How I Started a Bank in South America (5)
About a month after Tortilla Bank opened its doors, Joseph sat in the shade at the Section 2 worksite on the northern Libertad highway, cooling off during a brief rest as the hot sun beat down.
"Get home all right?"
A coworker dropped onto the ground beside him. Joseph scratched the back of his head.
"Eh, I got there. Takes a day to go and a day to come back. You know how it is."
"Still, bet it was good seeing the kids."
"Kids're off at boarding school. Just caught a glimpse of the wife."
"At least you saw her."
"Hah — it's not like she's even happy to see me. She's too busy snatching the paycheck."
"But she likes it, don't she?"
"Course she does. Likes it more than I do. It's the back-and-forth that's a pain, hauling the money over."
The start of every month was the same for every laborer on the site. On the first, they took an envelope stuffed with their wages, climbed onto a truck, and headed for the nearest bus stop. In Joseph's case, that meant three hours on a bus packed like sardines, a two-hour transfer onto another, and a final hour on foot up a mountain path before he reached his door. Ten hours, just in travel. The exhaustion was one thing — the real torment was clutching the cash inside his coat the entire way, too anxious to sleep for fear someone might steal it. But he had no choice. It was the only way to get living money to his wife at home.
Then one day, the world changed.
"All right, listen up! Starting today, all wages will be paid into this bank account. We'll deposit it like clockwork on the first of every month, so you don't need to haul cash home anymore!"
At first, Joseph was skeptical. He couldn't believe that numbers stamped on a scrap of paper could actually become real money. But then he called his wife, and she told him she had withdrawn the cash at a branch in downtown Libertad. He was stunned.
He didn't have to deliver the money himself. Which meant that if he worked overtime in those hours, he could earn even more than he did now.
But what astonished him most was something else entirely.
"If I put in a hundred dollars, they give me a hundred and five back after a year? And if I promise not to touch it for a year, they give me a hundred and ten?!"
Interest. They were telling him that if he put money in, they would grow it for him.
A new morning ritual had taken hold — checking his passbook — and Joseph was grinning to himself when a coworker called out.
"Hey, Joseph! You coming or what?"
"Coming! I'm coming!"
Joseph picked up his pickaxe again, his steps light.
The winds of change were not blowing at the construction site alone. At the mouth of an alley in old downtown Libertad, a voice called out over the street.
"Here you go — sandwiches! Careful, they're hot."
Kiya Barcia had lost her husband young and was raising two children alone, selling sandwiches on the street. It was a stall without so much as a proper sign, but her cooking was so good and her prices so fair that the customers never stopped coming. She never made any real money — but she never let her children go hungry, either.
Then hardship arrived without warning.
"Kiya... I'm sorry, but you can't do business here anymore."
She had been opening her stall like any other day when a police officer wearing an enforcement armband blocked her path, looking uncomfortable.
"Under the government's basic public-order policy, unregistered street vendors are now illegal."
The color drained from Kiya's face. She could register, sure — but that would mean moving far from this spot. After all the work she had put into building her regulars, that was simply impossible.
"Officer, please... just a little more time."
"We know your situation, Kiya, but we've got strict orders from above. We'd look the other way if we could. We can't."
All she could do was plead.
"I'm begging you. The kids will be old enough for school soon. Just until then... I have to buy them backpacks to send them off with."
Her desperate appeal was enough that the officers couldn't bring themselves to tear down her stall by force. They glanced at each other, then spoke carefully.
"Kiya. Why don't you try going to the bank?"
"The... bank?"
Kiya wiped her tears and asked again. For someone who lived hand to mouth, a bank was a place impossibly far away.
"The new Tortilla Bank. I hear they're lending startup capital. Why not borrow some money and open a shop nearby?"
"But they'd never lend money to someone like me. I don't even have collateral. Loan sharks turned me away."
"That's not how it works. His Excellency gave strict orders to lend to just about anyone who wants to start a business. You'll pay a little interest, but with your work ethic and your cooking, you'll pay it back and then some."
"......"
After several sleepless nights of deliberation, Kiya made up her mind.
Whether it works or not, I'll go and try.
Of course, she didn't go empty-handed. After asking around, she had heard a letter of recommendation would help, so she begged the officer who had suggested the bank and her regular customers until she had gathered nearly a hundred of them.
"I don't have anything, but I can make a really good sandwich. If you lend me the money to open a shop, I swear I'll pay it back."
She was a single mother even loan sharks wouldn't touch, but the teller didn't so much as frown. Instead, he slid a form across the counter with a kind smile.
"Don't worry. These recommendation letters alone are proof you've lived an honest life. We'll have to run it through review, but it should be approved without much trouble. Procedure does require a business plan, though. Have you ever written one?"
"A... a business plan? I barely finished school. I can hardly even write..."
Kiya's face went white. So it wasn't going to work after all — but the teller caught her before she could fall apart.
"It's all right. I can help you. Just tell me how you plan to run the business. I'll write it down."
"Ah... for an uneducated woman like me..."
The teller handed a tissue to the weeping Kiya.
A month later, a small but tidy shop opened on one side of a market alley.
The savory smell of bread filled the alley. Inside, there wasn't room to take a step — packed with the regulars who had bought her sandwiches on the street and the police officers who had pointed her to the bank.
"Congratulations, Kiya!"
"Look at you, a shop owner now!"
"Make a fortune and buy a whole building!"
"Thank you. Thank you so much!"
Tears of joy rolled down Kiya's face as she stood there in her apron. Then the door opened, and she beamed and called out with all her strength.
"Welcome! This is Kiya's Sandwich!"
Beside the register, where she stood smiling wide, a photograph of Eugene gleamed.
"...Are these numbers real?"
I stared at the monthly report Isabella had brought, unable to trust my own eyes.
Barely a month ago, three billion dollars had been enough to make my heart skip. It hadn't even settled before the figure had more than doubled.
"Even if you scraped together every last dollar of cash the people of San Marcos have, it shouldn't be this much."
"Money is pouring in from Korea."
Isabella resolved my confusion.
"President Benjamin partnered with commercial banks in Korea and launched a savings product linked to San Marcos government bonds. It guarantees an annual interest rate of 8%, so funds have been flooding in from Korea."
"Huh..."
He had read the current perfectly. Korea's interest rates weren't low, but an 8% product simply didn't exist except in special cases — and even those came with tiny caps that made it hard to earn any real return. In that environment, an 8% product backed by an oil-producing nation like San Marcos was irresistibly attractive.
"Thanks to that, a full six trillion won has flowed in from Korea alone — about 4.8 billion dollars."
"Leave it to a Wall Street man to have a different nose for this."
And the good news didn't stop there.
"How's the lending side? Money that comes in has to go out."
"You need not worry, Your Excellency. Startup loan applications have exploded."
The chart Isabella handed me showed a graph climbing sharply toward the upper right.
"Most of it is small-scale loans to micro-entrepreneurs. People lining up to open restaurants, general stores, barbershops, laundromats — shops all over downtown Libertad."
"And the delinquency rate?"
"Amazingly, it is converging on zero percent. Setting aside payments that come in a few days late, it is a perfect zero. Most of them are not wasting what they borrowed. They are starting businesses and turning a profit fast."
I nodded. In a way, it was only natural. If someone in Korea said they were taking out a loan to open a shop, you'd pack a lunch and spend all day trying to talk them out of it. Here, the situation was different. Korea was a red ocean with a fried-chicken joint every other door. San Marcos was a blue ocean in the purest sense — people had money to spend and nowhere to spend it.
And more than that...
"It appears we are seeing a considerable effect from the improved state of the people's finances."
The vertical rise in ordinary incomes was a big factor too. Highway construction, the oil refinery, the new Korean textile factories — jobs were overflowing and wages were climbing fast, so people's wallets were getting fat. That money flowed right back into the neighborhood shops, which meant a small business had almost no chance of failing. A perfect virtuous cycle, and Tortilla Bank sat at the very heart of it.
"This has turned out truly well."
Isabella spoke with genuine feeling.
"Thanks to Your Excellency's foresight, the bank is growing by the day. Government finances are now robust enough that we need not worry."
"That's part of it, but..."
I turned my gaze toward the window. In the distance, the market alleys of Libertad were still burning bright, even at this late hour.
"I'm even happier that the choice I made is actually helping people's lives."
"......"
"The anxiety of carrying cash is gone. Nobody has to suffer at the hands of loan sharks when they need money in a hurry. And most of all — even the poor now have hope that if they just work hard, they can achieve their dreams."
The truth was, for all how badly banks had been corrupted, their essence had never been investment or speculative lending. They were closer to a lever — one that supported someone's dream, lifted a collapsed life back onto its feet, and shared in the profit. I had worked at a bank once, and it was a relief to see that old hope of mine blooming here, like this, in San Marcos.
"The people will come to understand that heart of Yours, Your Excellency."
"I don't mind if they don't. If everyone can eat their fill and sleep warm, that's enough for me."
I lifted my teacup to my lips. Warmth slid down my throat.
"Come to think of it, look at the time."
It had already been two years since the terrorist attack. The third winter of my time as acting president was approaching.
"Any plans for winter vacation this year?"
"I have none as of yet."
"Then would you like to come to Korea with me?"
"To... Korea, sir?"
"Yes."
Isabella's face flushed scarlet as she asked again.
"M-might I ask for what reason..."
"Ah, nothing special."
I picked up my phone and showed her the message Moon Sung-moon had sent.
"They want to hold a summit in Korea. Winter vacation happens to line up, so I was going to go alone, but it felt like it might be lonely. Would you come with me? Oh, and don't worry about using your vacation days. I'll grant you plenty of annual leave to cover the summit period. A generous travel stipend too, of course."
"......"
Whether she was overwhelmed by this consideration of mine, a fierce light kindled in Isabella's eyes.