How I Built a Bank in South America
Six months after highway construction began, I was enjoying my first stretch of truly quiet days as Acting President.
The reason was simple.
We were broke.
What little tax revenue we had was poured almost entirely into the education budget, and every last dollar from the crude sold at Drumpf Field was being sucked straight into the highway. We were barely keeping the government running on the nickel-mine profits, and whenever even that fell short, we issued sovereign bonds and had Tortilla Company buy them up — the fiscal equivalent of moving money from your pocket into your wallet.
In a situation like that, of course there was nothing to do. Politics, at its core, is about where you collect money and where you spend it. We had nothing to collect and nothing to spend.
Still, my senior secretaries were a capable bunch.
"The Ministry of Education has launched a campaign called Time Is Money. San Marcos has a rather... relaxed relationship with punctuality, so we felt this was essential preparation if we're going to compete on the world stage."
"The Ministry of Resources and Tourism, with the cooperation of the beach vendors' association, has arranged regular performances for tourists. The idea was to create as many attractions as possible to raise the rate of return visits, and the results have actually—"
"The Ministry of the Interior, in cooperation with the Ministry of National Defense, has been working to prevent any potential violent crime—"
"The Ministry of Foreign Affairs, with assistance from the Korean embassy, has placed Korean-language pamphlets in the airport—"
And so on. They went out and found things to do even without money.
Well... occasionally.
"Your Excellency! The Ministry of Construction and Housing has overhauled our previously slapdash address system. To start, we've named the boulevard running from the Presidential Palace to the Port of Libertad the Road of Eugene!"
"...Please don't do that."
There were people who overdid it, too. But the important thing was this:
This. This is the life. Pure, unadulterated coasting.
I was so idle I was practically giddy.
The biggest news of late, if you could even call it that, was the return of the civil servants who'd been dispatched to Tortilla Farm, and the news of their re-examination.
Ah. There had been one unexpected event.
"Major General Bruno Alves... wait, the Vice Minister failed? He flunked?"
Bruno Alves — former commander of the 2nd Infantry Division, former First Vice Minister of National Defense — had received a failing grade on the civil service competency exam.
That's what you get for not studying... tsk.
Honestly. What era did he think this was, coasting on rank and skipping the books?
"So, uh. What did he score?"
"Seventeen out of a hundred. Bottom three percent. He received a zero in National Ethos and Ethics, in particular."
How do you even score a zero on a four-choice multiple-choice test... It was truly, deeply lamentable.
"Mm. That's a shame. He laid the flattery on a bit thick, but he was an entertaining guy."
"Under the regulations he is to be redispatched to Tortilla Farm for six months. However... if Your Excellency wishes it, we could grant a special exemption and spare him."
Isabella looked at me steadily as she asked.
"No. We can't do that. We can't have some people going and others staying. I want San Marcos to be a nation that's fair to everyone."
"Understood. In all things, as Your Excellency wishes."
A faint smile flickered across Isabella's lips. Then she stamped Bruno's dispatch order without the slightest hesitation.
Farewell, Bruno. I sincerely pray that body and soul find health out there in the bosom of nature.
And so it was, on a Sunday afternoon when the whole country was off, that I sat wrapping spicy pork in lettuce for lunch.
"Your Excellency, I have an urgent matter to report."
Isabella came in bearing welcome news.
I looked up, cheeks still packed. "Mmph-whuh-ih-ih? (What's going on?)"
"Tortilla Energy's oil refinery and chemical industrial complex have been completed, sir."
"Whuh?!"
The news was so welcome I had no choice but to gulp down the wrap in one swallow.
"Is that really true?! I thought the asphalt feedstock production was going to push things back even further."
"Hyunhwa mobilized the full resources of the group, apparently."
"Well, that's genuinely something to be grateful for."
"Congratulations, Your Excellency."
"Why am I the only one being congratulated? We should celebrate together."
The completion of an oil refinery and a chemical industrial complex was no small thing. It was the starting gun — the signal that San Marcos had transformed from a mere oil-producing country into a manufacturing one. We could now refine our own crude, sell it off as gasoline and diesel, and produce a full range of petroleum products besides. In effect, we had completely escaped the resource curse.
"The completion ceremony is tomorrow. Will you be attending to deliver a commemorative address?"
"Of course. Everyone worked hard. The least I can do is tell them so."
"Then I shall contact the broadcasting station and prepare a live transmission."
"Hm? The broadcasting station too?"
"Should the people not hear this joyful news? I can think of no more hopeful message than watching their country develop before their very eyes."
"Good. If we're going to film it anyway, make it look spectacular. I want the people to see the grandeur of that plant."
"Yes, sir. I'll see to it."
I watched Isabella leave the office and thought:
Retirement is getting closer and closer...!
At this rate, the day I could finally rest wasn't far off.
A marketplace in the old downtown of Libertad. When lunch hour arrived, a shabby little eatery packed with people. Most of them were merchants and laborers from nearby, dropping in for a cheap meal to get through the afternoon.
"Missus! Chicken tortilla and a beer over here!"
"Two beef tacos! Make 'em spicy!"
"Coming right up!"
The proprietress rolled dough and fried meat without a spare second to wipe the sweat from her brow. A restaurant that would have been catching nothing but flies in the old days was now packed from open to close.
"I'm here. Oof — slammed again today, huh?"
"Ugh, you have no idea how many customers we've been getting. I can't even think straight."
"That's a good thing, isn't it? Means business is booming."
"My body's not going to last. You try being my age, uncle — you'd be dropping dead."
"Aigoo, listen to the richest woman in the market. Mind if I put the TV on?"
"As if turning that thing on is going to break me on the electric bill. Watch as much as you like. The usual, then?"
"Yes — and a cola today too."
The young customer pressed the button on the battered old television hanging in the corner, and a moment later the national anthem of San Marcos spilled into the room.
"Oh. It's time for the news."
Every eye in the restaurant turned toward the screen.
The screen cut away, and a panoramic view of the refinery filled the display. Distillation towers soared as if to pierce the sky; pipelines tangled in intricate webs. White steam poured from the plant without pause, night or day. Mouths fell open at the sheer majesty of it.
"Whoa... we have something like that in our country?"
The lunch crowd stared at the screen, food forgotten, jaws slack.
The refinery is the fifth-largest in the world and can process 700,000 barrels of crude oil per day — nearly twice San Marcos's own daily production. In other words, crude can now be brought in from neighboring countries, refined, and exported as finished product.
With this, San Marcos has risen from a mere oil-producing nation to a true energy powerhouse, capable of producing refined fuels and petrochemical products alike.
Meanwhile, the newly completed chemical industrial complex will manufacture plastics, fertilizer, synthetic fibers, and other essential goods. Government officials have stated that related prices will drop dramatically, contributing greatly to the stability of everyday life.
The screen changed again.
The diners set down whatever they were eating and sat up straight as Eugene stepped onto the platform.
My beloved fellow citizens. Today, we are witnessing a miracle.
A mere two years ago, we had nothing. But today, looking upon this vast industrial heart that we built with our own hands, we can say this with pride.
We did it!
The fuel produced here will fill our cars and send them racing down the highway. It will warm San Marcos through its bitter winters. And the daily necessities made here will make every one of your lives more abundant.
Every bit of this glory belongs to you — the people who fought poverty in silence and worked until the sweat ran. We are almost there. Until the day every person in this land can pursue their own dreams, I and this government will not stop running.
A roar went up — Waaaaaah! — and the cheers from the ceremony seemed to pour out of the television and fill the restaurant itself.
Even after the news ended, nobody could take their eyes off the screen. A middle-aged man chewing on a tortilla muttered, voice thick with feeling.
"Used to be I was too scared of the price of gas to even ride a motorcycle..."
"And that's not even the half of it. People used to be so hungry they were nothing but bones. Look at everyone now — well-fed, a little meat on them."
"Just look at my kid going to school. How were we supposed to send them before? They just helped with the work. These days the country teaches them for free, feeds them, even gives them milk."
"That's right, that's right. And the Korean tourists — you wouldn't believe how many are coming. Good manners, good tippers. My husband drives a taxi and he's over the moon."
In a matter of moments the little restaurant had become a shrine to Eugene.
"My younger brother went out on the highway construction site and he's making three hundred dollars a month. Room and board included, so every peso he earns comes straight home."
"Honestly... since His Excellency took office, this country's been turned upside down."
"This is what a real country looks like. Damn right it is."
"Boss! Another beer over here! No, wait — it's on me. One bottle for everybody!"
The customer who'd just picked up a round for the house raised his beer bottle high.
"To His Excellency!"
"To His Excellency!"
Laughter blossomed inside the shabby little restaurant.
After delivering the commemorative address, I returned to the Presidential Palace in a light and easy mood. The sun would be going down soon. A decent dinner and then clocking out would hit the spot.
Tonight I'll ask them to make braised short ribs. Eat that, watch Designated Survivor, and go to bed. Perfect.
I was walking in, mapping out both my short-term and long-term plans, when—
"Y-Your Excellency!"
Ricardo, the Senior Secretary for Finance, who'd been waiting for me, came barreling over, out of breath.
"What is it? Did we run out of budget? Just issue another round of bonds."
"No, it's not that..."
Ricardo swallowed hard.
"Wells Fargo, one of America's major banks, has approached us about entering the market."
"...Come again?"