As the sun begins to dip lazily into the aquamarine horizon, we stroll from the camper to Ana’s bar and pull up a sandy stool. This joint fills up fast. Everyone is a local, they all know Pepe (the bartender) and he knows them too. A couple regulars meander behind the bar to mix up their own Micheladas. These locals aren’t of the Armando and Maria variety, they go by names like Rick and Margie and 90% of them hail from beautiful British Columbia (eh). The place is abuzz, these folks are an absolute riot. They have stories we should be writing down, and man, can they dance. In this five dollar per night paradise, we are awash in a sea of margarita’d Canadians, unable to explain our lonesome American presence.