hire you?"


"Yeah? She did, didn't she?"

"Ehr, no...not really. WHO are you really?"

Scrutinating, deep blue eyes from a ...(Asian? European?) dark little doll like face.

"Ok, I respect that. Professionals" she sighed "Ok, just to make my mum...or whoever your employer is happy: I am..."

She kept on for 3 minutes in which my testicles shrivelled to a pea size and the puking behind the bush intensified with every word.

Friday, March 24, 2017

Roper 7 - The Garden

Ahh, happiness is summer, a garden and being unemployed!

I was floating in the grotesque large, inflatable pool we bought together as compensation for a precarious monetary situation preventing us from having a proper vacation. High Impact UV bathing in the generous Danish summer sun, watching the con trails of passing planes above me.

Wondering who sat there, where they were going and how much I wished I was in one of those magical flying tubes

The water was warm , and since my ears were submerged,  gave Moby a certain sound as he was squatting in our little boom box. Telling us that he died all the time in his dreams.


Oh god!



For fucks sake!

I lifted my head reluctantly, carful not to destroy the fragile balance that could destroy "the perfect float". A perfect balance of my bodies buoyancy and the weight of my drink on my belly. Something as hard to achieve as "the perfect grove" in L.`s amazing Fat Boy bean bags, he bought when he found out that his ex owned all the furniture.

There he was, throwing his Lasso against the 2 m wooden pole he dug down there in that magic spot in the garden hidden from outside observers. And also the only spot he took his shirt off. EVER.

This has been going on since May now and I started to react bitchy to the sound of that rope hitting the pole.

I guess a lot of people react differently during or after a traumatic break up. L. just found a book about western riding in our towns great library and started to throw rope against inanimate objects.

What then tipped him over for good was the loss of his job.

Jeeez. You don't see me crying because I am not allowed to prostitute myself the system

As irritating his coping mechanism was, I must admit that I kind of envied the results a bit: He seemed to have been losing a lot of weight in the 6 weeks this has been going on. Even though he needed to do something about that I-just-discovered-internet-porn right arm of his: Since he threw with his right arm it has gotten pretty defined compared to the left one.

"You ok there?"

As he looked up I could see that he was in that trance like state that monotonous throwing put him in.

Damn, I hope no bitch will ever do this to me.....and if it happens to me, than please because Kylie Minoque broke up with me. And not some plump gal with bad skin, who lived on L.s half of  our (rented) house, until she decided to have sucked him dry enough and then fuck off.

The weird, empty look disappeared (later as I read "The Gunslinger" by King I would finally have a name for that look..) and he came over, looking around if not any of the neighbour girls would see him.

Rolling over the edge of the pool he dived for a second and surfaced again. This pool was really a giant fucker! 5000 L !

"Landlord was here earlier and asked about the pool, he checked the water counter.."

"Oh shit, what you say?"

" I told him we used the gutters from the roof to collect the water."

I starred at him, sometimes L. could surprise me with an involuntary form of genius I highly appreciated when it surfaced.

In fact we have taken the water from two neighbouring houses in a night-and-fog operation using some cheap, interconnected hoses bought in the same supermarket we bought the pool in.

But what the Landlord does not know will not hurt him.

"My man! Any luck job hunting?"

L. suffered from the delusion that showing up at the unemployment office actually achieved something.

He sighed and leaned back.

"No, and man..I worry!"

That's no news.

"I don't get it: You have 3,5 years left of your unemployment insurance scheme....enjoy it man!!"

"Yeah, after the rent for that fucker" he pointed at the house "I have more than enough for social life and cool stuff!"

"Well" I said " I have not been lazy and worked hard, HARD I say on my hobophobia!"


I reached behind me and pulled out a freezer bag full of weed.

"You haven't ..."

"Yes, yes I did! While you have been at the office hunting for an opportunity to degrade yourself for mammon I took some of our assets and exchanged it for necessities! Not a mean feat I dare say since the derelict I bought if from, down at the harbour transported these nice, juicy buds in his undergarments! But I guess the heat will take care of the hepatitis!"

"Ehh...how much money do we have for the re..."

"Don't ask..if shit hits the fan we can always go and eat at the homeless shelter"

"Oh god" L said and let himself submerge in the water.

I took one doobie already rolled, lit and waited until he surfaced.




"Hey E.?"


"We are not losers right?"

"Pffff, fuck you! Im in the post labelling phase of my life!"


"Hey L? Lets play THE BIG BLUE!"

"Shit yes!"

The Tinder Rasp & The Tinder Cloth

In my article The Survival Bread I demonstrated how bread can be made from rasped tree bark

Later it turned out that the flour / rasp was excellent as tinder. Then, some while ago I made The Torch by wrapping waxed cloth around a stick.

I had some leftovers from said cloth and had the idea to put the tinder on the cloth to see what happened: Turned out that the combination of both is a really good fire starter!

Rasp tinder + waxed cloth =
Total Success!

In the picture: DIY tinder rasp, rasp, was cloth and a flint striker.

The wax cloth fulfils two functions:
a) It keeps the tinder dry from the moist ground
b) It keeps the tinder burning for up to ten minutes
Here I make tree flour / tinder with the tinder rasp.
The rasp will be collected in the jam jar.
How the lid looks like: Check my article The Survival Bread
on how I made it.
That`s a whole bunch of tinder / flour!

Enough talk! Let`s set fire to it!

Works every time!

After 5 minutes: Lots of time to carefully feed the fire.

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Roper 6 - The Gun

"Steady, steady...easy does it!"

I could see the gun follow the centre line of my body and come to rest at a point between my eyes as I distributed my bodyweight evenly on bend knees, with one arm stretched out like a fencer to maintain balance.

"That's was not half bad! Now hold!"

I could see his hand coming from the right side of the mirror, placing a finger long cartridge on top of my revolver.

"Don't concentrate on my hand! Concentrate on yours! Now cock it lad!"

My thumb found the giant hammer of the revolver and slowly began to pull it back. I struggled to focus from my image in the mirror to the cartridge in front of my face.

"Keep your hands levelled, damn your eyes! You will hear if it if you make mistakes!"

The drum turned with the satisfactory, well oiled click of supreme workmanship and I almost dared to hope when I heard the cartridge fell on the cool tiles with a heavy, rich sound only brass can make.

Left arm trembling and legs slightly shacking, I slowly lowered the Casull back into position with the barrel pointing half a meter from my forward left foot.

"No worries, you`ll get there!" Travis said, leaning heavy on his cane as he picked up the empty cartridge from the one and only time I actually shot this monster.

I followed him out to the balcony, I was briefly blinded as we went from the rooms relative dimness to the brutal brightness off a summer day at the Horn Of Africa.

A trolley with refreshments stood at the ready and the white clad & heavily armed Major Domo served ice cold orange juice as we sat down.

I leaned back and seen L. lying in a giant silk hammock hung between two poles, ten meters from the shore. One foot lazily hanging in the grotesque blue water.

I could faintly hear fragments of a reggae song coming from his primitive, water proof mobile phone over the surf.

".....Natty dread has gone..."

True, true.

For someone who accidentally bombed the world back to 1992 he was awfully relaxed. His phone might be one of a few thousand in actual working condition. Planet wide.  But now without any network it could only serve as music box or ebook reader.

"When will you finally let me shoot?" I asked Travis and drank my juice, you never tasted oranges before you haven't plucked themselves from a garden under the Somali sky.

"Why waste the bullets? First you need to learn to HOLD a gun before you get to SHOOT one! But don't worry, you`ll get there....in...ehrm...lets say 5000-6000 repetitions!"

"Great!" I said. Travis gnarled face suddenly became about 35 years younger and I knew who walked up behind me.

Brace, brace, brace.

Suddenly nimble as a forest creature he got up and elegantly pulled one of the colonial style, cast iron garden chairs out for M. who sat down in one fluent moment.

I tried not to stared at the cute piercing in her belly bottom which seemed to have a nice life on her well tanned abdomen. Africa became her well. Then again, she was fine no matter where she went.

She bent over and kissed the old man lightly on the cheek and gave me a bemused smile reducing me to a retard...as usual.

"How is the artillery training going?" She asked sipping her juice.

"Not bad, not bad. I just wish he would have chosen something more practical!" He nodded to the .454`er hanging in its holster over my chairs back. The "15 barrel almost touching the floor.

"Yeah E. are you compensating for something?" M. asked as she took one lazy sip from her straw with her eyes fixed on mine.

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

Roper 5 - The Girl In the Trunk

I frantically checked if other people had heard the yelling.

L. was frantically operating the pumping handle of the spray bottle with Ammonium Hydroxide.

"You want to spray her with that?!"

"Just if she`s hostile!"

Ammonium Hydroxide was what L. used on the Russians earlier, I guess "Russian Acidhead" had a new meaning now.

"Hey Dickheads! I can hear you! Spray me with what?!!"

"Dude, she`s just a girl and her hands are tied behind her back" I said.

Suddenly a series of grunts and curses were audible from the Beamers spacious trunk.

"Quick! Open!" L . said holding the pressurized pesticide bottle ready.

I tried but the trunk did not open.

"Shit, I try from the drivers side!"

I found the little discrete lever and pulled and just managed to look back when the trunk popped open.

I know it sounds weird: But I fell in love with her when her right foot came flying out of the trunk in a graceful, powerful ark and connected with L. Solar Plexus.

If I was a samurai I probably would have written poems about that kick: Like cherry blossoms in the summer wind, fragile yet monumental.

L. flew back with an unarticulated "UARGHH" sound  and disappeared out of view.

A furious, dark skinned girl came jumping out. The gag only half hanging from her face and her hands now in front of her. I have never seen someone so angry and tried to back out but was stopped by the open drivers door.

She followed me around, furious and not the least bit scared. Holding her hands out in front of her.

"YOU! Get those off me NOW you fucking bastard or I will SCREAM!"

Roper 4 - Poros

I had short notice coming here, since she first managed to call ahead from a phone booth in Piraeus. Greece`s telephone net was one of the first ones to get back on, but was still shaky in the sprawl areas of Athens. 

I had a comfortable view on the ferry arriving at the port from where I sat, pretending to read my dog eared novel with yellow pages.

The whole process of the ferry turning rapidly in the small harbour and stopping its turn, by unceremoniously dropping its stern ramp onto the pier to STOP the turn, made my teeth hurt:

The the sound of metal grinding against concrete was that of a giant rusty nail scratching a football field sized blackboard.

When the concrete dust settled the first on foot passengers came out, the usual amount of NW European refugees and a few tourists from the mainland. As usual when I saw M. my belly turned into a tight knot. The hot weather did not stop her from wearing the cracked/spotty leather jacked and her only admission to the climate were the huge 70`ies pilot sunglasses covering most of her upper face.

That could prove to be an advantage since her eyes usually turned me into an idiot within seconds. And I needed my whole wit for this. I dropped my novel ("Omega Conspiracy" somethingsomething) and tried to move naturally as I maneauvered out of the café. Or: as naturally as possible with the revolvers flute sized barrel practically immobilizing my right side. Wearing a calf leather holster in these parts under a oversized polo shirt is not a joke, I tell you that.

As I stepped out into the sun I noticed that L. was also in position. That man showed a heroic amount of dedication and simultaneous capacity as he managed to keep an eye on me and the pier AND keep his groupie entertained who looked as she was swimming in her tight garments by just looking at him.

(Very much so to the bewilderment of the muscular, tanned group of "Stavros`es" who were exhausting themselves flexing their muscles and couldn't grasp that "the Groupie" only had eyes for her sweating borderline chubby idol who was radiating an aura of  "socially awkward recluse" with 500 Watt.)


M. stood in the shade of the large, wooden billboard painted up like a facebook profile and with hundreds of notes and scraps of paper serving as "status updates". I guess the islands millenials, refugees and occasional tourist really missed social media.

She eyed me, took the glasses of and granted me with a porcelain blue stare with just the right amount bemusement and mischief that made my knees wobble.


Not this time!

A wry smile and a nod to my polo shirt: "Jeeeez, E. Are you THAT happy to see me again? That Swedish penis pump regime really worked wonders huh?"

I fought a smile back on its place, ouch...that gotta hurt tomorrow.....and was in a mental state somewhere between nodding like an idiot or slapping her face.

She noticed and took it back a notch, and just looked at me with the head slightly askew. Pondering. She turned her head whipping her blueish-black hair in a pony tail towards me.

Damn that hair smelled good....just the right amount of sun, fresh sweat and that weird Yemenite perfume.

STOP IT...count to 10.

"I see L. and the Mandrake are here as well. What a happy little family reunion this is!"

"Sure" I said, kicking myself mentally over the shins. "You called, you came, we meet. What`s up. You here to give us our money back?"

She stopped starring at L. and his groupie aka "Mandrake" and smiled again. For full force.

"Well, as a matter of fact.." she said and moved her right hand holding a plastic bag in Hellenic Colours. First now I noticed the slim, ceramic monofilament wire running from a cuff at her writs to a compact little suitcase in the bag.

"...yes. And then some interest!"

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

These Boots Are Made For Walking

I am not the greatest advocate for the concept of "bugging out" (leaving your home with a maximum of equipment, relocating to a safe place). And unless a radioactive cloud is drifting our way, a horde of raiding Mongols is at the doorstep or we are under risk of being black bagged due to our political/religious views.......I do not see any reason to leave.

The whole "Bugging In VS. Bugging Out" topic is discussed with religious fervor, especially those who by default pack their family and run to the woods when the lights go out are fast calling those who disagrees "idiots" or "sheeple". 

One tries to explain that it takes several square kilometers of forest to feed one person, not to mention a family. Usually you get an ancestral anecdote at this point, about a grandfather who managed to feed a large family by birch bark, slugs and prayers.

This is usually meant to make you/me shut up and feel bad because I am such a "civilization cripple" and a "soft Scandinavian"".

But if you dig a bit deeper you will find out that those actually have no plan apart from posting impressive pictures of themselves in camo gear and "tactical" (as opposed to "practical") backpack on some forum.

But lets get back to the topic before I start an endless rant about "Facebook Preppers" .

You cant build a house without a strong foundation, and you can not walk longer distances without proper footwear..or at least be less comfortable (Yes, I used the word "comfortable" !).

I have been walking quite a lot lately and I will only let the best and most comfortable footwear touch my sensible feet..why make it harder on myself?

So, you need a pair of boots.  Since feet are as individual as thumbprints you should go to a professional and get some advise.

I strongly advise you to:

- not to buy a set of cool looking "tactical" boots because they are advocated for on some forum.

- do not go cheap...everyone I walked +20 km with over the last year regretted their purchase/use of outlet foot coffins.

You can cut corners on knife purchases but not on your boots:-)

Personally I like Ecco boots: I like the comfort and durability.
This is the pair I am using right now to prepare myself for the Dodentocht walk in August.
This picture is taken in 2013 right after I bought them.

And this picture shows them how they look now:
Bit scraped and dirty but still in good shape after 3 years of use/abuse.

The inside of the boot is still smooth and clean: No risk for blisters.

Hand on my heart: The Ecco BIOM Terrain are the best boots I ever owned.

So I went out and bought a similar pair!

This one is also made out of Yak leather which makes the boot virtually bulletproof.

So I have a pair of boots for everyday use / training and a set of "bugging out" boots.

Personally I do not hope that I/we have to bug out on foot, I prefer to use our bicycles and the trailers/bags we can use in connection with them.

See: Bugging Out By Bike

However, you should buy a set of boots suiting your individual needs (go to a Orthopedician and get some correctional inlets or soles if need be) and walk a 10 km distance at leastonce a week. Only then you will be sure that your boots will be ready when you need them.

Monday, March 20, 2017

How My Swiss Tool Saved My Daugthers Life

I think that, for a great part, the fascination with EDC comes from a deep rooted desire of "saving the day" and win the admiration of all girls in the room by whipping out just the RIGHT high-in-demand item in a crisis situation. The unlikely odds doesn't stop most of us: Wearing equipment heavy cargo pants rendering us semi immobile (and get weird looks at social events) ...because hey:
I own a multi tool too: It`s great, magnificent...build by white clad tech-monks in a secret Swiss research facility in the Reduite somewhere. And so heavy and expensive that I never care to carry it with me. So it has a comfortable life as conversation starter on a shelf in our living room.
That's one heavy lump of Swiss beauty.
BUT I actually saved my youngest daughter from asphyxiation last summer using that said multi tool:
My hopeful spawn managed to shove a piece of crayon up her nose, so large in fact that it would not come out again.
The crayon reacted with the mucus in her nose and became extremely slippery and impossible to grab.
Every attempt to get it out just shoved up more, the crayon started to dissolve and the slime started to block her airways (my wife called the ambulance right away before it managed to get so far) so I asked for the Swiss Tool because it has a slim set of pliers with a good grip etched onto the tip.
And the only thing I could think of at that moment (tunnel view and all).
And I got it! It was probably very painful for her but I got that f...g piece of murderous crayon out of her before something could happen I rather NOT think about.
Trust me: That "happy" face of mine
is a shock reaction.

Sunday, March 19, 2017

IKEA Cooking Gear

I  think IKEA has unknowingly equipped many a survivalist or prepper (yes, there is a difference) with low price / high quality outdoor gear.The IKEA Hobo Stove for instance.
Anyhow, as a Scandinavian expat and survivalist in Poland a trip to IKEA is not only agony for me: Most curtain rods in there make awesome blowguns....and it`s one of the few places in Poland where I can buy LICORICE and Marabou chocolate....oh baby!
Anyhow, I found this little cooking gear...for kids.
I liked the quality of the set: Thick walled steel, the pots have the capacity of a small Kelly Kettle Pot Set and the price is below 8 Euro.
So not much lost by buying a set and put it to the test.
Naturally I can not make a judgment on one test, so this is the first of many ( I hope).
But I can say so much that I was pretty pleased with the results of the first test.

"Duktig" is Swedish for: good, capable, efficient, smart, 
brave, powerful, useful and strong.
Big words for a cooking set for kids!

Hey, that`s my age group! And boys like cooking too! 😁

All 5 components are made out of sturdy steel.

This is how The IKEA Hobo Stove looks like after
nearly 3 years of heavy use.

The pot holder is made out of a coat hanger.

"Why don`t you cut a window on the side of the hobo stove? It is much
better because you can ad fuel while cooking!"

Answer: Because then I can not put so much fuel in to the stove. 
More fuel = longer fire=no need for window.

Time for moose soup!
The DUKTIG pot fits perfect in the hobo stove.
Capacity: 450 ml

My favourite!

And an egg to keep the protein/carb balance!