Rebel Without a Course
A shipwrecked Englishman washes up on a deserted island in the South Pacific.
Salt on his skin. Seaweed in his hair. He drags himself upright and sees locals stepping out of the trees. Tall, calm, carved by weather and silence. Spears at their sides. Garlands on their shoulders.
He staggers toward them.
"Thank God. Civilisation at last. Tell me, where is the British consulate? The governor? Who is in charge here?"
The locals trade slow glances.
One steps forward. He knows a little pidgin from the trading ships. He points toward an old man sitting under a palm tree, weaving a basket.
"Him big man. Him chief."
The Englishman straightens what is left of his jacket.
"Right," he says. "Then I am the opposition."
Analysis:
The Englishman arrives without a ship, without a flag, without a country to his name, but he carries the entire Empire inside him.
Old habits travel far lighter than luggage.
Even on an untouched stretch of sand, he cannot stop searching for hierarchy.
He cannot meet another human until he knows who rules him.
He needs a structure.
He needs an opponent.
The joke works because it is not a joke.
It is a diagnosis.
This is the Western reflex.
Opposition as identity.
Rebellion as posture.
Defiance even when nothing demands it.
A new world appears in front of him, quiet and self contained, and he turns it into a debate club by instinct.
He cannot imagine belonging without choosing a side.
He cannot imagine freedom without friction.
He believes he survived the sea.
But the soil he came from stayed in him.
It whispers the same old story in the same old voice:
Order. Rivalry. Dispute.
Even in paradise.
Even when he stands free on a beach.
Paradise without drama is not good enough for him.