When, If Ever, Is Anger an Appropriate Response?
Dear readers, I think we need to accept that anger is a natural human or animalistic reaction when our emotions have been provoked, inflicted by someone, an undesired fate or disappointment in our lives, or maybe news of something we don’t like. Wars, policies, corruption. Also, everyday life. Things and people irritate the shit out of us. Traffic, behaviour, attitudes. We’re all human, we are all fallible from time to time. I guess it’s how we manifest and express that anger, that we should be asking. Is it ever appropriate to shout or scream or be aggressive or inflict violence because we can’t control our emotions or accept an outcome that is deemed unfavourable? It can be looked at from an individual’s or a group’s perspective. How many times have we seen a whole country or tribe inflict extreme violence or genocide against another in human history? Look at what’s happening in Gaza right now. I’m sure we can find certain circumstances to show anger, such as exacting revenge or overcoming a perceived injustice. This happens with unfortunate frequency in Honduras, especially due to the impunity of the authorities. Police don’t lift a finger to resolve a murder or violation, which leaves a family or gang no other option but to take the law into their own hands and seek their own form of justice. Hiring a hitman is cheap I hear; sadly, as is the value of life. When I was younger, I used to fly off the handle a lot. It was mainly immaturity and impatience, but the amount of times I lost it and regretted it made me understand the need to stop, breathe, and reflect, or simply move away from a situation. I also saw how other people lost it, ended up in trouble with the law or their workplace, lost friendships or partnerships, and the reasons for the outbursts were never worth the consequences. These were important lessons for me to witness and learn from others’ mistakes. I guess I learned to be assertive and build healthy boundaries with people who test my patience, or simply walk away from those who are toxic, and learn to forgive. It’s about realising our ego and weaknesses and learning techniques to communicate and channel anger in a controlled way. In short, it’s about turning weakness into strength. I can still lose my shit on bad days, but they are very few, I’m pleased to say. But going back to the question of if it is ever appropriate to show anger, I guess, as stated above, we can find situations where we would express anger, or look back and justify our behaviour when we have lost our temper. But was it worth the surge in energy? What did the stress do for you? Have you ever seen an angry person and wish to adopt that lifestyle? Obviously, not. Instead of finding excuses to express anger, we should ask how we can channel this surge into something positive. It’s easier said than done, and I’m certainly not suggesting that we shouldn’t ignore our anger or be passive about it. That’s how people often turn angry and strange because they can’t find output to the pent-up anger, which manifests into other health problems, such as tumours and rashes, I believe. (Doctors are probably shaking their reads reading this). However, it is kind of transforming the yin into the yang, turning something dark into something bright, a heavyweight into proactivity. I’m no expert, and I also struggle to practice what I preach. However, I do remember reading an interview in The Guardian back in 2019 with the French footballer Thierry Henry, a man I’ve always admired both for his skills and goals, and his punditry. I remember him discussing how he used anger from growing up in poverty in Paris as a driving force to push himself forward. Instead of letting anger consume him, he learned to channel it into improving his performance on the pitch, pushing himself to reach higher levels and achieve success, a key aspect of his mindset. The article has sat with me ever since and helped me in my daily life. In short, and rather self-mocking, Monsieur Henry changed my life. So, here is my answer. Is an expression of anger ever appropriate? Of course, but maybe it is better to manifest that energy in another area of our life. Maybe we will find more success. Maybe we will be more like Thierry Henry. This question is from the book Question Yourself by Dave Edelstein and I. C. Robledo.
Hasta la Raíz by Natalia Lafourcade
Dear readers, It’s another song. A profound one. Hasta la Raíz. It was released almost 10 years ago by the majestic Natalia Lafourcade, a Mexican musician and songwriter. I have always known the song was there. The oh-uh-oh, uh-uh-oh, oh-oh bridge is a kind of harmonic earworm which I don’t mind swirls around my head for a good few hours. Then, in the last month or so, I was in a coffee shop named Varietal in Tegucigalpa that I frequent regularly to do remote work and just relax and scoff their cheesecakes with gastronomic lust. The baristas have a great music taste, and on this particular afternoon close before closing my laptop for the day, this song came along on the playlist. As stated, I’ve always known the song was there and it’s such a pleasant earworm, but I’d never paid much attention to the lyrics. Since then, they’ve haunted me, but in such a profound way. Hasta la Raíz I keep crossing rivers, walking jungles, loving the sunSigo cruzando ríos, andando selvas, amando el solEvery day I continue to get thorns from the depths of the heartCada día sigo sacando espinas de lo profundo del corazón At night I keep lighting dreams to clean with the sacred smoke, every memoryEn la noche sigo encendiendo sueños para limpiar con el humo sagrado, cada recuerdo When I write your name in the white sand, with a blue backgroundCuando escriba tu nombre en la arena blanca, con fondo azulWhen I look at the sky in the cruel way from a gray cloud, you appearCuando mire el cielo en la forma cruel de una nube gris, aparezcas túOne afternoon I climbed a high hill look at the past, you will know that I have not forgotten youUna tarde suba una alta loma mire el pasado, sabrás que no te he olvidado Chorus I carry you insideTe llevo dentroto the rootHasta la raízAnd, no matter how much I growY, por más que crezcaYou’re going to be hereVas a estar aquí Although I hide behind the mountain and find a field full of caneAunque yo me oculte tras la montaña y encuentre un campo lleno de cañaThere will be no way, my moonbeam, for you to leaveNo habrá manera, mi rayo de luna, que tú te vayas Bridge Oh-uh-oh-oh, oh-ohOh-uh-oh-oh, oh-ohOh-uh-oh-oh, oh-ohOh-uh-oh-oh, oh-oh I think that every moment survived while walking Pienso que cada instante sobrevivido al caminarAnd every second of uncertainty every moment of not knowingY cada segundo de incertidumbre cada momento de no saberThey are the exact key to this fabric what I am carrying under my skinSon la clave exacta de este tejido que ando cargando bajo la pielThis is how I protect you, here you are still inside, Así te protejo, aquí sigues dentro, Chorus Chorus repeated Bridge Chorus Like all forms of art, you can resonate with the words in different ways. For me, it makes me think of those who I love and cherish, but for one reason or another, aren’t physically close, but remain part of me, spiritually or metaphysically. An unbreakable bond, so to speak. It captures themes of love, heartbreak and resilience, reflecting a deep connection to her roots and identity. Lafourcade described the song as a journey through her emotions and experiences, which I certainly identify with, especially the heartbreak and resilience, as do many who enjoy the song, which I believe is key to the song’s huge popularity. It is a certainty in life that we will suffer loss at some point, yet the song gives a sense of comfort and healing to move on. It’s rare a song can have such a deep impact on me, both lyrically and through its soft folkloric melody, but it also has a wonderful feminine touch. Thoughts of my dad, family and friends across the world, former loves, partners or colleagues or children and youths I’ve worked with, wondering what they are doing with themselves when I hear the song. I then came across a version on YouTube, created by a number of artists throughout Latin America through a multimedia musical project called Playing for Change, a project to inspire, connect, and bring peace to the world through music. Usually, I’m a bit skeptical of projects like this for some reason, but this version blows me away, especially reading it is a tribute on International Day of the Disappeared (which falls on 30th August) to those who are missing or suffering the loss of someone who has disappeared, whether it be armed conflict, climatic reasons or missing en-route to the US. At the beginning of the video are some accounts of people who have loved ones missing. It hits me deeply. It reminds me of the dozens of people I have met in Honduras both through my line of work but also in everyday life, who have lost someone, but are also missing from loved ones themselves. I remember speaking to a neighbour when I lived in Miraflores in Tegucigalpa, who told me how her brother and nephew went missing one night. They were en-route to San Pedro Sula in the north of the country, but they never made it, and she never found out why. There was no sign of the car or their bodies. No one knew or understood, and it happened two years before she told me, back around 2017. She feared the worst, but she hadn’t given up hope of seeing them again. It also reminds me of speaking to youths when I worked at Casa Alianza, who were forced to leave their families for one reason or another, whose parents had gone to live in the US and they had no idea where they were, or themselves had tried to go to the US, been deported and were too ashamed to return home because their parents had spent their life-savings trying to go there. It struck me deeply. I’ve never forgotten those stories, which make me feel so tied and connected to
Who Are You?
Dear readers, It’s not a question from the book of questions I shared in the post, Is This Just a Station on Your Soul’s Journey? However, I was asked this question during some leadership training through my work at Nuestros Pequeños Hermanos conducted by Perennial. I had a week to think about my answer, but it’s funny how a question containing just three words, so simple on the face of it, leaves us trembling in an existential crisis and choking on our thoughts. The irony is that millions of us around the world paint our lives on social media to show off our lifestyle, what we are doing and our experiences to demonstrate who we are, but we very rarely ask ourselves these questions to dig out who we truly are and get to know ourselves better. As mentioned in an earlier post, I have been asking myself questions like these over the past few months, which has helped me understand where I stand on a whole number of topics, but this one stumped me: Who am I? Nicholas Rogers aka Ajmaqventurer, I am male, 44 years old, a Scorpio, from Birmingham, a journalist, a writer, an artist, I live in Tegucigalpa, divorced, I know my family and friends (although I try to trim the list down year after year), Dave Chappelle on a bad day cheers me up. This is who I am, kind of, but they are only surface-type elements that describe me, which doesn’t really show my essence; who I am on a deeper level. This is more than just a check-in or personal weather report; this is finding out who I am for myself. But then I realised, “Shite, do I really know myself? And is it true that maybe other people know me better than I know myself?” It is a wonderful shadow question, to build a steady foundation beneath our feet and understand ourselves, rather than numbly show off to the world how we want to be perceived. For myself, I feel I’ve ignored who I am for far too long. And maybe it is true: friends and family have a better grasp of who I am, as I do of others through examining and judging them. Don’t judge me for judging others. The Bible tells us not to do it, but we all fall for the trap. It’s a human flaw we all have. But saying that, by judging someone doesn’t necessarily mean we know who they are. It is more the behaviour or character traits we admire or dislike, which can tell us a lot, but not really windows to the soul. Maybe I’m scared to answer it on some level. Maybe I won’t like who I am or I will just find a void. Then I realised, “Nah, I think I’m quite a decent chap. There’s enough within me to explore.” Then I went on a wild bender of booze and psychedelic introspection: joke! No, I sat down with my journal and tried to answer, but weirdly, I hit a form of writer’s block, because this seemingly simple question was so full of baggage and weight. Yes, some readers might feel I am second-guessing myself, overthinking this riddle completely, and they know themselves oh so well. (Well, f–k you, then!). Pen in hand, journal before me, and nada. “Where do I start?” Nothing came. So I thought, being that this is leadership training, I can begin by asking this question from the perspective of myself as a leader. So I began: “I never planned on being a leader in my professional field. I enjoyed working in a team, but I also enjoyed working independently doing my own thing. Through teaching, I learned various leadership abilities, such as how to motivate and lead students to succeed and learn, seeing them improve, and I found I enjoyed it. I then became Communications Manager and then Director of Communications, where I have learned to lead at executive and middle management level, learning through courses, reading, advice from friends and colleagues, podcasts, and trial and error. I always do my best for NPH, the health of the organisation and my colleagues, making difficult decisions using the skills and experiences to direct, create opportunities, bring people together and overcome challenges. I have enjoyed it more than I expected, more so that I am an introvert, and I have been forced to come out of my comfort zone on many occasions. I have harnessed interpersonal skills and learned to relate and find triggers to motivate people to work to one common goal. This is through trial and error, as mentioned before. I enjoy it, but it is tiring. People aren’t robots. You can’t rewire them or edit them using coding. You have to guide and support, but also know when to give them space and not micromanage, and also look after my own mental health to engage in activities outside the working environment, such as writing on my blog, Ajmaqventurer.” This was great. Therapeutic. But still, I was only skimming the edges without delving into who I am. I’m a leader at NPH. Does this define me? What about the rest of me? I’m more than my job. As part of the training, I was paired in a virtual breakout room with a good friend and colleague of mine, Daniel Zapata, who works for NPH Mexico. I started by mumbling something about how difficult it was to answer this question, and repeated a little of what I said above as a leader. Daniel then came out with something that, I will paraphrase below, was reminiscent of The Verve’s Bittersweet Symphony, but enveloped in something I found profound: “I am mortal. I live and die. In between, we have to take advantage of the moments of happiness we have. It’s impossible to be happy all the time. We know that. We make connections. It is what life is about: making connections. With friends and family, with our
Night Musings: Finding Peace in the Darkness
Dear readers, There is something so peaceful about the night air. It’s like the breezes from space come to scrub down the heat scars and burn marks from the day, especially in the tropics. You look up at the night sky, even better in locations where light pollution enables you to see the great theatre of the universe, to get a tiny glimpse of the 200 sextillion stars, which seem hung in space by invisible threads to a black ceiling. Yet the space has no ceiling. That’s the beauty of it. The universe has no end. Infinity. It’s too absurd and big to consider, just the mysteries of it. I’m on a high. Not on intoxicants. Just curiosity and amazement. It’s exciting taking it all in, the shooting stars, planets, moons, UFOs (maybe). The night sky helps me feel insignificant, shrinks my ego when I’m feeling too full of myself, but also crushes the day’s frustrations and disappointments and comments from idiots and imbeciles. It’s my balance. It’s my antidepressant and anxiety valve release. It’s a pro of suffering from insomnia. Despite the other 8 billion people on Planet Earth, the night feels mine: all mine. All the activities one can do at night, for both introverts and extroverts. Sleep and/or good sex come to mind, if you can get it. Intimate midnight talks with loved ones and friends, or rows with soon-to-be ex-partners and people you no longer respect. Parties or reading a book or watching a movie, or taking a walk in the wee hours. Mothers care for their screaming babies. Murderers and thieves fulfill their deeds, while nurses and doctors go about theirs. Sex workers do their thing. Lonely men and women do theirs. Other workers return home alone in an empty car, listening to late-night radio DJs spin their lonely tunes. You have the irresponsible students and desperate office workers, leaving assignments to the last minute and pulling all-nighters with support from caffeine or other substances. Witches make their brews. Priests give their Midnight Mass. Ghosts and spirits fuck with our minds. UFOs curb crawl anonymously around the solar system. Then there are those who invest in the night, the astronomists and astrologists; the former studying the science of space, the latter studying what’s going to happen in our lives in the next day, week, month, year. Moons and planets going retrograde which means our emotions are going to explode and/or we’ll meet our soulmate tomorrow morning over coffee. Either way, I know I’ll be treated with extreme contempt for being a Scorpio the next day. After all, Scorps will Scorp. Someone was talking to me about astrology the other night. She thought I thought she was mad. I didn’t. I didn’t understand exactly what she was saying. My confused face and ‘I think you’re crazy as fuck’ face seem to look similar. I keep an open mind to all ideas. The night helps me do that. I wish I knew more about the energies of the universe, to be at one with it, to feel connected and solitary simultaneously and to understand the narrative happening above my head in the theatre known as night. In the meantime, I will take photos of the moon and publish my musings on this very page when, really, I should be sleeping. ]
Anon. Me: Anonymous Collection of Introspection
Dear readers, Following on from my post (Artistic Musings….) about narratives and messages in art, I have been working on a strange collection of doodles that was born out of lack of technical skill at drawing people. As you can below, the figures are a scribbly shadow. It’s simplistic. I know. Easy to draw: just a matter of minutes to sketch out and finish. That’s why I enjoy it. Innocent fun, I suppose. It’s therapeutic. It’s been a theme for some time, without me really realising it. I started drawing the shadowed scribbles or sketches of people dancing, playing music, drinking, enjoying romantic moments under moonlight or in the rain, sometimes with a dog, reminding me of my old dog, Chente, or just memories of my dad and I together. They’re like scenarios, narratives of life and moments, some just pieces of advice I picked up from somewhere. Some are in black ink, some multicoloured, some in pencil, and some even in pastels, even though I struggle with them (see my post: Playing With Pastels). Recently, the drawings have taken on a new life. I was recently asked why I don’t sign or initial any of my drawings. I didn’t know why. I still don’t. I just draw. Fun. Enjoyment. Like I mentioned in the previous post, once the art is published, it belongs to everyone. I lose ownership. Well, reverse that ridiculous little idea. It was a pretentious hippy shit thought and I was clearly inebriated on ink fumes. Of course I need to pay the bills; better still, retire early, roll in a bed of cash, swim in a pool of moolah, buy beach homes on a whim etc, you get the picture. These babies are mine and I aim to claim royalties on them if people choose to purchase. Talk like this could lead me into legal trouble at a later date. All self-mocking aside, I like the theory that what we produce belongs to the thoughts and reflects of others. It just never occurred to me to add my signature to the work. They were just doodles. So I replied to the question, “I suppose I’m even anonymous to myself”, and in that moment, the thought fell from the sky, a lightbulb moment, something of a pseudonym or tag name, Anon. me. However, I fully understand the irony. It’s not so anonymous if I’m declaring to the world this collection is by me. It’s not meant that way anyway. I am very much an introvert. Not many people believe this, but I enjoy passing time by myself, regaining my energies by disconnecting and being anonymous to the world. Some of the pieces are just that: anecdotes of searching for inner peace and healing (read more on artistic journey on: Why Do I Doodle?). Like in my previous post, they consist a mixture of imagery and musings of whatever’s passing my excited, reflective, worried, angry, happy, sad, numb, and conflicted mind at that fleeting moment. There is a lot of shadow and introspective work going on, a window into my chaotic thoughts and world. I like a bit of humour, self-mockery, sometimes mocking the world, sometimes observations of what’s going on in society. Some are purely emotional, accepting and the power of saying goodbye. Now, I don’t want to applaud myself to loudly – after all, it wouldn’t fit with my anonymous alter-ego – but one of my favourites is the drawing to the left. Let me be selfish for the moment. This scribbled figure is very much me, maybe more than any other. This is my forceshield against views, comments and opinions that once might have wound me up and/or left me wounded, but telling myself this helps me to let go of words which harm, intentional or not. It shrinks the person and their words into insignificance, to let it go, move on and not let it hurt your esteem, or better still, laugh at the comments (and the person), maybe even review the words to see if there is truth to them, even if they are wrapped in barbed wire. I hate to use the cliché: sometimes the truth hurts. I take great strength from this strategy, giving me patience and calm. It’s part of growing up and realising what’s a battle and what’s not. Some people or comments aren’t worth the energy, time or thought. I offer it to others who are sensitive. I hope it works for you. Then again, I hope the rest of the collection does. It’s meant for your enjoyment, to inspire and for you to resonate with. I suppose most artists aim for the same, as well as dream of swimming in pools of money, which is possibly a dream which also extends to many different people: not just creators. Nonetheless, a shallow dream, it might well be. So, sit back with a hot brew, or a cold one, and enjoy a few moments of my chaotic thoughts. Some of the drawings you may have seen before in other posts, as they were also inspired by other elements, such as music, cats or the sea. If any inspire you, let me know in the comments. Anon. me Anon. me with Pastels Anon. me in Other Themes Older Anon. Me Doodles Anon. Me – Pencil Drawings
Artistic Musings: A Journey of Self-Expression and Provocation
Dear readers, I’m no philosopher, neither am I an expert on art theory. Just a disclaimer before I start this blog post. My technical abilities in art are self-taught: trial and error. I know my limits but I love to break them and test myself. Sometimes great, sometimes child-like, I just enter a flow state and happily let the hours roll on by putting ink to paper in one form or another. I become a hermit and sit happily alone, finding out whatever it is I’m trying to say. Like stated in my blog post, Why Do I Doodle?, I do what I do to relax, for therapeutic and cathartic reasons. I’ve always enjoyed trying my hand at art, even if at times my hand coordination is not best. However, it became a constant habit after my dad passed and now it’s almost an addiction. I don’t try to be anything other than myself, which should be the case all the time, but art is my safe space to do just that: to open a lucid door in my mind and sit there for a while. I don’t know if it’s all the time, but I always seem to have a message of some sort that I want to float to the surface. It’s usually flowing in the subconscious and I find out what I’m trying to say after I finish and see it on paper. Other times, I know what I want to say from the beginning and provoke a thought or feeling in the audience, get a reaction or a call to action, whether it is text or a drawing. I feel a bit weird and phoney about calling myself an artist, but I’m curious about whether other creators possess this calling to provoke or release, to make their audience feel something. Thought is free after all, both for the artist and the audience. Freedom of expression should be as free as freedom of interpretation, because once the artist has published whatever they publish, it belongs to the audience to interpret whatever they need or want from it. Sometimes it can feel a bit manipulative trying to provoke or sway thought, while at other times, my ego tells me it is a gift that comes within the art. A narrative, I suppose. In a previous post, I shared a drawing based on a Friedrich Nietzsche quote, “No artist tolerates reality”. I love this phrase, because it enables artists to play with reality and sometimes enter the absurd, another love of mine. But I also love the idea of art, be it a portrait or a story, painting a certain reality that doesn’t sit well with the audience and makes them want to change the reality. Graffiti does that a lot. Controversial works. It’s healthy for societies and communities to see and read such endeavours, to evolve as one. You look at the past and see the game changers, in art, in people. It’s my critique of the woke movement, the section trying to whitewash works because it hurts feelings. Sometimes feelings were meant to be hurt as lessons have been learned. If we whitewash it, we lose what we learn, the mistakes made, and we go back to and commit the same errors. Of course, we have to be careful of the person (or corporation) painting that reality, because those intentions can be irresponsible and have consequences that may be beneficial to certain people or groups. The news channels of course, who paint reality from opinion and then thresh it out to push an agenda, a narrative, a fictional reality, a distorted view of it, to a degree. Maybe we do that as artists at times. It makes it hard to interpret and judge who is right and wrong, who is the hero, who is the enemy, what and why is this being painted. Do we openly allow it or are fooled into it? It’s very subjective. Reality often depends on the eyes of the beholder, like beauty. There are many ways of seeing the same object. However, as mentioned above, no artist tolerates reality. In art it’s almost our role to distort it; in the news, it’s vice versa; to tell the closest to truth as can be. I enjoy provocative art as much as I enjoy an innocent portrait of a landscape or emotion. I admire how the different art forms evolve, new mediums, platforms, narratives to say or tell our stories, be visual or musical. I enjoy the abstract and absurd. There are two in particular that I love and feel inspired by for different reasons entirely, one is Sergio Duce, aka Yo Runner, who does educational and thought provoking positive messages and observations based on societal values and flaws. The other is Joan Cornellà, completely polar opposite to Yo Runner, who is Catalan with a worldwide following, who makes hilariously cynical and dark observations, likewise, of society. He brings the devil out of me, as he might do out of you. Both have consistent styles in their art, one which I don’t yet have as such, but one that I’m working on called Anon. me, which I will share soon. Over time, I have noticed myself, sometimes explicitly, using a mixture of words and drawings to provoke an emotion, be it joy, humour or affection. There might be sadness or questions for the audience. Sometimes I might be having a shit day or frustration, and I hear or read something that inspires me and helps me keep going, which may be useful to someone else. What I do is nothing out of the ordinary. I try to be responsible with my message. Sometimes it may be perverse. You have seen some in previous posts. You’ve been warned. You be the judge. You can see them below. Leave a comment if you have a question or critique.
Tegucigalpa: En la Ciudad de la Furia
Dear readers, Three or four months ago, I went to a nightclub named Noches Magicas, close to downtown Tegucigalpa, or Tegus, as it is more affectionately known. It’s an after party place, a haven for those who aren’t content on returning home after bars and clubs have kicked everyone out in the Godly hours. It’s a venue for the true nocturnals, also known as dirty stop-outs. And on that night, I was just that. It’s in a hotel. I was told it had been abandoned but the social media pages suggest otherwise. There is a swimming pool plonked in the middle and different rooms playing different genres of music, catering for all sorts, because that’s exactly the type of person Noches Magicas attracts: all sorts. There were folks of all ages, generations, social classes, backgrounds and walks of life, dancing, smiling, chatting, kissing, God can only tell you what else, along with the doormen, spotting sins of all sorts. But I like that: a blend of people of many orientations, tastes and spices of life, all under one roof, of varying states of inebriation, all enjoying themselves. It reminded me of a place I used to hang out in Birmingham in my youth called Moseley Dance Centre. A haunt, with a similar vibe. But for Tegus, there aren’t many places like this. I feel it’s quite unique, but all cities and towns require such a place, for the dirty stop-outs of life. Sadly, I have no photos. A fool, I am. Or maybe not, because I too was in an intoxicated state. On that night, at some ghastly late hour, I decided to walk home. It’s about 4 or 5 miles from where I live, mostly flat, and it took me about 2 hours. I knew the route and my legs carried me on automatic pilot. I didn’t feel I was going through any particularly dangerous barrios, but I get it: it only takes one ghoul to put you to sleep. I don’t know what my rationale was at the time when I made the decision to walk, other than I just wanted fresh air and to spend some time alone with my thoughts. A strange hour and a place to stroll, I agree. Suffice to say, Tegus isn’t the safest place to walk alone at night, but no city is. “Especially for a white, gringo-looking dude like you,” a friend told me the next day, an echo of many other comments I received from friends and family. There were quite a few adjectives, actually: crazy, irresponsible, silly, selfish, daft, foolish, arrogant for thinking I was untouchable. Maybe it was just my flow of thought at that moment, as I’m usually more sensible (kind of). Then again, what they don’t know but will do now; I’ve walked home loads of times, and I love it. It’s not that I enjoy taking risks. But I don’t feel unsafe in Tegucigalpa. Hondurans look at me bizarrely when I say that. People are generally sweet, nice and have a good vibe here, with a bit of boisterousness to add to the spice. Don’t get me wrong, I know very well that the barrios marginales (marginal neighbourhoods (sorry, I really dislike the English term slum. I find something so outdated, undignified and disrespectful about the word)) can be very dangerous. I don’t want to underscore the violence in Honduras and paint the place as a safe haven, nor do I want to pinch a patriotic nerve, as I know many Hondurans are tired of having their country portrayed with “the most dangerous country in the world” narrative. One shouldn’t drop their guard, of course; it would be irresponsible to encourage folks to flaunt their valuables to the world walking down a street. However, I sometimes feel more unsafe walking the streets of Birmingham, London or even Preston, especially at night, than Tegus. I’ve been robbed and assaulted more times in Europe than I have in my 13 years in Honduras. One might point out that in Tegus I live in a gated community, true. Nor do I have not the faintest idea of what it’s like to live in a barrio run by gangs. But still, generally, I feel it is less likely that a drunk smashes a bottle over my head or a gang stabs me for no reason in Honduras, than the UK. I’ve seen less bar-room fights and had less people starting on me because I accidentally looked at them a little funny. That’s not to say these things don’t happen in Honduras. I acknowledge there are many variables to take into consideration. In Honduras, I enjoy an anonymous life where I don’t frequent the cantinas and bars in certain neighbourhoods, where as in my younger days in the UK, I was probably more carefree and enjoyed going out more. I might be painting my native country in negative colours, as well as crafting an image of Honduras that many feel might seem as unrealistic, but I’ve heard other Europeans in Honduras say similar things. It’s bizarre to say it, and maybe contrary to popular belief, but an honest observation, it is. En La Ciudad de la Furia Tegucigalpa has a certain melancholic charm, but it shines even more after the sun goes down, and I love to embrace it. Even with the energy, excitement and drama that comes with the nightlife in a Latin American city, Tegus possesses something magnetic that makes it hard to depart the place. Maje, as I mentioned above, I’ve been here for 13 years, and while I might moan about it now and then, it’s difficult to claw myself away. Please excuse my machista language, but for many years, many Capitalinos have given their city a colourful little tag: La puta: ugly by day, beautiful by night. And that’s the certain melancholic charm I was telling you about. On the walk home, I took a few photos. Despite the intoxicated state, my senses were
The Phase of the Feline: Felis Catus
Dear readers, I’ve always loved cats. Those people who don’t like cats, I consider completely and utterly devoid of humour and personality. I struggle to comprehend someone who can’t appreciate a feline’s aloofness, nor love the way they fuck up from time-to-time, like misjudging a jump, but always gracefully landing on all fours. The way they swagger along fence tops with the arrogance of Eric Cantona, or stroll where they please over random pieces of furniture which to the humanoid thought is insane but to the cat brain is, “So the fuck what?”, a valuation the humanoid has to succumb to and accept because their inferiority and lower status in the hierarchy and food chain of life under the might of the fierce felis silvestris catus, also known as a “the common house cat”. One glare is enough to tell you that you’re just a worthless shit compared to their Lordship, and there’s nothing you can do about it except feed them and pet them – always only on their terms. They purr with such sensuality and smug charm, but you must always forget that this love is not a two way street: you may adore your moggy, but you are merely their humanoid slave. They police their territories with complete randomness: sometimes with a demonic prowl, other times complete and utter hueva – negligence. They sleep on window ledges, just centimetres away from a death drop, and they do so while sticking up a middle paw finger to the grim reaper, with the purred meows of “take your best shot. I’ve eight more lives.” Their fur balls give you allergic reactions and a sharp swipe of the claws at your toes first thing in the morning stings like a bitch, yet it’ll put a painful spring in your step for all. They catch rodents and gift their carcasses on a pillow in Godfather style, while decimating the local bird wildlife populations, “just because we want to”, then toying with the poor creature until its last breath, again, “just because we want to”. The randomness of their cruelty is slightly psychopathic by humanoid standards, yet it has been the muse and inspiration of many thousands of hours of video reels on social media. Have you ever asked yourself how many hours you have misspent going down cat video rabbit holes on YouTube? Or is it just me? Maybe it’s just a question for myself and my procrastinating tendencies. But fuck, I do love feline narcissism. I return to the point in the first paragraph, if you can’t appreciate a cat’s traits, you a really are a humourless eejit, aren’t you. And if you dislike them due to superstition, then I really think you don’t have the mental capacity to vote either. Cats are sinners and they don’t care, nor do they give a fuck about not going to heaven. They’re already living in one. I love dogs too. I love all animals. They talk more sense than most humanoids I know [note to reader: yes, I could well be talking about YOU], and they don’t even say a word. Well, apart from parrots. But let’s get back to felines. I used to have two cats. Not at the same time. They were family cats. Saying that, no humanoid truly owns a cat. As the cliché goes, they own you. So let me start again, my family and I were owned by two cats over two different periods. The first was named Oscar, with beautiful light brown, beige and black stripes to help camouflage himself in the foliages of Southam Road, sporting the genetics of a Welsh feral cat and a farm feline. Oscar had a wild glint in his eye, not a cat to be messed with, but beautiful to look at and admire. He attacked dogs and stalked foxes that entered his backyard, and sometimes came off worse when claws were thrown, but other cats in el barrio were petrified of him, which I must admit still today gives me an unhealthy feeling of pride. He was only with us for four years, before he perished after being hit by a car. The second cat was named Huey after the 80’s band Huey Lewis and the News in my mum’s eyes, but I tagged him after the lead singer and writer of the Fun Lovin’ Criminals, a band I was listening a lot to at the time. We adopted him just a few weeks old from a rescue centre, a black and white moggy with asymmetrical markings on his face which always made him look a bit confused or inquisitive. Mum insisted he just wasn’t very bright, but I believed he was just pondering shit a bit too much, just shilly shallying over whether to nap, nip at your toes or eat. I can see my mum’s point though; when running down the stairs, he seemed to refuse to use his legs for the bottom few steps and just roll down. He was less of a hunter than Oscar (i.e. without doubt, his success rate was much lower and less ambitious, but it is an unfair comparison: Oscar had wild hunting genetics from a feral cat father and had better instincts than most cats, making Huey look distinctly average, which like comparing a Ferrari to Hyundai [note to self: you’re thinking about this way too much. Your readers don’t give a shit]) and was less bothered about protecting his territory. Other cats could randomly walk into the house and he would just look on witb a chilled expression. Huey was amazing at eating. He was obese and struggled to get through the cat flap or even jump onto sofas, which was both funny and sad to watch. This is where my mum underestimated Huey’s intelligence, or maybe more so, his greed. For some time, he would have his breakfast at home every morning, and then go to our neighbour and eat her cat’s food as well. We cottoned