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
Musings from the Coast: Drawings of the Sea
Dear readers, I’ve never lived close to the sea. Not for any length of time anyway. I’ve always found myself in cities and places landlocked and/or at some distance from the coast. I’m not sure why. 44 years on this planet. I’m almost obsessed with it, with a giant tattoo on my upper right arm, based loosely on The Great Wave off Kanagawa by Hokusai, which is also the cover of my current doodle book, a special gift from a special person. So what’s stopped me from moving to the coast? Life and career choices, I suppose. This personal goal hasn’t coincided with my career. It’s not a regret. There isn’t much point in that. It is what it is. But it is a goal I have. Bucket list stuff (as opposed to bucket and spade stuff: poor pun intended). To live by the sea. To have a home with sea breezes flowing through the windows, strolling on to the sand with the mass of blue before me. I see it there before me right now. I almost taste the salt in my mouth and feel the vibration of the crashing waves bounce up through me from my feet. I glare out in wonder and admiration at this big, beautiful force of nature before me, covering 71% of the Earth’s surface, 139 million miles2 or 361 million km2 of water, with a volume of approximately 1.37 billion km3. That’s a lot of H2O. It just has the added ingredient of dissolved salt, which accounts for 3.5% of the entire ocean mass. You do the maths if you want to know the total volume of salt in our seas. I’m just stealing these numbers from the web. In the morning, I would swim before work, then do the same in the evening. I then look up to the stars at night and lie mesmerised at the theatre before me: the universe. I would eat fresh fish at lunch and drink it down with coconut milk and/or pineapple juice. Quite a manifestation, isn’t it. It seems I have it all worked out. I plan on winning the lottery any day soon. See you in my beach house dreams. I know this isn’t an everyday reality for those who live by the coast, at least not for the majority. I’m not sure how people live their lives by the sea to be honest. I doubt it’s like the above. Hurricane and rip tide warnings. Sand flies that chomp through your flesh to the bone, jellyfish, sharks, snakes, sea crocodiles, pollution…the list goes on: all the cons of living by the sea. People I know who’ve moved to the coast from the city have told me that the novelty wears off pretty quickly. I’m crushing my own manifestation. I’m thinking of Honduras though. Those Caribbean beaches in the north. It’s Easter week and a sizable chunk of the population is flocking there as I write. I’m stuck in Tegucigalpa, about 5 hours south. Looking on with envy. But I wouldn’t want to go this week. Too many people. My moment will come again. I grew up in Birmingham in England, located probably at the furthest point from the coast in the country, the closest beach being Weston-Super-Mare which is two hours away, famous for the tide spending the majority of the time in the horizon so you don’t actually see the sea, and the sickly sweet rock, which wrecks teeth and your budget with dental bills. Preston, where I studied at university, is 20 miles from the seaside town Lytham St Annes, but as a penniless student without a car and dependent on public transport, beach trips were rare. The icy cold waters made swimming in it near impossible. Memories, though. I also lived in Madrid and Seville. The former was like Birmingham, far from the sea. The latter was closer, but not close enough. I spent a summer working in Calella de Palafrugell on the Costa Brava, a sleepy, picturesque town that used to be a fishing village. It was a 10 minute walk to the beach from where I resided and consisted of tiny coves where one could paddle or dive deep.. Every morning I would take a dip, or disappear on my few days off to the many little beaches close by and read Hemingway books while basking in the sun. The weeks went by swimmingly, pun intended, but a little too fast for my liking. Just two years ago I found a print of Calella while on a work trip in Barcelona, floating through the streets and galleries in Barrio Gótico, or Barri Gòtic in Catalan, by an artist I can’t remember the name of. It sits on my bedside table today, and you can find it to the left of this text. A small treasure that reminds me of those days at the coves. In Honduras, I reside in Tegucigalpa. It’s been my home for 14 years, although I often ask myself how I find myself in a country blessed with pristine beaches yet I live in a city nowhere near to any of them. It grates me, why? Seriously, why? Tegucigalpa isn’t the worst place in the world, but once you sample the beaches around Tela, La Ceiba and Trujillo, you wonder, what fuck are you doing here? You live once. Go, go, go. Tegus, as it is commonly known, is closer to the Pacific, just two hours or so away. The sun scorches and the water is murky with volcanic ash. It’s nice, don’t get me wrong; nice shrimp and shellfish, and there are mangroves and history on the island of Amapala. Yet, it struggles to compare with the North; the Caribbean vibe and turquoise waters, which feel warm and spiced and makes you feel you’re treading water in a relaxing tumbler of rum. Beach for the Brummies During the summer months, Birmingham City Council would lay out a fabricated beach close to Victoria Square outside
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