11 more Spanish words/phrases that will make you laugh and/or give mind-bends

Dear readers,

Just over a year ago, I wrote a blog article with 11 Spanish words and phrases that would make you chuckle and/or scratch your skull when they translated into English.

I have since been compiling more Spanish words and phrases, picked up much the same way my parrot Frida picks up our diverse humanoid chatter. Hailing from all parts of the Spanish speaking world, you’ll find Hondurisms (often referred to as caliché), Spain and various novels from South America.

So, take your minds off corrupt politicians, global warming, terrorism, wars and misery, and enjoy a bit of Spanglish brain food.

1. Ahorita

Diminutives are common in the idioma española. “What’s a diminutive?” you say. In short, it’s when you add ito/ita to a word to make subject/object smaller and/or more affectionate. Sometimes it can mean adding cito/cita or quita/quito depending on the last couple of letters of the base word. For instance, guapa (pronounced wapa) meaning good looking girlcan be transformed to guapita, becoming little good looking girl.

So, take ahorita, the base word being ahora meaningnow. You might be thinking how do I make the meaning of a word like ahora into something smaller and more affectionate without breaking the rules of relativity. Don’t worry, it perplexed me too when I first stepped foot in the Americas. But after little time, I was ahorita’ing it all over the place, which friends in Spain have noticed more than anyone. My amigos in Valencia claim I’ve forgotten their Castilian Spanish and been replaced with a Mexican hybrid.

Now, en ingles, means the present moment. Well, so does ahorita, but it also reaches into the future, as well as used to express the urgency of something happening that very second.

So, a sentence might look something like this:

Mira esta mamacita. Quiero besarla ahorita. (Look at the hot momma. I want to kiss her right now).

For a graphic explanation with a timeline, see the image below:

The meaning of ahorita

2. Palmear

This verb is pinched from a Mario Vargas Llosa novel, though I don’t hear it widely used in Honduras, nor did I in Spain, so I presume it’s used more in Peru; Vargas’s homeland. Then again, this context is not used in everyday, so it’s not that surprising I’ve not heard it much.

As you can see, the first four letters spell palm, which should trigger off a few ideas of its English translation. Yes, you might get a few funny looks if you offered to palm someone, interpreted as a possible veiled threat of violence or act of perversion. However, it actually means to pat or applaud someone, to be affectionate or congratulate a person; just a friendly palmear una espalda – pat on the back between acquaintances and/or friends.

3. Gustazazaso

A bit of a tongue twister, this, which could be incorporated into a drinking game! It is yet another word coming from a Mario Vargas Llosa novel although when I first laid eyes on it, dictionaries also had little or zero definitions.

However, a little investigation and common sense is always needed when coming across new vocabulary. The verb gustar is one of the first words to learn in the Spanish language, meaning to like, and you’re not wrong in thinking the two words are from the same family. The base form gustazo means take pleasure in something. Like ito/ita is used at the end of a word to minimise something, azo/aza is used to maximise, also known as an aumentative. So, gustazazaso means, as you may well have guessed, is to take great pleasure in something. Not in anything perverted, mind, but more so with someone you’ve not seen in a while.

4. Macizo

Quite simply one of my favourite caliché words, meaning cool. Not as in a cool beer kind of way, but a cool beer is cool way.

It’s pronounced ma-si-so with a stress on the middle syllable. I learned it at Casa Alianza and it has stuck to me ever since, although I did it pass it on to my brother, niece and nephew, who walk around saying the one word that epitomises street caliqué in a quaint village in Worcestershire, England.

How do we put this is a sentence?

You: Gané tres mil en el loto. (I won three thousand on the lottery).

Me: Macizo. Invítame a un six pack, pues. (Cool. Buy me a six pack of beer then).

5. Simón

Yes, this vastly popular name, which derives from the Hebrew name Simeon and featured in the Old Testament as one of the sons of Job, is also a street slang word from northern Mexico, which has filtered through to Honduras. It means ‘yes, okay’ in response or to acknowledge something that someone has said to you.

Why the name Simon, I don’t know. Whether it derives from a person of signficance called Simon in Tijuana or goes back to the Aztec languages, it is what it is. However, as it is pronounced sí mon,so taking a wild guess, sí could beyes and mon might be a mispronunciation of man, so it could actually mean a merge of yes, man.

I heard it for the first time from a kid in Casa Alianza who enjoyed confusing me in Spanish. Then last year I taught a young man called Yeison Rosado (who humorously called himself Mr. Pink and even wrote it on his exam paper. Also, rosado means pink for those not clear on the joke) who used to repeat it a loud after every time I’d said something. I eventually had to ban the word from the classroom because it drove me mental, so I figure the word simón is a must on this list. A banned word thanks to a man called Mr. Pink

Me: The present perfect in English includes the auxiliary verb have, followed by the past participle.

Mr. Pink: Simón.

6. A huevos

To beginners in Spanish, you probably recognise the word huevos from the dairy foods lesson. It means eggs after all (it can also be a slang term for a man’s eggs, if you see what I mean). A is the preposition to in English.

So the expression literally translates word for word as to eggs.

Yet the expression has nothing to do with eggs. In fact, it has a couple of different meanings depending on which country one lives in, although I’ll concentrate on the most common, which is something similar to simón i.e.to casually confirm a yes or acknowledge something someone’s said. It also depends on the tone, because it can be read as a sarcastic yes  if the person before you said something unrealistic, a demand or basically untrue. I must add that it’s not the politest expression in the idioma española.

So, a non-sarcastic toned example might be:

Me: Alguien hizo un pedo. (Someone’s farted).

You: A huevos. (Yep).

A sarcastic toned example might be:

Me: Dame tres mil Lempiras. (Give me three thousand Lempiras).

You (with sarcastic facial expression): A huevos (Yeah, right).

7. Berenjenal

My Spanish teacher Ado taught me this one back at the language school Estudio Sampere in Madrid. She was a pretty young lady from Andalucía with dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin, the romantic fantasy that most foreign men think of when it comes to Spanish beauty. Funnily enough she had every male in the class (a few females too) hanging on her every word. What’s more, she was flamboyant and dynamic and had the raspy tongue of a truck driver, teaching us words she really shouldn’t have, which kept the class captivated.

And she used this word berenjenal to describe a classmate called John, who she also called el vikingo – the viking – because he hailed from Sweden, making poor old John from Malmö clown of the class. The thing is, John didn’t exactly help himself. He would spend all day partaking in an old Swedish tradition of sticking tiny pouches of tobacco called snus by his gums. He would do it during class, and one time Ado paused the class to say in a rather derogatory and patronising tone, ¡Que berenjenal! which left everyone in hysterics and John with a deflated ego.

So, what does berenjenal mean? It has two, actually. The first, and I’ll get this out the way quickly, is an eggplant field, and I don’t think Ado was calling John an eggplant field.

The second meaning is far more fitting, which is a coloquial noun for a mess/trouble in a Laurel and Hardy kind of way.

So, an example might be: en buen berenjenal nos hemos metido which roughly translates as what a fine mess we’ve got ourselves into.

8. Carpeta

In my CELTA course, we learned about false friends. In ESL talk, a false friend is a word that looks similar to a word in a different language but actually means something completely different. Embarazada means pregnant and sensible means sensitive for example. Well, carpeta is another false friend.

It actually means folder – either electronic or paper – rather than the carpet that goes on the floor.

So, you can say: 

Mi perro comió mi carpeta. (My dog ate my folder).

It might confuse someone, however, if you say:

Mi perro hizo una caca en mi carpeta. (My dog did a poo on my folder).

9. Chamba

This is another very colloquial Honduran word, meaning job, although I vaguely remember the word meaning luck in Spain. There isn’t really an equivalent in English, and it isn’t the politest word for job, which no one told me before I embarrassed myself in front of a former employer during a performance review.

Boss: ¿Que tal el trabajo? (How is work?)

Me: Bueno, me gusta mi chamba . . .(Well, l like my job…)

Cue that look and a firm explanation that chamba is not an acceptable word to use in that particular work place. Luckily the boss understood that my faux pas wasn’t meant to offend and I still got a pay rise. Get in!

10. Dos veinte

I came across this expression about a year ago and it again involves our friend Yeison Rosado (aka. Mr Pink). You see, Mr Pink was sometimes a bit over enthusiastic about learning English, and while I encourage a positive attitude to learning, it could get bloody irritating when he talked over people, myself included. 

Classmates then started calling him dos-veinte which led me into a word of  confusion. To those not in the know, dos means two and veinte means twenty, so why on earth call someone two twenty?

Well, as it turns out, they were calling him something that pretty much describes him to a T. Dos veinte is used for someone who’s hyperactive or crazy, and with his blowing kisses at female classmates and drinking two cups of strong coffee during a one hour class, as I said, suits him down to a T. We always remember life’s interesting characters, don’t we!

You’re probably still thinking, how dos veinte mean hyperactive, though?  Well, it applies to the plug sockets we use for the more powerful electrical appliances around the house i.e. fridges and cookers, etc. 

An example might be: 

Este majé es dos veinte. (This dude’s hyperactive).

11. Cae el veinte

That number veinte, again. A common number in Honduran expressions, it seems, although I think it is used throughout much of the Spanish speaking world. I like it. And again it was often used upon Mr. Pink.

Let me explain, cae comes from the verb caer which means to drop/to fall. If we put that together, drops the twenty, or in better English, the twenty drops, do you have any clues of its meaning in English? i.e. has the penny dropped yet? Funny that, because that is roughly how it translates: the penny drops.

Now I’m not sure how the penny drops gets its meaning in English, although I was told by someone here, but I can’t remember who, that cae el veinte comes from the time when public telephones were all the rage. You would let you 20 cent piece drop through the slot and you would be able to speak to whoever. This might be the origin but I might be wrong. However, the meaning is when someone tells you something but you don’t understand at first but you finally do through prompts and nudges.

Well Mr. Pink, for all his enthusiasm and infinite wisdom, often took a little while longer than classmates to understand how to use bits of vocabulary and grammar. To be fair, once the cae el veinte took place, he would use it more industrially and humorously than anyone I had met before.

Well, finally I have cae el veinte and realised 11 is just enough for you guys. Please give me feedback. If I have made a mistake or you have an alternative origin or meaning to the above words, let me know. Also, if you have any other Spanish words that might be of interest, leave a comment below.

Artículo sobre Leicester City en Heraldo

Queridos lectores,

Escribí este artículo sobre el Leicester City para El Heraldo online.

Aquí es un link.

Espero que te gusta.

Conmigo Para Siempre por Rubén Martínez

Queridos lectores,

Estaba comprando una botella de agua esta mañana, cuando conocí al señor de abajo. Se llama Rubén Martínez. No sé mucho de historia, pero un caballero lo es.

Muchas personas piden dinero aquí, especialmente a un hombre con pelo rubio y ojos azules, pero a menudo no ofrecen nada a cambio, a menos que sea para lavar el parabrisas con agua sucia. No es una queja, sino simplemente una realidad. Sin embargo, este caballero ofreció uno de sus poemas. Así pues, como un favor de un escritor a otro, por favor encuentre su poema abajo, titulado Conmigo Para Siempre. 

No somos gringos

Queridos lectores,

Esta artículo yo escribí para La Tribuna hace unas semanas.

Yo soy britanico. Somos muy pocos en Honduras. Por lo general, estamos encasillado bajo el título gringo. Color de piel y pelo, sí, lo entendemos. Pero es un titulo de lo que tratamos de distanciarnos. Después de todo, todos queremos sentirnos independientes de un poder superior. Sin embargo, políticamente, nos encontramos que no tenemos donde agarrarse, y esto nos deja decepcionados.

Si algún Catrachos ha estado en el Reino Unido y los EEUU, usted sabría que nuestras culturas y valores son una brecha de diferencia. Nos gusta considerar a los EE.UU. como nuestro hermano menor petulento, poco realista como es, mientras que gran parte de la Europa nos ve de la misma manera. Un gran parte de nuestro carácter y sentimientos se encuentra en la letra de la canción de An Englishman in New York de Sting, ya sea nuestra preferencia por el té en el café, la diferencia en el tono de nuestros acentos, o nuestra compleja variedad de cortesía y modales que son estrafalario a algunos, mientras que el esnobismo para otros.

También nos gusta proteger nuestra identidad frente a la globalización 《mientras intentamos ignorar el hecho de que intentamos globalizar el mundo hace 300 años》que es una de las muchas razones por las que la gente votó por Brexit. Estamos orgullosos de nuestro patrimonio cultural, ya sea nuestra contribución a la música, nuestra arquitectura, nuestra fish and chips y roast dinners, nuestra sentido de humor especial, las cabinas telefónicas rojas, la revolución industrial, la cerveza oscura, la bandera de Union Jack o ser los creadores oficiales del deporte más popular del mundo. Ser británico para algunos sigue siendo una marca exitosa, a pesar de lo mucho que ha disminuido en valor.

La victoria de Trump en las elecciones estadounidenses envió olas de choque en todo el mundo, y el Reino Unido no fue la excepción. Sin embargo, reflejó patrones de votación similares al voto de Brexit que ocurrió unos meses antes 《¡no pensamos que sucedería, pero lo hizo!》 y las repercusiones del racismo, la hostilidad y las protestas han sido demasiado similares para la comodidad. Las clases trabajadoras votaron contra la élite política en favor de algo desconocido, demagógico y basado en mentiras, a pesar de que se mordiera el trasero. La sensación de recuperar algo que siempre estará fuera de alcance de todos modos era demasiado poderoso.

Desde la inauguración de Trump el 20 de enero, los líderes políticos han andado con pies de plomoen que se saludan y/o critican el presidente. Pero ha sido nuestro primer ministro Theresa May la que ha sido el más tedioso, orgullosa de ser el primer líder político en reunirse con Trump, a una distancia de los pensamientos y sentimientos del pueblo británico, mientras que líderes más valientes como Hollande y Peña han sido mucho más franco sobre su condena por lo que parece un demagogo sexista y xenófobo.

Entonces, ¿por qué esta “relación especial” con los EE.UU., entonces? Emm, bueno. Esto confunde a mucho del pueblo de británicos y americanos, también, basado en intereses de negocio más bien que unidad civil. Leímos muchas de estas relaciones  especiales durante las guerras iraquíes, las cuales la mayoría de los británicos votaron en contra. Parece haber resurgido de nuevo, pero como una narrativa mediática creada por la élite política británica. Sin embargo, lo más preocupante para los británicos es cómo la élite estadounidense valora esta relación, como parece en una quilla muy desigual, con ojos capitalistas dispuestos a explotar los intereses comerciales de un imperio muerto, que recientemente tomó la decisión de votar fuera de la Mercado Común Europeo. Si algo, se siente que hemos dejado un mal matrimonio y ahora a punto de entrar en un peor.

Mi mensaje a los hondureños es no leer demasiado en esta relación especial. Somos buddies, mas o menos. Pero esta relación especial es un matrimonio para algunos pocos. Y también, a pesar de mi cabello rubio, ojos azules y piel pálida, trata de llamarme cualquier cosa, pero no gringo.

Act Now

Dear readers,

I was awoken by the need to write this poem. Destiny or something.

Act Now

Drips drop in the sink,
Ticks tock in the clock,
Yet the loudest thing I hear are my thoughts.
Reflections create faces,
Empty objects in open spaces,
Why now is my imagination caught?
Ghosts weave in and out rooms,
Breaking memories from angry tombs,
Forgotten lessons I thought I’d been taught.
Things said and done awake,
To souls I love or hate,
Tell me it’s time to let go.
The angel whispers wisdom,
While the demon tweets out poision,
Sowing seeds I don’t really understand.
Pen in hand,
Thoughts falling through like sand,
I quickly write the first thing that comes to mind:

“Revenges not avenged
Have left other projects imcomplete,
Don’t let that be your legacy.”

Slumber won’t seduce me,
Yet dawn doesn’t enthuse me,
I’m left with the ultimatium before me.

Act now, before it’s too late.

Freedom Writers and Imperial Dreams

Dear readers,

Just to follow on today’s blog post about the US working class, I must confess, it was not just inspired by recent political events. In the past week, I have watched two excellent movies set in the projects in Los Angeles. I’ve never paid much attention to the ghetto genre, especially those set in the 1990s, mainly due to the violence. I didn’t really identify with characters, probably because I grew up in a middle class suburb in the UK.

That doesn’t mean gang violence doesn’t happen or has never happened around the city. It’s nearly 15 years ago, but I remember when two innocent girls, Charlene Ellis and Letisha Shakespeare, were murdered in a case of mistaken identity, so it seems, by a gang. One of the killers turned out to be the half brother of one of the girls. I was studying at Bournville College of Further Education at the time and was good friends with a boy who used to hang out with them. He was going to go out with the girls the night they were killed but he was apparently grounded.

It happened in the Aston/Lozells area. I’ve only passed through and I don’t know it well. It has a reputation, and I think the closest to what in the USA calls a project. Still, it was a world I was very much removed from and didn’t really comprehend the realities of these neighbourhoods, yet it had an impact on me, like did for many in the city.

Like I said above, I don’t really identify with ghetto movies, mainly due to the violence being glorified. In both Freedom Writers and Imperial Dreams, however, there is more emphasis on the social issues in the neighbourhoods, whether it be alcoholism, drugs, racial tension, poverty, domestic violence, lack of education, unemployment, poverty, gang affiliation and imprisonment. Violence does feature, but it does revolve around it, but looks at the trauma and the fear of it.

It’s not all doom and gloom, though. I don’t know about Imperial Dreams, but Freedom Writers is based on a true story, when a new, naive teacher was thrown into the deep-end and was teaching a mix of students with low grades from the projects. From a middle class background, she had no idea of the realities of the kids. She struggled at first but she inspired them to write diaries, as well as the opportunity to read new literature. The diaries became a nationwide, then international, project for many inner-city schools with problems with violence throughout the 90s. There is a picture of the original class below. A former colleague recommended it a couple of years ago but I forgot all about it until last weekend and I remembered how taken he was with it. I won’t tell you much more, other than it is moving, it stars Hilary Swank, it’s 10 years old and you can catch it on Netflix.

Imperial Dreams is about a boy who leaves prison and returns to the project he’s from. He makes his son his first priority and tries to get a job so he doesn’t have to return to a criminal life. He too is a writer. Maybe that’s what I also like about both the stories. This movie is also on Netflix, stars John Boyega (from Star Wars) and won various awards.

I’ll finish there for now so not to leave spoilers. Enjoy!

Reflection on Brexit and Trump vote, and the American working class

Dear readers,

I’ve always considered myself socially conscious. My parents brought me up that way. My brother and sister have similar sentiments. Embrace different cultures and understand social classes, respecting all despite their backgrounds and race. We were watching Ken Loach films from the age of six (I remember Kes of so well) and my mother used to take me along to her job at Sparkhill College of Further Education where she taught adult learning skills. It was a rich source of early learning, where I was subconsciously being taught about people different to myself, especially of differing skin colours and accents. They were always sweet, always generous. Why would I have expected anything else?

Sparkhill is a culturally diverse area in Birmingham, a melting pot for each wave of new immigrant through the ages, whether it Irish, Afro-Caribbean, Indian, Pakistani, Kosavan and, in recent years, east African, whether it Somalia, Ethiopia and Eritrea. Apparently, Sparkhill is the setting and based on the BBC comedy Citizen Khan (which I must admit, very red-faced, I have never seen). You can see it in the graffiti; United Ireland has now been replaced with Free Gaza, and pubs are now tandoori rrestaurants fish and chip bars now sell kebabs, and churches sit next door to mosques and Sikh temples. This is common throughout many British cities, a diversity of races which many of us embrace. In recent months it’s been the source of much contention with Brexit, and with Trump in the US.

I don’t want to appear conceited, but my wife has told me my social conscious is something she most admires about me, although she can equally make fun of me about it. Yesterday, for example, while celebrating Valentines Day (two days early) in El Cumbre (now I will appear conceited, because El Cumbre is a luxurious restaurant in El Hatillo, Tegucigalpa, with amazing views of the city), I spread out my arms and said, “It’s amazing to think that 1.5 millions people live in the city before us.”

Her reply, “This is not the time nor the place to go on about poverty!”

Back to Brexit and Trump, I’m middle-class British. I don’t think I’m elitist, though many might disagree. I voted Remain and I wouldn’t have voted for Trump (nor Clinton) had I been able to. I did a blog post days after the Brexit victory, in which I expressed my surprise, as well as my predictions and thoughts for the future. However, having witnessed the impossible with Brexit, it made the Trump victory not a surprise in the slightest, despite all the scandal around him.

It’s so easy to paint the opposition with a certain brush. There are racist elements to both the Brexit and Trump campaigns, as well as a particular snobbery from the Remain and Clinton voters. However, I, like many, have had time to reflect on what’s happened, especially the working class vote, and also different reasons for voting Brexit other than the scare mongering, misleading and bullshit, which made a mockery of democracy.

I have made my curiosity of the American working class known before on this blog. I know it has always existed, but my vision of it was mainly movies, documentaries and television shows such as Shameless. I expanded my knowledge by reading about blue and white-collar workers in Alistair Campbell’s Letters from America.

I saw working class Americans for the first time with Pamela when we stopped off in Miami en route to the UK. I remember going to Fort Lauderdale and visiting what the guide book described as a flea market. You never expect to meet royalty at a flea market, but this was not something I imagined. Pamela made me swear to never take her back there (mainly because there was a stall selling nothing but porn), but it was a market that both time and the American Dream had forgotten. People were selling random bits of houseware, much of it broken, that was to be bought only out of charity. Blacks, whites, Latinos, people from the Middle East. All desperate. And this was during Obama’s time. Many Brits are probably reading this and thinking, “You’ve not seen what seven years of austerity and welfare cuts have done to your own country.” No, I’ve not. But this was in a country that boasts about being the richest and most powerful in the world.

For an outsider, it’s hard to know what’s glamorized (or un-glamorized, in many cases) and what’s not from the media. Maybe me wondering such things makes me look very out of touch, which of course I am, because I don’t personally know many working class Americans, and having lived outside the UK for six years, my only contact with working class Brits is through mates on Facebook and secondary information I read in books and newspapers. Statistics and ratios of murders or violent crime doesn’t necessarily reflect the working classes correctly. In fact just to suggest it is elitist and snobbish, and I’m sure getting type casted like this gets bloody annoying. The mainstream media, as it does in most countries around the globe, often demonises the working class. They have done for centuries, labelling them trailer trash, hillbillies or red necks, while politicians disregard or persecute them. We all know though, that the mainstream media and politicians often walk hand-in-hand.

Something that always interests me, however, is how working class musicians rise through the ranks. Like Britain, the US often relies on the working class artists to produce its music, whether they be white, Italian, black or Latino. Bruce Springsteen and Eminem, to Frank Sinatra and Madonna, to Tracey Chapman to 50 Cent, plus many more, who, when allowed, have given us glimpses of their reality, concepts of poverty and what it’s like to live without.

Yes. You can see why the working classes voted anti-establishment, even if it doesn’t necessarily benefit though. Without wanting to offend the working class, but if you have nothing, and one corporate politician offers you the same, while the other offers greatness, you’ll be willing to forgive the scandal and nonsense. It’s a sad state of affairs.

Below are two more in depth articles that might interest you about working class Americans.

– Eviction Crisis – The Guardian

– What People Don’t Get About the US Working Class

Please add any comments below, especially if you are, or consider yourself, working class American. Maybe I’m missing out on something, or I’ve touched a nerve unintentionally. I look forward to hearing your thoughts.

Kevin Solórzano

Dear readers,

Anger has been rippling through Honduran social media since last night as Kevin Solózano was found guilty of murdering a former judge named Edwin Eguigure. This rancour isn’t aimed at Kevin, mind. No. It’s at Honduras’s justice system, and it’s not the first time it’s been accused of corruption and injustice. It’s today, though, that Kevin will be sentenced, and it looks like it’ll be for a very long time.

“Why innocent people?” the Facebook commentaries say. Online petitions are being set up and signed as we speak (https://www.change.org/p/poder-judicial-honduras-justicia-para-kevin-soportado-honduras?recruiter=679362209&utm_source=share_petition&utm_medium=copylink), and protest marches are being organised for tomorrow which will no doubt end reminding the powers that be a few more injustice and corruptive faux pas’s they’ve committed.

• Why isn’t Ricardo Alvarez (former Mayor of Tegucigalpa) behind bars for bollixing up the tram project, where money went missing to finish the project, with no explanation, no one held accountable, and he walks free? 

• President Juan Orlando Hernandez, who admitted to using IHSS (NHS) funds to fund his Partido Nacionalelection campaign, letting thousands die in the process?

• Or Lena Guiterrez, who was found guilty of selling cornflower pills to the IHSS and also let people die, who hasn’t spent a day in prison?

(These are translated from Facebook, by the way; not actually my own words. Repeated in bold: not my words, just translated from folk in Facebook).

I can’t judge Kevin’s case for myself. I haven’t followed it that closely. But it’s been the talk on the street for some time and sensationalised in the press, as you might expect. I don’t think it’s divided opinions as such, but many people believe Kevin’s innocent, while others seem unsure what to believe. The evidence, I am told, stands heavily in Kevin’s favour, with videos, phone calls and alibis proving his innocence. But evidence doesn’t always matter to the powers that be, some believe, and we get that “Honduran surreal realism” tag-line all over again.

One thing I did learn in my law module in my journalism degree is to clearly state the facts, and then write allegedly before accusations or alternative facts, which seems to be a part of Trump’s Newspeak. As much as I love Hondurans, they can be world-class gossipers, which can cloud judgement. But when the judges are often clouded by corruption, it can be very hard to say what’s what with the labyrinth of information on the table. So I will tell you what I think the facts are, before I get to the heresy.

The Facts

The crime happened on 11th November 2014 in El Chimbo, a small town which sits just outside Tegucigalpa on the way to Santa Lucía and Valle de Angeles. It’s residents made up of some the wealthiest in the country, but there is a fair bit of poverty as well. A “blink and miss it” kind of place, based on a bend on a busy road. I’ve flown through it any times but never felt the need to stop.

The victim was stabbed to death.

Kevin was a university student when the crime was committed. Late teens, early twenties, maybe. He wasn’t from a well-off family; they’ve had to rely on donations to pay the defence lawyers who some have accused as “not being very good”. I can’t say. Kevin was accused of the murder by the widow, María Auxiliadora Sierra and her son. Kevin didn’t receive bail and has been held in prison throughout the trial, with new evidence bouncing all over the place, and his fate ticking like a pendulum.

I am sure that I am missing out a lot more facts, but as suggested above, I don’t want to mix fact with heresy and offend or get sued.

Heresy

As stated above, evidence seems overwhelmingly in Kevin’s favour, with video evidence even showing him to be in different place at the moment of the crime. One source told me that there is evidence that the widow is behind it, that she paid to have her husband killed, with witnessing claiming that she was heard screaming, “Not like this, not like this.” I can’t confirm or deny this. It’s just what I’ve been told.

Like stated above, despite the overwhelming evidence on Kevin’s side, the narrative seems to be that she was flip-flopping, unsure if she recognised Kevin’s face or not, but at the final hour she was adament it was him, and the judges took her word over everything else.

Smells fishy, certainly.

Not surprisingly, Hondurans are up in arms about this, while the government is trying to simmer things down and brush this under the carpet. Things like this don’t go away fast, though. We’re reaching a year’s anniversary since Berta Caceres was murdered, it still seems no one has been held accountable, and anger still burns. The organisation Global Witness has recently been stoking the flames by announcing the high number of environmental activists murdered at the hands of government officials since 2010. Not an ideal time for President Juan Orlando Hernandez, as he begins an election campaign trial, which I’m told is against the Honduran constitution; a president can only sit one term.

In Kevin’s case, it’s plausible that the Honduran justice system wanted a scapegoat and find someone guilty (the victim was an ex-colleague of theirs, after all) so they framed this young man. I’m speculating, and speculation is dangerous, but it happens in justice systems that are deemed just and fair to the rest of the world. Take the British with the Guildford Four and Birmingham Six, for example. These things happen.

At the same time, it’s hard to know what’s going through the widow’s mind, because these fierce rumours could just be rumours and she’s lost her husband.

Nonetheless, at this moment in time a possible innocent sits in a room some cell waiting to hear his sentence, while Honduras rages, yet again.

Watch this space.

Frida – part two

Dear readers,

We saved our daughter from a restaurant in Valle de Angeles. She was trapped in a cage which wasn’t much bigger than herself.

Sorry, I should be more clear. She isn’t actually our daughter. I was mind-fucking you. Plus, that introduction is a great prompt for a thriller set in Tegucigalpa. She’s actually the white-fronted amazon parrot we adopted called Frida. You would have known that had you read the previous post. Keep up!

We actually spotted her in July or August. The cage’s perch was a surplus. It came up to Frida’s chest as she sulked at the bottom of the cage with her sibling, sick of passers by (mainly little grubby oiks) sticking their fingers in the cage. Pamela saw how taken I was with them. I gave the birds half the rice from our plates which is strange for me because I never waste food – unless it’s sopa mondongo (tripe soup). I recounted over the meal about my childhood, having an avairy with budgies, cockatiels and quails, the exotic calls in the garden throughout summer and the politics of where to put the nest boxes during mating season. I missed them. It has always been my dream to own a giant walk-through avairy with a desk where I can sit and write. All the birds would be rescued, living in peace, a bit like the avairy in the Nature Centre in Birmingham, which is coincidentally where I did my school work experience 22 years ago. A pipe dream, maybe, but at least I have a start with Frida.

We went back to the restaurant in October. We asked about the parrots and before we knew it, the owner was naming a price. They must haved flogged her sibling, and when I saw Frida for the second time, her feathers were ruffled and she looked distressed, being kept in a cardboard box. Amazons, I have learned, hate sun, as well as dark spaces. I asked how old she was and they said about three months, but I guessed she was about three months old when I saw her three months before then, so in short, I’ve little idea what her age. I’m taking their word for it and guessing she was born in June 2016. The previous owners also believed she is female. Many parrots are sexually dimorphic, and the only way to determine the parrot’s gender is by a DNA test, which was the case with my brother’s African Grey. To put it short, the restaurant owner didn’t look like the type who would bother splashing the cash on a DNA test for a parrot he wanted to flog ASAP. So Frid-a could well actually be a Frid-o. We won’t actually know until it reaches sexual maturity in a couple of years. Apparently the males get very aggressive – sex-pests so to speak (funnily enough, a lot like Honduran men) – but Frida shows no signs of this, no matter what Pamela tells you. My wife has also got it into her head that Frida hates her and is extremely jealous. I’m beginning to see more symptoms of jealousy in Pamela, however. Frida just seems to want attention. It is true that female parrots warm to men more, and she can get a litle clingy, refusing to leave my shoulder while riping chunks out my t-shirt. But she is very sociable when people come to the house, showing off her great climbing skills and array of curses.

Going back to when we took Frida, I can’t tell if she is contraband, poached or bred legally, but I had my suspicions even before the owner put a black bin-liner over the cage and wanted us to leave ASAP, but I did feel a fair wedge of criminal guilt.

Going back to climbing, it is the only way Frida can reach high spaces. It seems the former owners clipped her flight feathers too close to one of her wings, which seems to have stunted the feather spouts and nerves. They pretty much hacked right into it. Usually the feathers grow back within two to three months but we’ve had her for four months and there’s no sign. The ordeal must have given Frida a considerable amount of trauma, because for the first couple of months she’d get hysterical if my finger went anywhere near that side of her body. Pamela sometimes calls her Maleficent, on the count of her power of flight being taken from her, as well as possessing something of a scandalous soul. In sad irony though, Frida Kahlo wrote a diary by the title of Alas Rotas (broken wings). The name seems even more fitting.

Frida (the parrot) has chilled quite a bit now and has learned to flap herself short distances. She also climbs the curtains. We came home the other week to find she wasn’t on top of her cage and we couldn’t hear her usual excited squeak when we entered the house. We went through all the rooms checking but nothing. I was beginning to think she had escaped, somehow, geniusly, despite all the windows being shut. We then found her in the back room upstairs on the curtain rail, changing from silent mouse to squawking mocking hysterics within seconds.

No. Don’t feel too sorry for her. She parades around the house on my shoulder like a hitch-hiking monarch. I am merely the chauffeur of the flock, that passes fresh fruit while she lounges like a Goddess upon her heavenly cage. She has her favourite food everyday, she flirts with the neighbouring pet parrots, she mimics the dogs in the neighbourhood and starts off howling matches between the two American Bulldogs living opposite, she pinches my ear and pulls off my glasses and then runs off, she has her own Instagram page (#FridaVerde321), she cacks on my newest and favourite shirts, and she vandalises the joint when she has food. She is, by and large, a thug.

On the subject of clipped wings, it is one of the most controversial issues in parrot ownership. Sod that, in pet ownership. I’m often at loggerheads with myself about this. The animal rights activist in me says it’s wrong. Parrots, like most birds, are meant to fly. It’s in their DNA and it’s God’s will; evolved from dinosaurs (a Veloci-Frida – sorry for the shit pun) to do just that. Clipping wings is metaphorically breaking a bird’s arms. I would one day like to see Frida flap her wings and fly. Seeing her stretch her wings out and being unable to use them properly is a source of guilt, especially when flocks of parrots fly overhead and she calls out to them but can’t join them.

The more selfish part of my brain says, suffice to say, they should remain clipped so we can continue to hand-rear her. It would have been nigh on impossible to tame her without it. Having done some research on the topic (my parents gave me a fascinating parrot book for Christmas), it’s not just the feathers that need to grow back, but also the building of flight muscles. This can be anywhere between two to six months, then a few more weeks to regain their flight coordination. Needless to say, parrots are very prone to injury during this period. Seeing her flop out the window into the path of a hungry dog, cat or rat haunts me (excuse my girly dramatics, but I speak the bloodiest truth).

Frida has also become very consented and lazy. Any DNA which taught her to search for food has been replaced by sulking squawks if she doesn’t get it fast enough. When she first came to me, she would climb my entire body to get to my shoulder. Now she waits to be carried up. Yes, most of this is my own fault, a submissive victim in this abuse of dominance, but I don’t think she would survive long in the merciless wild. I take her out in the garden so she can gnash on the weeds and plants, get a gist of the wild, but she usually comes right back to me, whining like a toddler.

It’s a hard decision I’ll have to make at some point. As I said, she’s part of the family, but at the same time, she is a bird: She deserves to fly. I don’t know how many generations back her family have been in captivity, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she or her parents were poached from the wild, which is sad.

She seems happy, though. And that’s good enough for me for now.

Do you know what I love about owning a pet? Even though they bully and manipulate you for food, to give them attention and clean up after them, they are a symbol of purity. They haven’t corrupted minds like we humans, that have learned to discriminate our neighbour for their nationality, race or politic. It’s an unconditional bond and they help you, as much as you care for them, through good times and bad. It’s such a wonderful, honest relationship (while Frida’s there looking at me write this, as though I’m a naïve idiot, ripe for a good peck of the ear).

I remember when we brought her home in the car. I had no idea what breed she was or what we were letting ourselves in for, basically conmitting all the sins to pre-pet ownership. We hadn’t a cage, food or knowledge of her breed’s personality. I clawed through some basic information and learned she was from the Amazonas family. You cannot imagine my thoughts when I read they had a life-span of 40 years. I was expecting 15 at the most. Fuckkkkk. They could be aggressive with bi-polar attitudes. Fuckkkkk. They need lots of social interaction. Fuckkkkk. They shit everywhere. Fuckkkkk. 

Yes, all the above fuckkkkks are true, and I did feel nervous and duped. Four months on, however, it’s been one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. If she lives till forty (I’ll be 77; scary thought), I’ll be happy. It’s the start of a blossoming friendship.

Frida – part one

Dear readers, 

Birds. This post is about a particular bird, more so, as opposed to the Mexican artist Frida Kahlo. Nor am I being sexist by referring to a woman as a bird. The type of bird we are talking of is actually an Amazonas Albifrons, otherwise known as a white-fronted amazon, which is a breed of parrot deriving as the name suggests from that large jungle in South America. Yet this breed of amazon only exists in Central America, Mexico and California (which Mexicans will tell you is still part of Mexico anyway, no matter what gringos, international law and frontiering walls say). They are quite small in compared to other amazonas parrots; about the size of a cockatiel, but with stockier bodies, shorter tails and bigger beaks, which scares the jeebies out of my wife.

So what?” I hear you think.

Well, if you follow my social media feeds, you will know that my wife and I have adopted a little white-fronted amazon and her name, as the title of this post suggests, is Frida. And she’s sat on my shoulder as I type this (to be specific verb than sat, she is actually tarting herself up while simultaneously crapping down my back).

We adopted her in October last year. We didn’t plan to have her, which is ironic really because my wife calls her our daughter. It was my wife who thought of the name Frida. Pamela is a huge admirer of the artist and has a collection of books, t-shirts and movies, which I nor Frida (the parrot, not the artist) are allowed to look in the direction of, let alone go near, these shrines to her sacred idol. I knew Pamela was going to call her Frida. She was obsessed at the time. It could have well been a cat, dog, hamster or chair; something in the house was going to be called Frida. Frida is the perfect name for her, however. It is actually an ancient Germanic and Nordic name meaning peace, and despite what Pamela says and if you ignore her boisterous six o’clock in morning flock calls, she really is a peaceful bird. But more so, she looks like a painting by Frida. Mother nature could not have made a more fascinating creature. The shades of green and black’ish feathers, mixed with the flashes of blue, red and white on her face makes her look a francophile. Particularly the red, though. It makes her look as though she’s wearing a fiery eye mask at carnival. The detail is immaculate and I know my mother back home is going to have a tough job trying paint her to perfection. Not even photos do her justice. She blends into houses, forests, jungles, gardens or even settees; the ultimate fashion accessory. Beware though; she craps for Honduras. Her ability to relieve herself on my shoulder is staggering, somehow synchronising her favourite craps for my cleanest, brightest and newest shirts. I sometimes get through three t-shirts a day thanks to her. Biased I am, but God created a grand design with these creatures. On bad days, her sweet nature and beautiful colours are enough to put a bit of faith back into the world, while political leaders are hell-bent on destroying it.

You know, Frida comes as a bit of a compromise. I love cats. My wife hates cats, though her tune on about those furry felines quickly changed when we had a rat problem a couple of months ago. But there is no way we could adopt a cat now we have Frida. Having death staring up at her all hours of the day is unfair on any creature. For a large bulk of day, Frida spends it on top of her cage, on my shoulder or scurrying the garden, chirping and mimicking her mum and dad (Pamela and I). She takes after Pamela more so. My in-laws often tease Pamela by telling her she has someone of the same squawking ability and tone to chat with now. But seriously, Frida has picked up on many more Pamela’isms than Nick’isms, whether it be whistles, cat calls or curses. In the first few days, Frida was calling Cusuuu very loud, which is what Pamela calls me when she wants help, attention or chocolate. Another time she gave a high-pitched salt-in-the-wound whistle, perfectly pitched and timed, when Pamela was taking the piss out of me about something. But my favourite, and the most incriminating to Pamela, was when Frida started screeching out tu madre (your mother) or tu abuela (your grandma). They are used as a last resort curse; typical Pamela’isms. But what was funniest was how and when Frida used it. On the morning of Honduran Women’s Day, I approached Frida with a tiny piece of orange.

Me: Hello, Frida. Would you like some food?

Frida: Tu madre.

She then spat out the orange and fluttered to the other side on top of her cage.

Frida 1-0 Nick

She is usually more cheerful than that. I grew up with budgies. They never really had moods. They were either friendly or not. With more intelligent parrots though, one has to be very careful, especially if you have them on your shoulder. They can cause damage if they want to. Buttons and shirt collars have been victims of Frida’s gnawing. Though, apart from a few teething problems at the start and before bedtime when I put her inside her cage, Frida is usually well-behaved and sociable clambering over hands and shoulders and scalps, giving people a slightly sore Indian head massage with her talons. Sometimes it’s her requesting the massage, flirtingly tilting her head and inviting you to rub her head and neck. Her feathers fluff up, she closes her eyes in bliss and her head bends almost until her beak in nudging the perch. She looks almost ridiculous, but very naïve if she were out in the wild. She often growls like a dog a little when I hold my hand out to her, but she usually changes her mind and decides she wants to hop on. However, if she is in a bad mood, she can usually be brought back round with a shower and/or food. Food is on her mind a lot actually. As far as she’s concerned, my food is hers and her food is hers. I’m just a straggler in her flock and she will literally steal food out of my mouth if she can’t pilfer it out of my hand. It’s hilarious to watch, especially for Pamela, who also steals food off my plate. 

Apparently Amazonas are prone is obesity. The problem is Frida, like her mum and dad, has quite a few weaknesses for certain food stuffs. Porridge with water, toast with peanut butter or marge (she scrapes off the peanut butter or marge), rice, green beans, refried beans, fried eggs, scrambled eggs, cucumbers, apples, mashed potato, guavas, pasta, bananas (banana and peel), cornflakes, and last, but no means least, sunflower seeds. Sunflower seeds to her is like our chocolate, our McDonalds. So nice, yet so fattening. Raisins, coffee and tea are her cocaine. She gets a berserk look in her eye and she grinds her beak more crazed than per usual. This leaves a white powder on my shoulder which my wife says dandruff. I give her cuttlefish but she ignores it. She prefers harder things to test her beak. Or sometimes more tender, like my ear-lobe.

Next post, I will look at clipping wings, how we saved her from a restaurant and many more funny little habits she has that fulfil her very big personality.