Nikki Westcott

I'm kidding.

So basically, just to circle back, they're on a bus, let's leave in Guatemala City.

At some point in the middle of the night, we all woke up to the sound of pew, pew, pew, pew.

At first, in that half-asleep haze, it didn't quite register.

It almost sounded fake, high-pitched and squeaky.

But then came the unmistakable ricochet of something hitting metal and we knew that it was gunfire.

No.

Oh, my God.

The Kiwi guy turned to us and suddenly, very awake but very calm, said, if this bus stops, be ready to hand over your valuables.

We're being hijacked.

Oh.

Oh, my God, my heart is racing.

Oh, my God.

This fucking happens.

I feel sick.

My heart sank.

We'd heard of this happening, but after four months backpacking throughout Latin America, we were in denial that it would happen to us.

We looked out the heavily tinted windows and sure enough, there they were on either side of the bus, two Jeep-style vehicles keeping pace in the dark.

Each one was packed with about four people dressed head to toe in black.

And they weren't morning shots.