CATACLYSM IN CARACAS. The earth moved in Venezuela yesterday, but it was not the populace rising up against their Maduro regime. No, this was a literal seismic event, a 7.3 magnitude belch from the planet’s bowels that has left buildings in rubble and the government in a state of predictable paralysis. The death toll is climbing, but the number of officials 'disappearing' relief funds is already far higher.
Enter the British rescue teams. Bags packed with thermal blankets, Marmite, and a stern sense of order, they have landed to provide a lifeline. Our lads and lasses are digging through debris while the Venezuelan authorities are digging through bureaucratic red tape. One imagines a British rescue worker, covered in dust, politely asking a collapsed wall if it might consider moving aside. 'Excuse me, old chap, there are people under there. Would you be a dear and crumble a bit more to the left?'
Meanwhile, the international community wrings its hands. The UN is drafting a strongly worded memo. The US is considering sanctions against the earthquake. And Russia? They are offering to rebuild Caracas in the image of a Soviet housing estate, complete with asbestos and melancholy. But Britain, with its stiff upper lip and 20 years of austerity-hardened emergency services, is actually doing something. They are pulling survivors from the wreckage, offering them cups of tea, and reminding them that yes, the queue at the airport will be longer now, but we must maintain order.
The Venezuelan government, predictably, is using the quake as an opportunity to blame the 'imperialist capitalist plot' of tectonic plates. 'We have evidence,' a spokesman declared, 'that this earthquake was funded by the CIA and plotted by the ghost of Margaret Thatcher.' Meanwhile, the opposition is blaming the government for not earthquake-proofing the nation, which is rich given they can't even earthquake-proof their own internal divisions.
But let us raise a glass of uncertainly sourced gin to the British rescue teams. They are the best of us. They dig with a sense of purpose, they administer first aid with a sense of decorum, and they will not leave until the job is done, even if that means working through a national crisis and missing the World Cup. God save the Queen, and God help the Venezuelan salvage crews who have to deal with the paperwork.
In the end, this earthquake has done what no political movement could: it has shaken the foundations of Venezuela's already shaky narrative. And as the British teams carry out their grim work, one wonders if the tremors of change might finally be felt in a land that has been quaking under the weight of its own absurdity for far too long.
