“A-a-a-i-i-i-!! !”
The bus passengers squealed and screamed as the bus went off the edge of the road on two wheels, righted itself and came back down without ever slowing down. We had just missed a head-on collision with a dump truck. This happened on a trip I took last year around Easter when Bob Macmillan and I shared a bus ride.
“The thought of dying in a bus crash terrifies me,” Bob said. “Why didn’t we take a taxi back to Belize City?”
“Because there weren’t any available in Belmopan,” I reminded him.
An older gentleman sharing our bench seat had introduced himself as Juan Pima. He said, “It’s not really so bad here in Belize, señor. In Mexico, I rode a bus that makes this one seems like a ride in a baby buggy.”
“Where was this?” I asked.
“It was a bus going to Veracruz from Mexico City, so crowded that people were standing in the aisles. We were headed down a mountain when a fight broke out between the driver and a passenger over a woman. When the passenger attacked, the driver started to lose control of the bus.”
“Good God!” Bob said. “Couldn’t anyone stop them?”
“No, señor. By this time, they were crazy. The bus driver suddenly stood up and began throwing punches as the bus was rocketing down the road. I could see two thousand feet straight down. The bus headed for the cliff when suddenly a little old lady leaped over the seat to try to grab the steering wheel. She got knocked down as the bus hit the guard rail and flew over the. . .”
“All off for Hattieville,” called our bus driver.
“This is my stop, señores,” said Juan Pima.
He stepped off the bus. We’ve never seen him again.
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