There’s this song about a snake from “tierra caliente” that laughs and stuff. I don’t know if that’s what I expected when I rolled into “tierra caliente,” but I got all that and more—sans snake.

I have friends in Bucaramanga—no, it’s more than that: I have family there. I met my “compadres” in México, where he was studying medicine and where she was like a second mother to my children—they did call her “Tia Patry.” “Tio Herman” is a doctor—an O.B. G.Y.N (whatever that means). They live in a beautiful, fifth-story apartment in one of Bucaramanga’s most prestigious neighborhoods, “La Cabecera del Llano.”

What was once a neighborhood of haciendas and rustic houses nestled in the shadow of the mountains, is now a miniature version of Uptown Manhattan. Towering apartment buildings rise up out of the base of the mountains like jagged teeth in a monstrous creature’s mouth.

It was suggested to me that a lot of the money responsible for the real estate development came from sketchy sources, such as money-laundering for the higher level drug dealers who, at the end of the day, are just trying to make buck like everybody else.

Known as the “city of the parks,” Bucaramanga is undoubtedly much greener than it’s older brother, Bogotá. Both cities run north-to-south along the base of a rather large, mountainous, jungle expanse, but that’s about as similar as the two cities get. For starters, Bucaramanga is hot—pretty much all the time. Hot water isn’t considered a necessity in hotels, and you pretty much sleep between two, thin sheets with a fan blowing on you all night long.

“Cabecera” is a neighborhood not only dominated by towering apartment buildings, but also a myriad cafés, restaurants and bars—all within walking distance from pretty much wherever you are. “La Carrera 33” is perhaps the most commercial of the avenues rolling through Cabecera, and if you’re looking for something, chances are, you’ll find it.

My “compadre,” Herman, and I were looking for a wireless internet router so that I could set up shop in his apartment, where I was going to be staying indefinitely with him, his wife, and Sofia, their six-year-old daughter. As we walked toward “Gratamira,” a shopping center dedicated to computers and accessories, he took me past “El Parque de las Palmas.” Named for its palm trees, the park actually had another reputation—a gathering place for “mariguanos.” “Stay away from this park,” Herman warned me. “This is where the people come to smoke marijuana.” Note to self.

I figured that if I brought my digital voice recorder to the park, that maybe I could pass myself off as a real, investigative reporter, giving my readers insight into the authentic life of a Colombian; I was also curious as to how they could actually get away with smoking an illegal substance in a public place that was “known” to be a smokers’ hangout. I was actually skeptical as I walked past several uniformed policemen as I made my way into the park, but immediately headed for the closest (of many) circles of young men and women sitting “Indian-style” in a circle, the tell-tale embers of a marijuana cigarette glowing as one of them passed a “porro” to another.

“Buenas noches,” I began, holding up my digital voice recorder. “Can I ask you all a couple questions?

Juan Diego, one of those present, answered me in almost perfect English, that he had taught himself by watching movies and listening to music. He explained to me that although it was by no means legal to smoke “bareta” in the “Parque de las Palmas,” it was certainly tolerated. “Look just over there!” he said to me, pointing at the policemen. “But sometimes there are problems,” he continues. “Sometime they hit us with their sticks and chase us out of the park.”

I decided that it was probably time for me to leave.

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