I wait for the bus on Lagadas, junkies hanging around, eyes flicking back and forth, hounding a guy who has his arm outstretched. Blood and wounds, probably from a razor. He dips down and places a empty ball point in his socks. The others gather around, shouting something I don't understand. Somebody brings a out a small bottle. Iodine, think and dabs the wound. They continue to shout, drawing stares and tuts from people at the bus stop. They know exactly what they are. I have my camera with me but I don't take it out. The tall one nervously clicking his Stanley knife puts me off, "You know I'm sick." he shouts, as he lifts up his hands in a gesture that is both apology and excuse. Besides the bus has come.