Sinclair restores justice.

It was at the end of his military period in a central asian country when Sinclair, who had lost his troops a week earlier and had been wandering through the jungle since, came upon a small village in a green valley. Strangely, at entering the village, nobody paid attention to him. No barefoot kids with wet noses came out running towards him, as they did with Captain Haddock in Tibet. No bare chested village elder came out to receive him with honours, as they did with Captain Bontekoe on Sumatra. No barely clad virgins came out to receive him, as they did with Captain Thunderrod on Tahiti. The only thing he met when he entered the primitive settlement was the noise of excited people, yelling and screaming, from somewhere within this small group of huts. It was to the origin of this noise that he set his steps.

He came upon a square that was crowded with people, except for the centre, where four men with long beards sat behind a desk. In front of them, on the dusty ground, sat a veiled woman, with her hands bound behind her back. Nobody paid attention to Sinclair, while he moved forwards through the yelling crowd and stopped just short of the clear centre. One of the bearded man exclaimed something in his language which Sinclair did not understand, and then pointed at the woman. The men stood up and the people around Sinclair lifted their hands. He saw that all of them were carrying stones.

“Stop”, yelled Sinclair.

How I Met Sinclair

The first time I met Sinclair was in a cheap hostel full of nature-lovers, new-age softheads and people in their fifties who still acted as if they were twelve. One big happy family it was indeed. All the visitors could use the communal kitchen (pasta, pasta, pasta, the occasional rice with ketchup, and loads of omelets) or sit in the garden and discuss world peace. The hostel was placed next to a lake, in a green valley with sheep on the hills, flowers in the fields and butterflies in the outhouse toilet facility.

I don’t remember how and why I ended up there, but then, I honestly never understood anything about holidays anyway. One suffers airports, crowded buses and expensive taxis in order to sleep in tiny beds with dirty sheets, eat food that upsets the stomach, talk languages that upsets the throat and visit putrid museums, desolate harbours and meaningless monuments. Still, it is supposed to be good for you, and who am I to protest, so each summer I dutifully pick another dreadful location for a dreadlock holiday and hope for the best.