18 Februray, 1811

Well, this is like a week I have been here in this boat now and things keep looking surrealist.  I still wonder what I am doing here or if I am actually being here in this wooden room in a boat in the middle of the sea.

If I am doing my accounts right something like five months ago I was in Bogotá, sharing my time between home with my wife and my work in a telecom multinational company in the beginning of the XIX century.  And all of sudden I just happen to be in the early 19th century becoming the leader of a rebellion, packed in a boat via New Orleans.

Hmmm.  Is this real or is this a dream?  This is so real, I can feel the pressure of the keys while I am writing.  I can smell the sea and my own swept.  I can feel my sunburn scares.  All this is irrealis but feels so real.  This and my memories.  I am pretty sure I have not made up a past in the 20th century replacing my absolute lack of memories on this time.  I am pretty sure my name is Thompson; Carlos Eugenio Thompson Pinzón, electronic engineer from Bogotá, Colombia; something that does not matter anything in my current situation.

But here am I.  In this wooden cabin in a sailing boat in the middle of the sea in order to met a couple of guys in New Orleans that I have not either met before except through this laptop.  A laptop that is completely out of context, I should add.  This is the 19th century, Babbage is still a kid.  There are no electronics around beyond some vacuum tubes that are not consistent either for this to be 1811.

So, from the city of Bogotá in 2001, a few months ago to the swamps of the Santa Fe outskirts in 1810, just so, with no warning.  Then I meet this guy Caldas, and Lozano.  Then I run with them through jungles were it should be some paved roads, traveling in the back of some guys over the heights of Quindio where "La Línea" road should exist to finally came to a slave powered sugarcane plantation.

Then going to more marshes and swamps and mangrove just to receive some guns from a Californian that had built a new country called Cascadia, and then moving to Chocó, a place I had never been before, to create a guerrilla group.  This is weird; really weird.  A dream or a nightmare that is too real as real are my memories on an early 21st century.

And here am I.  Trying to avoid this Caribbean sun, enclosed making planes in the best way to build a country out of these Spanish colonies.  Ambitioning a Hispanic Caribbean Empire with enough Andes to include my birthplace and having a cool fresh place to live in.

But here I am.  In the middle of an "uptime" conspiracy to take over the world and make it a better place for future generations.  Or to build our egos.

--  Carlos E. Thompson P.
 or Carlos. E. T. Pinzón G.
 or Commandante Tomás
 or whatever I am.
    Bast, somewhere in the Eastern Caribbean...
 or somewhere in my dreams.