Lima, Peru - In a development that has shocked absolutely no one who has ever witnessed a South American election, the Peruvian presidential race has entered the thrilling third phase of electoral drama: the waiting game. As the sun rose limply over the Andes this morning, the nation's electoral authorities announced that the vote count was 'too close to call', a phrase that in political parlance translates roughly to 'we have absolutely no idea what is happening, please stop ringing us'.
The two candidates, a conservative populist and a left-wing teacher, are locked in a dance so tight you could slip a cigarette paper between their percentages. With 95% of the votes counted, the difference is a mere 0.5 points, a margin so slender it would make a supermodel weep with envy. This is the kind of statistical dead heat that sends pundits into paroxysms of 'could go either way' and 'nail-biting finish', all while the rest of the nation contemplates the existential horror of a recount that might last longer than a Peruvian llama's life expectancy.
But let us savour the poetry of it: democracy, that grand old dame of governance, reduced to a sweaty, bleary-eyed accountant rifling through ballot boxes in a school gymnasium. The air reeks of desperation and cheap ink. The vote counters have the thousand-yard stare of shell-shocked infantrymen. Meanwhile, the candidates are locked in their bunkers, tweeting accusations of fraud and conspiracy with the vigour of men who have just discovered the internet. The leftist candidate, Pedro Castillo, a man who looks like he wrestles alpacas for fun, is crying foul. The conservative, Keiko Fujimori (yes, that Fujimori family, the one with the daddy issues and the jail time) is claiming the fix is in.
And what of the voters? They are left to twiddle their thumbs and refresh Twitter until their thumbs bleed. The streets of Lima are quiet, save for the occasional honk of a taxi that could mean anything from support for a candidate to a simple 'get out of my way, I am late for my siesta'. The entire country is holding its breath, which is rather dangerous given the altitude. But this is the beauty of Peruvian democracy: it is a system designed to test the patience of saints and the sanity of journalists.
In the grand tradition of Gonzo journalism, I find myself in a bar in Miraflores, nursing a pisco sour that tastes like the tears of a disillusioned bureaucrat. The bar is empty except for a dog that looks like it has seen every election since the Incas. The bartender, a man with the resigned face of someone who has witnessed too many coup attempts, tells me he will believe the results 'when the sun freezes over the Andes'. I suspect he is a philosopher in disguise.
The real question, however, is not who wins but what happens to the soul of a nation when its electoral fate rests on a handful of ballots from remote villages where the main mode of transport is still the llama. The answer, I suspect, is nothing good. But then again, when has politics ever been about the soul? It is about power, pisco, and the televised circus that keeps the masses from noticing the mess.
So we wait. We wait for the final numbers, for the inevitable accusations, for the diplomatic cables to start buzzing with concern. And when the results finally come, they will be declared a victory for democracy, no matter how many people end up in the streets. Because that is what we do: we pretend that the game is fair, the referees are honest, and the players are not all drunk on the same cheap whiskey of ambition.
Now, if you will excuse me, I have a date with a bottle of something that might make this all make sense. Or at least make it amusing.
