journalist

On the way back to the venue, a squirrelly Colombian journalist fresh out of college and whom nobody in Oakenfold's entourage seems to know anything about, somehow manages to stow away in our van. He asks Oakenfold to sign 10 autographs (one alone is a big no-no for a journalist; 10 warrants a Punk'd episode), and Oakenfold begrudgingly obliges him. Things turn ugly a few minutes later, though, when Oakenfold, who is trying to catch some sleep in the back of the van, is awoken by the green light on the journalist's video camera. It's a tense moment as the DJ accuses the journalist of filming him sleeping and the journalist struggles to explain himself in broken English. (As one might imagine, the journalist found his own ride back into town after the show.)

Oakenfold tears through another blistering set, which doesn't end until nearly five a.m. Of course there's an after-party, and of course we attend. The promoters secure us a bottle of aguardiente, the country's vaguely licorice-flavored liquor, though it doesn't go over well with this crowd. Kudos to Oakenfold, however, for his interest in local culture. "You embrace it as much as you can," he says. "Local foods, sights, drink. What we usually like to do is get a couple of days [in each destination]; it's usually not as hectic as this."

The sun is already up when we head back to the hotel. The mass, sunglassed exodus from the venue is reminiscent of a zombie movie. I feel as if I've undertaken a sleep-deprivation study for which I will receive no compensation - and I've been on tour only for a few days. Oakenfold and his entourage do this on a regular basis, a thought that prompts the part of my brain in charge of sleep to beg, "Make … it … stop."