Heeeyho Readers! An untold adventure story this time!
I'm amidst this existential crisis when I decide to go bothy hunting in Scotland. For those who don't know, bothies are UK's free-of-charge hideouts, or basic shelters, generally in the wilderness, left unlocked for anyone to use. It's circa 2009 and digital cameras are not yet popular. Also, the world is collapsing after the 2008 crisis, with banks going bankrupt left and right and prices soaring. I've got no money in my pockets; the sole thing in my possession is a backpack full of essentials. There's dry socks, ragged underpants, a Swiss Army knife, few cans of tuna fish, and pasta.
I set the compass to the Scottish coast, to where the rugged cliffs meet the ocean and howling winds are able to sweep a bald man's hair off. The weather is typically Scottish, but I keep on plowing through the moors and into a sheep field. The air feels salty. And the sound of waves washing up the coast is more evident. The Eagle's Nest is merged into the craggy cliff facing the ocean. I enter. The door creaks and bangs behind me. Suddenly, it's peaceful. I lit a fire and forget about the world for a week.
Back to civilization, I decide to chug some beer at the local pub — one of those decrepit, twisted, late 18th century buildings. As I stomp my boots inside, a group of red-faced drunk Scottish farmers turn to me, but without much interest. They sure look busier discussing the weather and Mclean's lost sheep. Two full pints of pale ale are enough to brighten the night, forcing me to stay at the inn on the back end of the pub. This tubby, smiley man guide me as I trip through the corridor into a bedroom.
"Oi, fella. Here's some company," he shouts to the Asian-Scottish guy inside. "Looks Asian," the pub owner whispers to me, "but is Scottish, believe me, aye? Been living here for some time. Don't bother if he talks too much about his computer stuff. Fella is bonkers on the head."
I barely have time drop my backpack when the Asian-Scottish man starts: "Gon' create me own mooney." I can feel a slight smell of whiskey coming from him.
"Excuse me?"
"Gon' create me own mooney," he repeats. "Banks took me mooney, aye? Crooks think they can rule us? Won't bend me knees. Been working on this for a while."
"What do you mean?" I inquire. I'm curious right away by the weird Asian-Scottish man's rant, despite being advised he was crazy. He sips from his whiskey bottle and comes right close to me. I can feel the whiff of whiskey.
"Yer won't slip it, will ya?" he asks in a serious tone.
"No, no! Why would I?"
"Yer listen... if the crooks discover, the bewbag will toast us, aye?"
"Won't tell anyone. Alright?" I assure.
"Good. What yi upty the night? Meet me here when the pub is quiet, o-right?"
I jump from the bunk bed as soon as the lights are off and the gibberish brawls of drunk Scottish men vanish from the saloon. The Asian-Scottish is waiting. He sips from the whiskey bottle once again and tells me to follow. He opens a Victorian-era solid wood wardrobe, slides the hanging clothes to the side. To my surprise, the wardrobe has a fake bottom. The man opens. We leap through the wardrobe into a hidden room. Inside, I see a table with an old ,already yellow-ish computer; empty bottles of whiskey; papers with numbers glued to the wall; cables; and what appears to be a program running on a screen.
"What is it? what is it that your hiding? You a hacker or what?" I anxiously ask.
"Told ya! I'm building me own mooney."
"What do you mean? I don't get what you're doing here." I can't believe what I'm seeing. Behind a wardrobe in a decrepit Scottish inn. The man laughts. He then shows me a document. I read out loud: "Bitcoin: A Peer-to-Peer Electronic Cash System."
I stammer and ask for a sip of whiskey to digest what I'm seeing. It's hard to gasp what's going on. It's 2009 and I'm financially ignorant as most of the people at the time.Today we understand what the drunk man was creating and know why he wanted to keep his identity in secrecy. After a drunken night talking about his system, the man says we gotta go. The first glimpses of light are escaping through window and the pub shall open soon. That day I'm returning home, unsure if I'll be able to visit the pub again. I ask the man's name.
"Fellas will call me Satoshi Nakamoto," he says.
* * *
I'm telling this story because I went back to the pub a few days ago in search for my old friend. The tubby smiley owner was still there, and so were the red-faced Scottish farmers — they still talked about the weather, but this time O'Keeffe had lost a sheep.
I asked for the Asian-Scottish man living in the inn. The pub owner dissolves into laughter.
"Asian-Scottish man? Yer pudding head, boy! Yer so drunk that night and talking about creating yer own mooney. I tell you 'go to bed yer drunk'. But yer insisted. That bothy messed yer head, eye?"
I insist and tell the man about the wardrobe, but when I get to the room there's no wardrobe, only bunk beds. I rub my temples trying to remember what happened that night... I look at the calender and realize IT'S APRIL FOOLS DAY!!!!
Hah! If you've read this far you are a legendary follower. I shall pay you a beer. I hope you are not mad and Happy April Fools day!
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Peace.
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Access Link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/6500272773?
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~Love ya all,
Disclaimer: The author of this post is a convict broke backpacker, who has travelled more than 10.000 km hitchhiking and more than 5.000 km cycling. Following him may cause severe problems of wanderlust and inquietud. You've been warned.
