Waiting for an overnight bus trip.

Guatamala-Ciudad, 14 abril 1990, nighttime.
We've taken up temporary residence in an obscure bar just behind the bus depot waiting for our overnight bus to Flores which will leave at 01.00 h. in the morning.
Our bulky backpacks scattered around the table, local males all around us in various stages of intoxication, hey Jude by the Beatles coming out of the jukebox.
Nobody is paying our little band of hippies much attention, we're dirty clothed in clothes that have not seen detergent for weeks, dead tired after day of hiking and bussing to Guatamala-Ciudad and all really on edge because we're out of dope.
On top of that me and Peter have some differences to settle, I was tonque kissing his lady, or was it his lady who was tongue kissing me? There on that square in Chichicastenango late at night and surrounded by rough street kids. She was with me last night in that old house where we spent the night while he was deep asleep on Venado and the last of our pot, snoring away in his mouldy sleeping bag while both me and Nora were producing erotic sounds.
Maybe he was not as fast asleep as I thought...he is glaring at me from across the table. I've strong suspicions that now we are out of dope he's finally coming down to the real world and realising what has been going on between his hippy lady-friend and me. Not that any of the others notice Peter's hostility. James is too occupied fondling Mary Carmen's small apple shaped breasts under her T-shirt getting "Usted es gran Hombre, señor" from drunk indios who are near comatose and lived out slutty dressed women who realise there will be no negocio with him tonight.
Nora is too busy coming down herself to realise what is going on between her "two" men.
This promises a "nice" continuation of our trip. We should make serious attempts to buy some more pot in Flores before things will get out of hand.

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