A Bloody Welcome to Belize

“What the hell?”

The bus lurched to a stop, passengers scrambling over each other to press their faces against the grimy windows. Sweat dripped from my forehead as the fickle breeze disappeared, while loud voices competed with distorted hip-hop from a dozen mobile phones.

In my exhausted state I could understand little of the heavily-accented Creole, but eventually a single word started to make itself heard over and over again.

A few people snapped photos on their phone as the bus eventually started to move, police waving the traffic on past what looked like a bundle of clothes in the middle of the road. Drawing closer, I realised that what I’d thought was discarded clothing was nothing of the sort.

The body of a man lay face-up on the highway, the broken remains of a motorbike scattered up and down the road. Thick, dark blood lay pooled around his head and body, baking in the heat of a tropical morning. The white towel over his face explained why I couldn’t hear the wail of an approaching siren.

There would be no point calling this man an ambulance.

The murmurs from other passengers increased in volume as we passed, that single word being passed around like a football once again.

Dead.