In 2002, I lived in Bogotá and worked at a school teaching computer science, technology, and math. I was already hooked on bazuco. My workday ended at three p.m.
I lived near El Cartucho, the now-gone area of Bogotá that brought together every kind of crime.
That afternoon, I went deep into the dangerous place at four p.m. I had received a month's pay. I entered El Cartucho around five in the afternoon and started using. In front of me was a boy of about ten, a drug user raised on the streets. I realized he was watching me the whole time, so I folded the money very carefully, put it in an empty potato-chip bag, and tossed it beside me. At approximately 2:00 a.m., the boy suddenly stood up and made a signal with his small arm. Immediately, about ten people surrounded me and stripped me down to my underwear within seconds. Then, all at once, they withdrew. A Sayayin—that's what they called the armed men in charge of security there—ended the commotion and, without saying a word, pointed his gun at my head.
The street kid—the homeless child and drug user—shouted at him to shoot me for looking down on the other drug users. Rain. The Sayayin stared at me and, with a mocking smile, ordered me to leave. I didn't know why he hadn't shot me. He tossed me a dose of the drug and said it was for the cold. It was drizzling at that moment.
Cautiously, I picked up the bag with my money, squeezed it tightly in my hand, and left the place.
On my way to the apartment, a soldier from the national army covered me with his raincoat and escorted me for several blocks. I reached the apartment, got dressed, and went back to spend the money I had managed to save.
In the end, my craving to use the drug was stronger than the dangerous incident that had just happened to me.
I was already dependent, a slave to the drug, with death lurking nearby as I walked without direction. Loss of control over my will
That night, I came very close to dying.