The first time I met Alberto Fujimori, he was four hours late. That was 1993 and I had flown from Lima on the presidential plane with several other journalists to the northern coastal town of Piura. We had been left to fry in the blazing sun, entertained by a desultory trumpet band, until the president finally appeared on a rickety stage. He caroused with local dignitaries and worked the crowd - many of them dressed in rags - like a stand-up comic.

Fujimori, then in his first term as president, was riding high. Inflation of nearly 8,000 per cent had been squashed. Sendero Luminoso, the bloodthirsty Maoist guerrilla group that had terrorised Peru, had been decapitated; its leader, Abimael Guzman, captured, caged and paraded in a black and white striped prison outfit. Fujimori was revelling in his success. After the speech, he plunged into the throng, shaking everyone's hand, including mine.