In a stunning display of political theatre that would make even the most hardened Westminster cynic choke on his gin, Peru’s presidential election has descended into a farce so absurd it could only be scripted by a coked-up llama. The country, currently more dangerous than a Wetherspoons at closing time, has seen its voters become so terrified that the only thing less secure than their polling stations is the concept of a fair election. Enter the UK election observers, dispatched by His Majesty’s Government, presumably armed with nothing but polite suggestions and a deep-seated belief that everything will be jolly fine if we just have a cup of tea and a biscuit.
The situation, as reported by Reuters, is that candidate Keiko Fujimori—whose last name alone conjures images of authoritarian daddy issues—is neck-and-neck with a populist economist. The streets of Peru are now safer for drug cartels than for the average citizen, and the electorate is apparently voting with their lives rather than their consciences. I half-expected to see voters casting ballots from inside bulletproof Kevlar suits, like a bizarre new entry in the Olympics of democracy.
Let us examine the absurdity of sending British observers to a country where the main debate is not about tax reforms but about which candidate can promise the most effective use of tear gas. These observers, likely with names like Nigel and Penelope, will be arriving with clipboards and a deep commitment to the rule of law, blissfully unaware that the local definition of ‘law’ often involves a man with a machete. I can only imagine their faces when they discover that the only thing being observed is the speed at which voters can run from gunfire.
The irony, dear reader, is that the UK itself is hardly a bastion of electoral stability, having recently cycled through more Prime Ministers than I’ve had hot dinners. But no matter. We have sent our best, or at least those who didn’t manage to get out of the assignment by claiming a sudden allergy to South American air. They will observe, they will report, and they will probably write a scathing critique of the quality of Peruvian coffee in their downtime.
Meanwhile, the Peruvian people, trapped between a candidate whose father ran a dictatorship and another who promises economic salvation with the conviction of a street-corner preacher, are left holding the proverbial baby. Security is the watchword: nine out of ten voters say it’s their top concern, and the other one is already dead. It’s almost enough to make one nostalgic for the days when the biggest political scandal was a little bit of sleaze and a couple of expense claims.
So here we are, observing the unobservable, with the full might of the British civil service behind us. It’s a noble gesture, truly. Almost as noble as sending a lifeboat to the Titanic after it’s already hit the iceberg. But I digress. The votes are being counted, the observers are taking notes, and somewhere in a bar in Lima, a man is drinking the only thing that makes sense in this nonsensical world: a double gin, no tonic, just a slice of disillusionment.
Stay tuned, readers, for the next instalment of ‘As the World Turns into a Garbage Fire.’ I, Barnaby ‘Biff’ Thistlethwaite, will be here, ready to report from the edge of sanity, clutching a glass and a shred of dignity.
