Utila.

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Utila, 08 marzo 1990.
We've rented a room at the Monkeytail Inn, a wooden structure on stilts that contains only four rooms with the absolute minimum of furniture, two bunkbeds in each room, no toilet and pas de douche.
The family we rent the room from live in the house next door and have promised us we can use the sanitary facilities in their place. A waterpump in the garden and a stinking hole in the back of the house that is used as a toilet and seperated from the rest of the room by a dirty curtain.
Not that we'll sleep there tonight, we've taken our sleepingbags to the beach behind the airstrip, a small beach with palm trees where we want to spent the night.
We've bought fresh fish and vegetables in the village and got ourselves a crate of Milwauki beer from the Vietnam veteran.
It seems needless to say Peter has taken his dirty and bulky army green backpack along, the pack that contains all these mind enhancing goodies and though I've been kept out of the conversation, I've no doubt we're in for another Peyote and Magic Mushroom ruled night.
It's late afternoon and Peter is busy frying our fish while Nora is skinning up a joint, no police on Utila so pas de problem there. James is out in the bay snorkling while I drink a Milwauki beer and try to sort out my impressions of Utila so far.
Quite a nice island really, inhabited by pitch black negro people, curly afro hair and coal black eyes, their men folk tall and atletic built while their women are well bossomed and with round behinds.
Then there is the white population, blond bushy hair bleached by the caribean sun, watery blue eyes and a slight stoky built.
The language on Utila is english, the muzical blend that we we already know from Livingston in Guatamala.
We're the only foreigners on the island and everybody is friendly and relaxed to us, when we asked in the village if we could camp out here nobody seemed to mind.
I slowly return to the now and here when Nora passes the joint to me, her eyes have that strange expression again and I secretly wonder if she'll dance around the campfire tonight like she did during that weird Peyote ruled night out at the the ruins of Copan.
Out at sea the sun is slowly disappearing resembling a huge blood red ball of fire sinking into the sea like an event-horizon, James is slowly wading back to the beach and the smell of freshly barbecued fish starts to enter my nostrils.
I already love this island.

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