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I'd seen them already in the manic markets of La Paz and Potosi, the courteous colonial squares of Sucre, and the desertscapes of Uyuni - shrivelled, taciturn folk with loads on their backs and earnest expressions on their sun-baked faces - but this was the first time I'd seen Bolivians having fun. At best our conversations had been short and functional. At worst they'd been standoffish. Suspicious glares. Refusals to serve. Mumbles of gringo-something-or-other in croaky voices. Their reticence was understandable. It must get tiring, pandering to privileged foreigners with backpacks and cameras and broken Spanish. Still it grated, observing this fascinating culture but not being able to connect with it. I'd never had this problem in other South American countries, but so far the Bolivians I'd met had been as cold and hard as the altiplano landscape. And yet here, in the dreamy little town of Coroico, nesting in the kindly clouds and lush hills halfway up "the world's most dangerous road," it was the annual Fiesta of the Virgin, and everything was bursting with colour, warmth and cheap Bolivian lager. Sharp brass and loose percussion rattled about the dusty streets. Vendors barbecued mystery meat and spun makeshift roulette tables. Skirts twirled and voices bellowed. Casualties of the day's festivities lined the kerbs: ties loosened, hair unkempt, bowler hats removed in submission. Tearing me away from a fierce old drunk who had sung me an aria, my travel companion pointed out a cholita dancing like her feet were on fire, seemingly oblivious to the sleeping baby slung over her back. She spotted us gawping and beckoned us to join her. We couldn't refuse. Between songs we offered her a drink, which she accepted, pouring a little on the ground as an offering to Pachamama and downing the rest in one hearty swig. She indicated that we should do the same, and seemed delighted when we did. As she spun my friend in giddy circles (somehow never jettisoning or waking the baby) I stood back to catch my breath, when a small cup of beer was thrust at me. `For me?' I inquired of the slim, smiling, waist-coated Bolivian man and his offering. `My wife and your wife are dancing together,' he beamed. `Let us share a drink.' `My friend,' I said, correcting him. `Yes,' he said, smiling at me. `My friend.' Though what I'd said had been lost in translation, it finally felt as though we understood each other. We offered a drop to Pachamama and drank up.