In a development so predictable it could have been written by a committee of hack journalists, Colombia's internal conflict has once again flared up to remind everyone that peace, much like a decent G&T, is a fragile and often elusive construct. The election, you see, is being defined by the very violence that has plagued the nation for decades. How very Colombian. One almost expects the candidates to debate not on policy but on whose family has suffered the most at the hands of the FARC or the paramilitaries.
Let us paint a picture: a land where the mountains are too steep for peace and the valleys too deep for reconciliation. Here, the presidential hopefuls are not merely politicians; they are survivors, each with a tale of woe that would make a Greek tragedian weep into his ouzo. And watching from across the Atlantic, with a mixture of concern and a desperate desire not to get involved, is Great Britain. The Foreign Office has issued a statement expressing 'deep concern' over the escalation. I imagine this was drafted over a lukewarm cup of tea in a Whitehall office, where the most violent thing that happens is a disagreement over the biscuit tin.
But let us not be too smug. Britain, after all, has its own bloody history with Colombia, from the sordid affair of the Falklands to the more recent diplomatic unpleasantness regarding cocaine and diplomats. So our concern is about as welcome as a vegan at a steakhouse.
The candidates themselves are a study in absurdity. On one side, the incumbent, who has inherited a peace deal so fragile it makes a house of cards look like a bunker. On the other, a populist who promises to bring back the iron fist, as if the country hasn't been choked by one for decades. The electorate, weary and worn, must choose between a slow bleed and a swift amputation. Democracy in action, indeed.
What does this mean for the average Colombian? More of the same, I suspect. Displaced families, mountainsides littered with the detritus of war, and a government that oscillates between incompetence and callousness. And yet, life goes on. The markets still sell fruit, the children still play football, and somewhere in a Bogotá bar, a man orders a gin and tonic.
Perhaps that is the real story: the indomitable human spirit, or more accurately, the sheer bloody-mindedness of people who refuse to let their lives be defined by the headlines. But that doesn't sell newspapers, does it? No, we must focus on the violence, the politics, the 'deep concern' of faraway nations. We must frame the election as a choice between two evils, rather than a desperate bid for normalcy.
I shall raise a glass to Colombia, a nation that has suffered more than its fair share of our species' insanity. And I shall do so with a gin that is probably watered down, from a glass that is definitely smudged. Because that is the world we live in: imperfect, absurd, and yet, somehow, still turning. Cheers.