from Mexico to Belize

Chetumal. 3 am sitting on a porch right between Mexico and Belize. A man came up to me and asked if I was waiting for a bus. I had to snap out of my semi-misery. I spent 150 pesos on a taxi from Chetumal to the border crossing.., which was stupid because, as I latter found out I could´ve taken a bus at 5am at the terminal where I arrived. Mental note: Don't cross borders in Latin America at night. Moreover, I did not have 150 pesos to pay the driver.., so we had to go back for an ATM in Mexico.., oh well, as I later found out - border crossing is the most tiring and stressful thing for me, and often costly.
That man stopped a pickup truck and we were drooped off at Corozal. That was my first but definitely not the last time when I was in a back of a pickup truck passing through pitch black Belize. However, this time was the first and the memory of this is fresher than the ride I took today in Guatemala.
I stopped thinking about that 150 pesos and the amount of mistakes I managed to make within just a couple of days. Just enjoyed the ride. I took a morning bus from Corozal to Belize City. I met a very interesting young lady named Sheena. We talked through 2-3 hour ride, waking everybody on the bus. When we arrived there was her boyfriend waiting for her. At least I have a picture of a very tired me with my Belizian "friend"

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When I was writing this in my journal there was a fight in the bar I was sitting in. Apparently, there was a fight in every Belizian bar every so often. So, naturally, the time has come for that bar as well. Suddenly every body got very loud (even louder than they were, hard to imagine) and got up from their chairs. Two boys who were sitting at my table got up as well, one of them spilled his beer on the table and my journal. After they have satisfied their curiosity and sat back, I´ve asked one of them to clean up the mess he had created.
You have to understand the situation. I´m sitting in a local bar in the city which is famous for its highest crime rate in Central America. And here Í am, asking a drunk 17 year old to, as he precisely put it, "be a waitress". For a second there I thought that the 2 of them would just kill me right on the spot, and the rest of the "crew" would joint them in excitement.
I don't remember exactly how I´ve managed to explain myself (it is my luck that Belizians speak English). Their anger had transformed into curiosity and later respect. After a small chat and couple of beers (on me) we became good friends. I mean it. Good friends to a point that, if anybody were to harm me in Beleze City, Rudy (that was his name) and his uncle would just just kill the offender/s
Sweet boy. Probably will end up like most people in Belize City, using and selling drugs... Which leads me to another story in Beleze. A story about a church pianist (who also leads morning worship service) who loves god, his wife and son and a good "hydra" joint.

To be continued...