How I Followed a Friend to South America and Became a Minister

Back in elementary school, everyone has stood in front of the class at least once and presented their dreams for the future.

These days I hear YouTuber and idol are the popular answers, but when I was a kid, the boys usually went with pilot or president, and the girls with teacher or nurse.

And I was no exception.

"I-I want to be president when I grow up. The reason is, my parents—"

And yet...

I never thought I'd actually fulfill that dream on an island nation in Latin America.

The Republic of San Marcos: a South American island nation, and a dictatorship. Thirty years as a Spanish colony, forty as a Portuguese one, then a late independence in the 1970s — a country that showed up to history fashionably late. It holds a seat at the UN, but the population is a little over six million, GDP sits at $17.36 billion, per capita GDP at $2,800, and instead of its own currency it uses the US dollar. Picture the developing-est of developing nations and you won't be far off.

The territory is large for an island country, and the natural scenery is genuinely spectacular. That, I suppose, is the consolation prize.

The problem is that aside from those two things, they don't have a damn thing else.

How I ended up in San Marcos was simple enough.

I was working at a major corporation in Silicon Valley when, out of nowhere, I got laid off. My visa was hanging by a thread anyway, and I'd saved a fair amount, so I was about to head back to Korea and find a new job when—

"Eugene. You're looking for work, right?"

Ian Marcos, a rich friend I'd gone through the Duke MBA with, showed up with a proposition that made my ears perk.

"I'm quitting my job too, actually. Heading home to help with the family business. Any interest in coming along? I'll pay you at least double what you're making now. It'll be far better for your career, too."

A fat salary and a better career. For a working professional, those are the two things you don't let walk away.

So I followed him, humming all the way, in the best of moods.

"How would you like to serve as a minister in our San Marcos?"

That was when his father hit me with a recruitment offer so outrageous I nearly swallowed my tongue.

That was also when I found out that Ian Marcos, the friend who'd made the offer, was the only son of Juan Marcos — the absolute monarch of San Marcos.

This son of a bitch.

If the "family business" was politics, that was the kind of thing you mentioned up front.

"You want me to... be a minister?"

"More precisely, I'd like you to take the post of Minister of Natural Resources and Tourism."

"This isn't a secretary position you're filling. You're offering a cabinet seat after a single interview. I don't understand what on earth would possess you to put me in a job like that."

"Ian tells me you're an outstanding manager, and that when it comes to reading a balance sheet, you're in a class of your own. My son has a sharper eye than anyone in this country. If that's his assessment, I trust it completely."

"Even so, I can't be a minister. I'm a foreigner. I've never done anything remotely related to the work."

"You'll get used to it as you go. Do you think I'd be doing this if I had any other choice? The man in the job right now can't even add. I handed him contracts and he came back having been taken for a sucker — more than once. You can't even imagine the damage it's done to this country."

"I'm sorry, but I can't. A minister is not something I can do. A post like that needs a capable person, someone you actually recruit—"

I tried to refuse at first. I had no interest in politics, and I knew nothing about natural resources or tourism.

But then.

"Ian tells me you were making a hundred and thirty thousand at your last job. How does three hundred and fifty thousand a year sound? Room and board included, a car, the works. Ah — and a secretary, of course."

Once we talked it through calmly, there didn't seem to be much reason to say no.

"I'll start tomorrow. I'll pick up the work as I go. Haha. I'm from South Korea, you know. Adaptability is our specialty."

"South Korea! I know that place. The men all go to the army, don't they?"

"Oh, don't even get me started. I used to haul an 81mm mortar up a six-hundred-meter hill by myself and rain fire on the enemy. A mortar specialist — that was me."

"Ohh...! I like you even more. You look tough. I used to handle a mortar or two myself, back in the day..."

"A true soldier knows another soldier. To be honest, I could tell at a glance. That aura coming off you from all the way across the room..."

Putting it bluntly, it was a hard opportunity to pass up.

I had no idea how a ministerial career would look on a resume down the line, but the salary was excellent, and they were throwing in room, board, and a car. Why wouldn't I take it?

The only thing that sat a little wrong was working under a dictator...

I excused myself to the bathroom and quickly pulled up Wikipedia.

He wasn't as bad as I'd expected. I gave it the okay.

How to put it. He was a dictator, yes — but an indispensable one?

The great San Marcos, with its 30 percent illiteracy rate and 16 percent unemployment, was the kind of country that would not have looked strange collapsing tomorrow if His Excellency President Juan were not at the helm.

And so I accepted the Sun King Juan Marcos's offer, and became Minister of Natural Resources and Tourism.

Didn't people object?

Please. When the Sun King Juan Marcos gives an order, who would dare protest?

Can a man who isn't even a citizen of San Marcos become a minister?

What's the problem? His Excellency President Juan — a man who could strike a bird from the sky — said it was fine.

Didn't other people get jealous, or try to make my life hell?

That one was a little true... but they couldn't come at me openly.

They all knew I was best friends with Ian Marcos, the heir to the absolute monarchy and the newly appointed Prime Minister.

At any rate, that was how I became a minister. I threw myself into the work, and three years went by.

Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

The electronic alarm clock tore through the morning and drilled into my ears.

"Nnngh..."

I dragged myself out of bed and shut it off.

"Ah... fuck. I don't want to go to work."

I had hoped it wouldn't come, but the cursed morning had arrived anyway, and I despaired on schedule.

"...Still have to get up, though. Gotta make the money."

I forced my body upright, went into the shower, washed my face, and pulled on a short-sleeved dress shirt and slacks.

When I finished getting ready and stepped out of the official residence, the government car the president had issued me was waiting — along with Lessa, who was my driver, housekeeper, and secretary all in one.

"I'll bike in today."

"You've been commuting by bicycle all month..."

"I'm heading to the cabinet meeting first, then I'll come into the office, so go on ahead. Oh, and there's a banquet afterward, so don't wait on me for lunch."

"Even so—"

"See you later, then!"

I slung the briefcase over my shoulder, swung onto the bicycle, and rolled out into the street before she could finish.

Honestly, a car would have been more comfortable.

I still can't bring myself to ride in Lessa's car, though...

How are you supposed to sit in a 2000 Chevrolet Impala while someone is yanking the parking brake and drifting? I don't know much about motorsport, but if a women's racing grand prix existed, Lessa would have been a favorite to win it.

Whirr-r-r-r!

I stomped down on the pedals, and before long the capital of San Marcos — Libertad — spread out before me in a single glance.

Naming your capital Freedom in a dictatorship was grimly hilarious, but the city's mornings were beautiful enough to make your eyes ache. An emerald sea wrapped around a wide shoreline of fine sand, and on either side of the road, old Portuguese-style buildings in a riot of colors caught the sunlight and shone.

At a glance it looked like a tourist city overflowing with Caribbean romance. That impression lasted about five seconds.

Weeds shoved up at random through paving stones that looked like they'd been laid thirty years ago. Drunks slept sprawled beside piles of trash someone had dumped the night before. Down at the harbor there wasn't a ship in sight — just a single crane, rusted so badly it looked ready to collapse at any moment.

It hasn't grown at all...!

That was the problem. That was why I didn't want to go to work.

For the past three years I had worked like a madman in my capacity as minister. I'd courted a global hotel chain and landed a beautiful resort on the beach. I'd developed package tours for foreign visitors. With President Juan's full-throated support, I had doubled the tourism infrastructure budget.

The results were catastrophic.

The road to the planned resort site was still unpaved, so construction hadn't even broken ground. Whenever I sent down a budget to pave it, it came back as that beautiful local specialty: shoddy work. I looked into it and found the officials in the middle had embezzled more than half.

This country wasn't rotting from the top down. It was sick to its very roots.

Then again, what could be more hollow than telling a population with a 30 percent illiteracy rate to take ownership of their country? The country had never done a thing for them.

"The second my term is up, I'm bolting back to Korea."

I was absolutely not renewing. I'd saved around a million dollars. That was more than enough to hit ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠FIRE — financial independence, retire early — wasn't it?

After another twenty minutes of riding, the Presidential Palace came into view on a hill in the distance. They had simply kept using the old Portuguese colonial governor-general's residence, so it was dilapidated — and, ironically, that dilapidation made it look like an ancient palace.

As I turned onto the approach, a massive iron gate appeared, engraved with the eagle crest that was the emblem of San Marcos. Armed guards stood on either side. One of them, a man built like a wall, raised a hand in greeting.

"You've arrived, sir."

"You been well? How's Ana doing?"

"Thanks to your concern, Minister, she'll be discharged next week."

"That's great. Tell her I said congratulations. Why are you sweating so much, though? You sick?"

"Just feeling a little... off."

"Tsk. If you're sick, just take the day off."

His name was Javier. Rumor had it that after leaving the US Navy SEALs he'd gotten tangled up in something, drawn the attention of a gang, and fled with his little sister to the one place their reach didn't extend — which was how he'd ended up settling in San Marcos.

Whether any of that was true, I had no idea.

That he was American, though, I believed. The accent was unmistakably Texan.

Him and me both... that's how starved they are for talent. They take one look at what you can do and put you straight to work.

Well done, San Marcos.

Impressive, San Marcos.

"You brought a bag today."

"It's a cabinet meeting. Gotta bring the briefing materials."

I handed him the briefcase. Most people wouldn't search the bag of a sitting minister, but our Javier was the Field Manual made flesh. He turned the briefcase over and inspected every inch of it with painstaking care.

"All clear. You may go in."

"Alright. Hang in there."

I waved and stepped into the Presidential Palace. I passed down a creaking, dilapidated corridor, and the moment I saw the imposing doors of the cabinet room, a sigh was already clawing its way out of me.

How soul-crushing is today going to be?

I let the sigh go and walked in. The ministers who had been chatting fell silent as one.

It was always like this. The corrupt always fear the clean — and they fear them twice as much when the clean man happens to be close to the next regime.

Morons. What a performance.

A moment later the heavy doors opened again, and the Prime Minister's secretary stepped through.

"The Prime Minister is entering."

Every minister in the room shot to his feet as if they'd rehearsed it, and in walked Ian Marcos — the next power in the land, and the man chairing today's cabinet meeting.

Only once the heir to the throne had taken his seat did the rest of the ministers sit down.

"The cabinet meeting will now come to order."

A low, forceful voice filled the room.

"Minister of Agriculture. How are this year's drought countermeasures progressing?"

Sanchez, the Minister of Agriculture, lurched to his feet and began his report in a posture so rigid it looked painful.

"At present, the Ministry of Agriculture has mobilized the full capacity of every department to implement, nationwide, a campaign to increase agricultural output through the strengthening of national spirit and the promotion of patriotism! Ministry personnel are touring farmland across the country, encouraging our farmers, and—"

Ian squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

"...I've heard enough. Submit the rest in writing."

"Y-yes, sir!"

Behold, this incompetence.

What, you cheer from the sidelines and the crops just shoot up?

It wasn't black magic.

The reason a man like Sanchez still held a cabinet seat was that he had been President Juan's aide-de-camp during the war of independence.

The rest of the ministers were cut from the same cloth.

"I propose the creation of a special-purpose tax to replenish the empty national treasury!"

"Who are you collecting it from, and what do you intend to spend it on? No — before that. National income is rock bottom. Do you actually expect a meaningful result from raising taxes?"

"Th-that's... I will look into methods starting now."

"......"

The Minister of Finance, a former independence-army colonel, wanted to hike taxes with no beginning, middle, or end.

"If we distribute soap to every household and have people maintain cleanliness, the health of the nation will improve dramatically!"

"First of all, there are no households without soap. And where do you plan to get that much soap?"

"As it happens, my brother-in-law runs a soap factory..."

The Minister of Health, formerly the independence army's supply commander, was trying to line his pockets in broad daylight.

"We build ten thousand homes in the capital, Libertad, and distribute them to the common people!"

"I was under the impression we already have empty houses overflowing."

The Minister of Housing — President Juan's brother-in-law — was simply saying whatever came into his head.

"Haa."

Faced with this endless parade of incompetence, Ian didn't even bother to reply. He just let out a deep sigh.

He didn't have much choice. I was the only normal person in the room.

This is what happens when you fill a cabinet with military men.

A fair number of them couldn't even read.

I sighed along with him, and Ian looked over at me.

"Minister of Natural Resources and Tourism. I hear you're developing an oil field?"

"Yes. We plan to survey the offshore field in the northern waters."

"Didn't Chevron pull out of there, though, saying there was no potential?"

"I believe Chevron said that to put themselves in a stronger negotiating position — not because there genuinely was no potential."

"On what basis?"

"After they withdrew, we requested a contract termination, and the answer that came back was a request for more time. The vice president called personally. It looks to me like a feint, to seize the advantage in talks."

"That does sound promising. How do you intend to develop the field, then? Will you leave it with Chevron?"

"I don't believe you keep doing business with a partner once trust has been broken. We'll survey it ourselves for now, and once the exploration contract expires, we'll look elsewhere."

"Good. Alright. I'll see that you're properly supported. Push it forward."

"Thank you."

With my report finished, Ian declared the cabinet meeting adjourned.

A round of obligatory applause, and the ministers rose from their seats as if they'd been waiting for the starting gun, rolling the stiffness out of their shoulders.

"You did good, my friend."

Ian came up beside me and murmured it in my ear. I snorted a laugh.

"You're the one having it rough."

We started down the long corridor toward the banquet hall in the annex, where lunch had been laid on, falling in with the other ministers.

"When Father passes, I'm cutting all of them and filling the posts with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠people who can actually do the job. Just hang on a little longer. I've already got his permission."

"I hope that day comes soon."

I did not mention that I was going to quit the moment my term ended.

The guy was having a hard enough time as it was. I wasn't about to slap him across the face on top of it.

I'll just say I'm going to Korea on vacation and disappear.

Ghosting isn't only for breakups. If I submitted a resignation, they'd slap an exit ban on me for sure.

I'll have to ghost-quit.

I was putting the finishing touches on this perfect little plan, all by myself, when it happened.

Click. Click.

From the far end of the corridor, the sound of heels coming toward us rang out with unusual clarity.

Their owner cut through the crowd with a stride that never once faltered, coming straight at me.

The Chief of Staff. Isabella Sheira.

I had run into her dozens of times already, and every single time, I swallowed without meaning to. She was that kind of beautiful. The black dress suit fitted her body so perfectly it made no attempt to hide an hourglass figure that didn't seem entirely real — lush and slender at once — and the face beneath her neatly bound hair was a master class in what Latin American beauty actually looked like.

She was brilliant, too. The cherished daughter of the late former Prime Minister, and the top graduate of the University of São Paulo's Department of Political Science and International Relations — Brazil's finest.

As that woman drew close, my heart started hammering against my ribs.

"His Excellency requests a private audience with you, Minister."

"M-me?"

"Yes."

"The reason...?"

"He did not specify. He instructed only that you wait in the garden."

"Father probably wants to ask about the gold mine. Go on. I'll be waiting in the banquet hall."

Ian gave me a sly smile and pushed me in the back.

I followed her, and we arrived at the president's private garden.

"If you will wait here a moment, His Excellency will come."

Isabella took up a position beside me, her face an unreadable blank, and did not move an inch. I sat down on the bench by the fountain and tried to guess what this was about.

Maybe he's going to tell me that if the oil development comes through, he'll throw in a fat bonus?

I was turning that over when, at the far end of the colonnade, President Juan came into view.

He was walking toward the garden with a gait that was slow, but full of dignity.

"Your Excellen—?"

I was about to greet him when I caught sight of Javier, right behind the president.

What's he doing over there?

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Our eyes met, and unease flashed across his face.

It was the look of a man who had just been caught somewhere he absolutely should not have been. A chill raced down my spine, and every hair on my body stood on end.

More than anything — the black bag in his hands.

Anyone could see that wasn't right.

"Get down!"

I tackled Isabella on pure instinct.

A flash—

The world turned white, a glare so total I couldn't open my eyes, swallowing everything whole.

And the next instant.

BOOOOOOOOOOM—!

A roar that seemed to pass through my entire body shook the earth. The shockwave hit like a storm and flung me across the lawn.

A sharp ringing in my ears. Eeeee—. When I got my head up and my wits back, the sight that met my eyes was one I could not believe.

"W-what is this..."

Everything in front of me was coming down.

The president. The Presidential Palace. Everyone inside it.