REUTERS, MANILA — The Earth, in a fit of geological pique, has decided to remind the Philippines that plate tectonics are not a suggestion. Hundreds of aftershocks have rattled the archipelago nation, sending locals scurrying for higher ground and destabilising buildings that were already leaning with the weary resignation of a man who has queued for an hour at the post office.
Into this chaos steps the United Kingdom, a nation whose foreign policy now seems to consist of stepping onto disaster sites with a pained expression and a cheque book. The UK has pledged 'rapid humanitarian aid' to its Commonwealth partner. Which is diplomatic code for 'we will send some tents and a man from the Foreign Office who will stand there looking concerned.'
One cannot fault the sentiment, however. After all, the Commonwealth is a club of nations who once agreed, under duress, that the Queen had a nice hat. Now, when one member suffers geological distress, the others are expected to express solidarity. It's like a very posh, very far-flung family reunion where everyone pretends not to remember the bit where Great-Grandpa stole the family silver.
But let us examine this 'rapid humanitarian aid.' Rapid, in governmental terms, means 'at some point between next Tuesday and the next ice age.' The aid will likely arrive in the form of a cargo plane full of instant noodles, bottled water, and a dozen bureaucrats clutching clipboards. The local officials will nod, receive the clipboard, and the bureaucrats will clamber back on the plane, having successfully 'assessed the situation.'
Meanwhile, the aftershocks continue. They are the Earth's version of a sulk: a series of petulant tremors that say, 'Oh, you thought that main quake was the end? Think again.' The people of the Philippines, who are experts in resilience and have the patience of saints, will endure. They will rebuild. They will, with a sigh, accept the UK's aid and perhaps offer a cup of their own excellent coffee in return.
And what of the UK's promise? Is it genuine? Oh, undoubtedly. The British sense of duty is a peculiar thing: it manifests in a desire to help, paired with an overwhelming impulse to make a speech about it. Expect a statement from the Prime Minister. It will include the words 'unwavering commitment,' 'Commonwealth family,' and 'our thoughts are with the people of the Philippines.' There will be no mention of the fact that the UK has its own earthquakes, mostly in the form of tremors caused by the stampede for reduced-price gin at Waitrose.
But we must not mock the effort. International aid is a noble thing, even if it comes with a side of colonial nostalgia and a pamphlet on British values. The Philippines, a nation that has survived typhoons, volcanoes, and the indignity of being called 'Philippino' by the uninformed, will cope. They will rebuild, stronger and with better infrastructure. The UK will pat itself on the back. The Earth will eventually shut up.
And so, the tectonic plates will settle. The aid will be delivered. The bureaucrats will go home. And the Philippines, scarred but unbeaten, will continue its dance with the Earth's crust. It's a relationship that would try the patience of a saint. But then, the Philippines has nothing if not saints.
