One minute I am eating tacos and chatting in lively Spanish, next I'm face to face with black, dreadlocked border officials, trying to decode the lingo.
Of course… I forgot. Belize is Commonwealth. This lilting, smiling language is actually my own - or was, once. I finger through to the underlying meaning and emerge with another stamp in the passport.
I climb up in to the ex-US schoolbus going down the only main road south.
People of all colours climb on, speaking their rhythmic islander's talk, speckled with unfamiliar slang. I keep forgetting, asking questions in Spanish. The bus driver plays reggae and I talk to a child next to me.
She is the smartest girl in her class. She is also the oldest, with the one class serving children aged 8-11. We hold up a five pound note against a ten dollar bill, comparing the Queens.
Her school is 'non-profit.'
Sea air frosts everything with a salty crust.
The landscape of northern Belize is flat, dry and less interesting than I had anticipated. The settlements, however, are intriguing. Wide, dusty roads, sprinkled with homes and jungle palms. Run-down schools, labeled as Hurricane Shelters. Wooden houses, paint peeling in the sun, propped up precariously on stilts. Some of them lean beyond reasonable stability.
All in all, I feel very much like I've stepped back in time. I cannot get over the language, and how it relates to my country. I feel strangely like a modern-day pioneer, painting the Caribbean with my flag.
I am slightly embarrassed to be British.
I talk to an old woman, Mary-Lee, about my predicament. When she was born the country was called British Honduras. I ask her how it has changed.
"Independence don't mean freedom," she says, with a sorry shake of her head. "Dey keep telling us dey'll help us, but everyone lies. No politician ever follows through. It jus' gonna get worse and worse."
I tell her; "if its any comfort, politics are the same everywhere. We have a new government and already they're breaking promises. At least you have the sun!"
She laughs and agrees. "I spent ten years in England before I decided Belize was a better life. Ain't so sweet over there either.
"But it be same everywhere. World's covered in fire n' flood. Evil be spreading."
I ask her what she means. "Worlds endin', girl. Jus' you wait."
The bus journey goes on for several hours, through towns seemingly named by fantasising children. Orange Walk. Cool Shade Camp. Ladyville. Until finally I am in Belize City. It is tiny, yet energetic. After the sprawl of Mexico it feels wrong to call this a city.
I had been nervous -- as usual, with no guide book, I am going on word of mouth. Depending on the age of the adviser, this has not always been positive. But five minutes into the city and I am relaxed. Everyone here has a smile on their face. The women move with an enviable rhythm. The men are, in general, very attractive. Everyone calls me baby.
The wind keeps blowing. I hear Belize is all about the coral islands.
I have a little time.
I buy a ticket for the last boat to Caye Caulker, enough food for a week, and sit in the sun to await my chariot.
