This time I board the bus as a king; a noble. Amazing what difference a little language makes. I purchase a boleto. I’m asked about la comida and I say “Si, gracias!” Picante? “No, gracias!”

Hoy es bueno. “Si, es muy muy bueno!”

The bus ride is amazing. Shimmering coastlines give way to serpentine valleys. Valleys climb into rocky hills, and hills fall down into sandy plains. Everywhere is life and music. Colour and laughter. The painted yellow lines whiz by and remind me of home.

We arrive at the central terminal and disembark. I repack my bag – the daypack disappears. Who was the genius who came up with the idea to get everything into one tiny 30 litre backpack? I love that guy!

It’s a gorgeous day, so rather than take a taxi from the bus station, I just set out to walk. My completely authentic and not-at-all-gringo hat is doing an amazing job keeping the sun out of my eyes.

After quarter of an hour I decide to flag down a taxi. It’s about half an hour to my destination so I suggest 120 pesos. Luckily the guy misheard me as saying 20 and counters with 60 pesos. This is a far cry from the prices in Puerto Vallarta – I’m going to have to get used to this new normal!

The sand in front of the hostel is sprouting more surfboards than a Ripcurl store. Of course there’s the traditional broken-down VW. As soon as I walk through the entrance I’m greeted with mural after mural, the creative legacy of backpackers past.

I didn’t bother to book ahead, so I hopefully ask if they have a dorm bed available. Sure, no problem she says, and takes me on up. There are 12 bunks, and all 12 of them are empty.

This is the 3rd hostel in a row with nobody inside it! Where is everybody?!

Manzanillo is pretty great – it’s a port town so there’s a whole lotta shipping going on. In fact, there are two main industries running here. One side of the town is occupied with the freight business and everything related to that, and the other side is completely taken up with…