Bogotá, Colombia. The land of emeralds, cocaine, and now, a democratic exercise so fraught with geopolitical consequence that even Her Majesty's gin-soaked press corps has been forced to sit up and pay attention. Yes, dear reader, Colombia is voting. And not just for a new mayor or a fresh batch of corruptible congressmen, but for a president who will, by God, have the temerity to redefine relations with the United States. A bold move, considering the Yankees have treated this South American nation like a particularly troublesome back garden for the better part of a century.
I, Barnaby 'Biff' Thistlethwaite, sat in a sweltering Bogotá bar, clutching a glass of warm Aguardiente (the local rotgut, a poor substitute for Gordon's but capable of anaesthetising the soul), watching the returns flicker across a dusty television screen. The air was thick with the smell of fried plantains and anxious sweat. The candidates: one a bombastic populist with a hairstyle borrowed from a startled badger, the other a former guerrilla with a smile that could curdle milk. The choice, as is so often the case in these former colonial outposts, is between a clown and a firebrand. Democracy at its finest.
The stakes, they tell me, are monumental. This election could reset the dial on drug policy, trade agreements, and the delicate ballet of diplomatic toe-tapping. The Americans, predictably, are wringing their hands. Their ambassador, a man with the charisma of a damp paper towel, has been seen skulking about the capital, issuing veiled threats about 'continued cooperation.' Which, in State Department parlance, means 'do what we say or we'll send in the marines.' But the Colombians, they're a proud bunch. They remember the gringo-sponsored paramilitary death squads. They remember Plan Colombia. They remember that the last time Uncle Sam got involved, things went spectacularly pear-shaped.
From my vantage point, balanced precariously on a wobbly stool, I observed the peculiar British response. Our Foreign Office, a collection of chinless wonders in pinstriped suits, issued a statement so bland it could have been written by a committee of accountants. 'We respect the democratic process in Colombia,' they droned. What rubbish. We respect nothing but the bottom line. We want stability so our pension funds can continue to invest in Colombian gold mines. We want the cocaine to keep flowing, albeit in discreet quantities, to keep the Home Counties satisfied. We are hypocrites, pure and simple.
But the real absurdity, the true kernel of madness, is that this election matters. Not because any of these politicos can actually change the fundamental nature of US-Colombia relations, but because the people believe it can. They queue for hours in the equatorial sun, they brandish their little voter ID cards like holy relics, they argue in the streets about the merits of pension reform. They think this is a revolution. I, of course, know better. This is theatre. A pantomime designed to give the masses the illusion of control while the real power brokers, the suits in Washington and the cartel capos in Medellín, pull the strings.
As the night wore on, and my Aguardiente took effect, the results began to trickle in. The badger-haired populist was ahead. The guerrilla smiled wider, a rictus grin of desperation. The bar owner, a man named Hector with one eye and a deep suspicion of journalists, refilled my glass. 'You write about Colombia?' he asked, his good eye narrowing. 'Write the truth.' I nodded, but what is truth in a land where reality is a hallucinogen more potent than any powder? Here, politics is a contact sport. Here, elections are decided not by votes, but by who can bribe the most, intimidate the best, or, in a pinch, just shoot the opposition.
And Britain? We gaze on with the serene condescension of an elderly aunt watching a toddler's tantrum. We tut about the violence, the corruption, the drugs. Meanwhile, our banks launder the money. Our aristocrats snort the powder. Our government sells the arms. It's a wonderfully symbiotic relationship. So let the Colombians vote. Let them dance their desperate tango. The outcome is predetermined. The clown will be president. Or the firebrand. It matters not. The machine grinds on. And I, Barnaby Thistlethwaite, will be here, glass in hand, to chronicle the farce. Cheers.
