So the Ruta Maya, mainly the Carribean coast of Mexico, is full of McDonalds and Hotels and everything western.
The change from air-con bus showing movies (Kung fu hustle: I´m an Englishman on a bus in Mexico watching a Hong Kong movie, how small our planet is now), to small, open windowed Venus bus, painted in Belizian colours and playing Mexican pop, was the first sign that things were about to change.
At the border crossing for Belize, ("Any fruit or Veg?" "Erm, I have a couple of plums in my bag. I think I eat half of one of them... ") the first thing you notice is the patois-creole-spanglish, with a shop with the sign "get mah fo ya dollah!", then landscape so green you can´t help but think the colour´s been fiddled with in your eyeballs´post-production suite, which is occasionally interrupted by broken down and rusted cars and little kids playing with kites made of bin bags, flapping around in the wind.
More and more people pile on this bus, and I notice how diverse this place is; Hispanics, Caribbean guys, Chinese, Whites, and every shade in between, with hints of Native American too.
As night falls, the music on the bus shifts to Reggaton, and the lights go out to be replaced by pulsating blue ones that make you think you´re going to a rave (or maybe taking the lengendary Venga Bus...), I resign myself to a night in Belize city.
As we draw closer, my eyes desperately seek signs of something I laughably seem to think of as civilization, i.e neon and brands and logos, but all it finds are lean-tos and decrepit wooden houses on stilts. I fear a hostel with hammocks and internet access might be a little too much to ask for.
We pull into the bus station, and my only tourist company is a father and son combo from the US, the Dad with his camcorder blatant in his hand, as the touts realise we clearly don´t have a clue what to do here.
We head, our troop of three, toward the center of town, with various looks and hollahs as we go by.
We find a grimy guest house that perfectly fits the cliche of flea pit.
The owner seems half asleep, a skinny, frail bald man in a dirty tank top.
The room is filthy, the sheets stained - but it beats the streets. We take it, dump some stuff, then head out for food.
We found a Chinese take away place, where the guy is separated from customers by iron bars, which is never encouraging.
The first thing the American Dad says to me is:
"So, is it true that England has been taken over by Muslims? Cos they´ve taken over France,
you know."
The comment needs contradicting on so many levels, but thankfully, his son steps in: "You read too many small town news papers Dad. "
The fried rice is surprisingly good, the money here has pictures of the Queen on it, and from many years ago: this $10 dollar bill is older than me.
Returing to the guest house, I pass out as quickly as possible.
I awake to the American Dad speaking to the manager in the corridor, and the first thing I make out is "Actually, most of the prostitutes are Spanish. " Well, good morning Belize!
The manager ushers me into his room to show me his trophy: A large shell of a turtle, which he holds high like some kind of ancient shield, glimmering in the morning light. "Be careful...", he warns me. "It´s not dry yet."
One look at the bathroom and the cockroaches there make me decide to skip the shower. I stand on the balcony-porch thing with the manager and the American dad. The manager and I smoke cigarretes. One thing for Americans, they will fill any awkward silence for you. He keeps chatting away, and the manager turns out to be an ex US Navy diver, who goes out to the Cayes all the time, where he got his recent Turtle trophy. He tells me my destination has nothing but tourists. I don´t mention to him that that´s kind of the point.
The last time he left Belize was to get to a decent hospital.
"What did you go to the hospital for, " asks American Dad.
The manager takes a deep drag on his cigarette.
"Cancer," he replies.
Time to leave.
