Guatamala-Ciudad, 16 febrero 1990. I'm in the foyer of our hotel now and while darkness decents on this huge metropole of two million inhabitants, I'm having a mexican Tecate beer. I'm surrounded by the putas of this shorttime hotel where me and James have taken up lodgings. These girls, by lack of serious clientele I presume, have taken a keen interest in me. They talk to me about their miserable excistence, the babies they've back home showing me polaroids of themselves with small brown babies in their arms. "Yo estoy aqui pa'ganar plata pa'mi ninyo, senyor", a good looking young woman called Eva, tells me. She's actually quite pretty, dressed in a virgin white dress and red jacket. Most of these ladies look like they've at least 20 years on top of their real age. I
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