Bogotá, the eternal city of eternal spring and eternally bewildering politics, has finally done something that makes a sort of twisted sense. The pendulum of South American lunacy has swung away from the Bolivarian-addled mess and landed squarely in the camp of the Anglo-Israelite axis. Yes, you read that correctly. Colombia, a nation that usually exports cocaine and confusingly cheerful telenovelas, has apparently decided its next president will not be a nostalgic throwback to Fidel Castro’s pyjama parties but a chap who wants to be best mates with Boris Johnson and Bibi Netanyahu.
This is, by any measure, a seismic shift. Think of it as the political equivalent of swapping a bottle of cheap, paint-stripper aguardiente for a crisp, dry Hendrick’s and tonic. The Colombian electorate, long held hostage by the ghost of a dead dictator who never actually governed them, has looked at the alternatives and said, with a grimace, “Fine, give us the racist, colonialist, Zionist warmongers. At least their suits fit.”
But let’s not be churlish. The UK, a nation that currently operates on a mixture of Brexit-induced schizophrenia and a desperate need to be liked by anyone with a flag that isn’t the EU’s, has leaped at this opportunity like a starving Spaniel at a dropped pork pie. Boris Johnson, a man whose hair looks like it was styled by a frightened sheep, has already been on the phone to the President-elect, no doubt offering trade deals involving the export of stale Gregg’s pasties and the import of slightly more questionable forms of banking.
And then there is Israel. The plucky little country that refuses to die, despite the entire Middle East wanting it to, has found a new buddy in the Andes. Think of it: Colombian coffee beans being blessed by rabbis, Israeli drone technology being used to spot illegal coca plantations, and a joint military exercise codenamed “Operation Guava Shield”. It’s all so beautifully, brilliantly absurd.
Now, what does this mean for the ordinary Colombian? Probably very little. He will still have to navigate potholes the size of bomb craters, bribe the traffic police with emeralds, and politely ignore the fact that his entire country is held together with duct tape and the hope that the next earthquake won’t be too severe. But on paper, in the marble halls of Whitehall and the Knesset, this is a massive win. A triumph of realpolitik over the fantasies of bearded revolutionaries.
And as for the abandoned leftist path? Nobody will mourn it. It was a path lined with broken promises, empty rhetoric, and the occasional assassination. The new path, paved with free trade and mutual suspicion of Venezuela, is at least paved with something solid. So raise a glass of something Colombian (preferably anejo rum, not the local moonshine) and toast this ridiculous, unlikely, and utterly enjoyable alliance. The special relationship just got a little more special. And a lot more caffeinated.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to check if my bar tab in Bogotá can be expensed to the Foreign Office.
