In a move that has left the diplomatic corps reaching for both smelling salts and the nearest bottle of something medicinal, a team of British psychiatric trauma specialists has touched down in Caracas. Their mission: to treat the collective nervous breakdown of a nation that has been running on a diet of tear gas, hyperinflation and sheer, unadulterated madness for the better part of a decade.
One can only imagine the scene at Heathrow as these brave souls, no doubt fortified by a stiff gin and tonic from the duty-free, boarded a plane to the very epicentre of geopolitical hysteria. They are not there to fix the economy, to broker peace or to restore the plumbing. No, they are there to apply the soothing balm of British stoicism to a populace whose default setting has become a 24-hour panic attack.
Let us pause to consider the sheer, magnificent absurdity of this mission. Here is a country where the only thing more volatile than the currency is the political temperature. A place where the national dish is now anguish, served with a side of blackouts. And into this maelstrom steps a team of NHS-approved listeners, armed with clipboards, empathy and a profound lack of understanding of Spanish idioms.
But do not mock the endeavour. For what is Venezuela but a mirror held up to our own fragile sanity? We in the United Kingdom are but a few missed train connections, a single Brexit news cycle and a wonky economy away from the same abyss. The only difference is that our crisis comes with better infrastructure and a more reliable supply of tea.
The trauma team, it is reported, will focus on treating 'panic attacks and fractures of the psyche'. One shudders to think what the triage system looks like in a place where the very concept of a 'normal day' has been fractured beyond recognition. Is there a category for 'acute existential dread brought on by the sight of yet another military parade'? Or 'psychosomatic paralysis from attempting to navigate the exchange rate'?
And yet, we must salute these medics. They are the vanguard of a new kind of warfare: the battle for the mind. While politicians squabble over sanctions and oil, these individuals are trying to stitch together the torn fabric of a national consciousness. It is a task as noble as it is Quixotic.
Perhaps the most British aspect of this entire affair is the quiet, understated courage of it all. There will be no ticker-tape parades for these professionals. They will do their work, offer a stiff upper lip to the Venezualan people and then slip away, leaving only a trail of better-counselled grief in their wake.
Let us hope that they have packed enough gin. For in Caracas, as in any crisis, the lubricant of diplomacy is not oil but alcohol. And if they can teach the locals the medicinal value of a well-timed 'chin-chin', then perhaps this mission will not be in vain.
