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I struggled on completing my training and within a few days felt marginally better. On Thursday morning I venture out of the hotel again (I had booked myself back into the Hilton, same room too), to grab a taxi, when would you believe it there was Miguel! Now hang on a minute, this was getting very strange. I was very uncomfortable at seeing "Mr. Taxi Stalker" again, but he greeted me with open arms again and for the remainder of my stay in Colombia I'd be feeding him 6,000 potatoes each day. No matter how hard I tried to lose him he'd be there waiting for me. I assumed he camped out all night once he'd dropped me off each evening, but he seemed harmless, so in the end I sort of felt comfortable with him ushering me around rather than someone who may turn out to be weirder!

I had started to pick up one or two Spanish words and so managed to get across to Miguel that I'd not be working on weekends, he could also tell that I was under the clouds so to speak and I sussed out he was offering to take me to see a doctor. No way. I declined very quickly. I wasn't well but did not want some dodgy taxi driver taking me to see some dodgy doctor who would want to stick God knows what into me and probably rip me off for a small fortune.

I was relieved when it was the weekend so I could retreat into my room for two days and try to sort out my aching chest. However Ramirez had invited me out on the Sunday for lunch, so being polite I agreed. He'd pick me up around noon. That still left Saturday for me to sort myself out then.

As I got dropped off at the hotel on the Friday night, I was met with quite a scene. There was hundreds of screaming kids hanging around the hotel. People were walking around carrying automatic weapons in plain view, and well I had no idea what was going on.

As Miguel pulled up to the entrance a swarm of these kids, mostly teenage girls came flooding over surrounding the taxi. I couldn't get out. There was too many of them. I sat there for a while staring at the faces pressed against the window. Eventually I managed to squeeze out to a mass of even louder screams. They were touching me, grabbing my hair. I clung onto my brief case, which I carried around with me - just some paper work and my installation and training tools - nothing special really. Clinging onto it the way I was probably made me look like Michael Douglas's paranoid character from the film Falling Down. Then some spotty faced teenager with thick rimmed stuck a piece of paper and a pen in my face. She wanted my autograph! This was starting to get really weird. I don't know why I did it, but I signed it for some reason. Of course this led to more bits of paper being thrust at me. But it was getting too much, and out of control. Someone pulled a chunk of hair out of my head. That hurt. I was now being mobbed. Who the fuck do they think I am?

I slowly forced my way to the entrance where a few hotel security guards ushered me inside. I looked back at the swarm of screaming teenagers in amazement. I got my room key from reception and asked them what was going on. They told me it was because Ricky Martin was staying in the hotel. Ricky who? Now remember we are talking early nineties here and Ricky Martin was unheard of in Europe. The "living la vida loca" star was a kid himself back then, but massive in the Spanish speaking countries of South America. It meant very little to me at the time, but now that he is an international superstar, I can proudly say that I had a moment in my life whereby I was mistaken for being Ricky Martin, pity I look nothing like him mind you. Then again some kid who by now is probably an adult has an autograph they think is from Ricky Martin. I hate to break their heart, but I actually signed nothing more than a scribble resembling something like Ivor Biggin or was it Richard Head?

Later that evening my chest started to ache again and I was feeling worse, in fact I would have paid a million potatoes that night for a couple of paracetamol. I decided to drink a bottle of whisky out of the mini bar. It did the trick and helped me sleep. I have a saying that if you rub an empty whisky bottle on your chest you'll feel a lot better - reason being you've drunk the contents first! It was just one of those small bottles, a little shot to warm my chest. However I had to pay for mini bar consumption this time around. I must have over indulged myself prior to visiting Peru so the customer had declined to pay any future mini bar bills.

I didn't fancy paying the extortionate price for that so I did something rather disgusting. Yes I own up to being a dirty bastard as I pissed into the empty bottle and re-sealed it so it looked like it had never been opened nor drank. My yellow wee inside the bottle looked like whiskey! Yes, yes, all right, it was a stupid thing to do, maybe my fever caused the rash act but I did it nevertheless. At least now I've owned up to it after all these years.

I settled down and flicked through the TV channels, stopping at ESPN to watch some Baseball. I'd never watched the American pastime before, and after about half an hour fell asleep. I had discovered the answer to insomnia - watching baseball. What a boring sport. They've got the nerve to think football is boring?

To be continued...