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As we cross the border, the smooth, four-lane Mexican highway collapses into a winding, undivided, pockmarked road Scraggly underbrush takes the place of manicured trees Swathes of farmland are punctuated by swamps Cows and goats wallow in the middle of the road and flat-bed trucks laden with bundles of sticks rattle past, pumping gusts of black smoke behind them No speed limits, no zoning, no side rails A sun-bleached billboard implores us: Belize it or not!   My friend T is in the passenger’s seat Technically, she knows how to drive, but she doesn’t want to try here, and I can’t blame her She’s German – she learned to drive on the Autobahn, the highway of all highways Me? I’m fine on these roads I know what I’m doing I’m the one who planned this trip I booked us the flights to Cancun, I rented us the car at the airport, and I’m in charge of getting us to my parents’ house another seven hours south, at the tip of the peninsula that leans off the Belizean mainland into the Caribbean Sea   In lieu of cops, Belizean roads have what are called ‘sleeping policemen’, irregular speed bumps at random intervals that appear without warning It becomes T’s job to point out when a bump is on the horizon so I can hit the brakes in time Sometimes a bump turns out to be a spot where the paving has simply washed away As we jostle around I start to realise that our Chevy rental may not be cut out for this terrain I make a lame joke about what would happen if our car broke down T nods, spits out her nicotine gum, and lights up a duty-free Gauloise   The road suddenly plunges into thick green jungle and we’re both shocked by the overwhelming beauty, the lush wetness and the size of the trees arching overhead T asks whether the rest of the drive will be like this, and I search my memory for an answer, but find it’s blank My dad told me that I’d taken this route with him many times