In a move that has sent shivers down the spine of every London clubman clutching a portfolio of questionable overseas assets, the Bolivian president has declared a state of emergency, threatening British mining interests with the sort of reckless abandon usually reserved for a toddler with a crayon and a Renoir. Luis Arce, a man whose name sounds like a cheap brand of Andean bottled water, has pulled the geopolitical fire alarm, claiming 'imminent threats' to national security. But let us not mince words, dear reader.
This is about the shiny stuff: tin, silver, lithium and the faint, desperate clinging of British corporate claws to Bolivian soil. The Foreign Office, that bastion of stiff upper lips and even stiffer gin rations, is reportedly 'monitoring the situation' with the same urgency a cat gives a slowly closing door. One can almost hear the chink of teacups trembling in Whitehall as the Andean winds of change blow through the boardrooms of London.
The state of emergency, a delightful euphemism for 'we can do what we like now', grants the Bolivian government sweeping powers to seize assets, suspend civil liberties and generally behave like a villain from a Bond film with a less convincing accent. British mining companies, those brave pioneers of resource extraction who have spent decades convincing locals that a giant hole in the ground is actually a gift from the gods, are now facing the prospect of nationalisation. Or worse: a bureaucratic headache involving forms in triplicate.
The irony is thick enough to spread on toast: a country that once fought for its independence from Spanish colonial rule now finds itself entangled in a web of corporate colonialism so intricate it would make a spider weep. The emergency decree cites 'an accumulation of factors' that threaten the nation's stability. Translation: we are tired of watching our mountains being turned into Swiss bank accounts.
The Bolivian government has accused foreign firms of 'abusive practices' and 'violating labour rights', terms that in corporate speak mean 'someone made a profit we didn't get a cut of.' As the gin flows in the gentlemen's clubs of St James's, one wonders: will the Royal Navy sails for La Paz? Will the SAS drop in for a spot of regime change?
Unlikely. More probable is a flurry of diplomatic cables, a sternly worded statement from the UN, and a quiet renegotiation of contracts over plates of overpriced ceviche. The state of emergency is set to last 90 days, during which time the Bolivian president can rule by decree, reminding everyone that democracy is a fine thing until you need to get something done.
For British mining interests, the message is clear: your time of extracting a nation's wealth while its people sip coca tea and wonder why they're still poor is coming to an end. Or at least it will be interrupted by a spot of paperwork. The City of London will be watching with the kind of nervous fascination usually reserved for a falling stock market and a poorly timed joke.
As for this correspondent, I shall be raising a glass of something cheap and Bolivian to the beautiful chaos of post-colonial resource wars. Cheers, you magnificent bastards.
