In a move that has sent shivers down the collective spine of the City of London, Bolivia's President Luis Arce has declared a state of emergency. Not for any old reason, you understand, but because the nation's lithium reserves, those glorious white gold deposits that have speculators drooling from here to the Houses of Parliament, are suddenly at risk. And by 'at risk', I mean British investors might actually have to do something other than sit in leather chairs and mutter about 'emerging markets'.
Let's get one thing straight: Bolivia has lithium. Lots of it. Enough to power every electric vehicle from here to the Moon and back, twice, with enough left over to make a giant battery for the Queen's corgi mobility scooters. And the British government, in its infinite wisdom and with a pathetically desperate grasp for relevance in a post-Brexit world, has decided that this is the hill upon which we shall plant our Union Jack, or at least a small, laminated flag attached to a briefcase.
So what's the emergency? Is it a coup? A rebellion? A sudden outbreak of common sense in the Bolivian legislature? No, no and certainly not. The President has invoked the emergency powers because of, wait for it, 'economic and social instability'. Which is politician-speak for 'we're a bit worried the locals might notice their lithium is being shipped off to make batteries for rich gringos while they still live without electricity.'
But fear not, dear reader. Our plucky British investors, those same brave souls who brought you the South Sea Bubble and the recent mini-budget, are already on the case. They've sent in their finest: men in ill-fitting suits who speak loudly and slowly at Bolivian ministers, as if the problem were merely one of English comprehension rather than, say, blatant resource colonialism.
One imagines the scene in the boardrooms of London. Ruddy-faced chaps in pinstripes, brandishing contracts written in an English legalese that would baffle a native speaker, let alone a Quechua farmer. 'Look here, old boy, we've got a piece of paper that says we own the rights to your mountains, signed by a fellow with a funny hat. So if you could just keep your state of emergency away from our profit margins, that would be rather spiffing.'
The Bolivians, to their credit, seem unimpressed. They've seen this dance before. The Spanish came for the silver. The Americans came for the tin. Now the British are here for the lithium, and they're not even offering shiny beads this time. Just promises of 'sustainable development' and 'mutual economic benefit', which in corporate speak means 'we take your stuff, you get a new road.'
The irony, of course, is thick enough to spread on toast. Britain, a nation that has spent the last decade convulsing over its own sovereignty, is now tutting at Bolivia for daring to assert its own. 'How dare they disrupt our supply chains!' cry the investors, conveniently ignoring the fact that those supply chains are built on the backs of underpaid workers and environmental destruction.
But let's not be too harsh on the Bolivians. They're just playing the game. If the British want their lithium, they'll have to pay for it, not just in pounds sterling, but in respect. And that, I fear, is a currency in very short supply at the Bank of England.
As I sit here, sipping a gin that was probably distilled from English rainwater, I raise a glass to President Arce. May his state of emergency be brief, and may it serve as a reminder to all those suits in London that the world is not just a quarry for their convenience. The lithium will still be there tomorrow, but the dignity of a nation, once sold, cannot be bought back at any price.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a column to file and a budget airline flight to catch to La Paz. I hear the gin is excellent, and the emergency, at least, should provide some decent copy.
