The Starving Port (2)
“Maria. What's the minimum wage in Mexico? Ah, eat first and then answer. Take your time.”
The waitress who received the question swallowed what she had been chewing so deliciously and asked back with a puzzled look.
“Minimum wage?”
“The legally mandated minimum pay.”
“Oh, that? Korea pays by the hour, huh. Here we go by daily rate.”
“I see. So how much is it?”
“It differs between the north and south. Up near the northern border, it's about 180 pesos a day? Or 185? Something like that anyway, but here it's a measly 123 pesos. And that's even after El Cacas raised it by 20% at once.”
“El Cacas? Who's that?”
Cacas translated to Korean meant “shit lumps.” It was a trivial thing, but I was curious who would have such a foul nickname.
The waitress gave a small snicker, covering her mouth as she answered.
“President López Obrador. His original nickname was Fish (El Peje), but after he yelled 'You shit lumps!' at the corrupt bigwigs, he got this new one. It happened just this year.”
So that's what it was. There was no malice from those who used the nickname, but for President Obrador, it was probably better to be called after his hometown's specialty produce.
I nodded and returned to the main point.
“I understand. But why isn't Maria getting the legal minimum? Are you being treated unfairly by the owner here?”
“Unfairly? Oh no!”
Maria jumped to defend the owner.
“The boss is a good guy. He's friends with my dad too. It's just that in this line of work, we have contracts where tips make up the wage. Up until earlier this year, tips exceeded the minimum, so no issues. Thanks to you today, I can finally breathe a bit...”
It was a common American-style employment contract here too. Maria's voice trailed off with a weary sigh as she began slicing the perfectly grilled beef tenderloin with lackluster knife work.
I watched her dejected expression and solidified my plan.
Even just paying minimum wage would drive a huge crowd insane.
Puerto Vallarta was a poor city. That poverty revealed itself immediately after crossing just one avenue from the beaches lined with grand hotels and luxury resorts. Grotesque half-built houses exposing rusty steel frames, and the shabby people renting in them. Well-maintained areas were few; the rest of the city teemed with the poor drawn by tourist money and the jobs it sustained.
Walls painted in soft pastels or vivid primaries, and blood-red bougainvillea blooming year-round, merely packaging that poverty as exotic romance.
Tourists strolling these alleys would see only the surface, collecting memories bursting with color. They'd say Puerto Vallarta was beautiful—and unusually safe for Mexico. But the sole reason for that safety was the frequent patrols by soldiers armed with assault rifles.
Since the plague, this ragged port had endured severe famine for nearly three quarters. The waitress before me might be among the blessed few just for still having work.
123 pesos. The daily minimum here was barely 7,000 won. Make up an excuse, and 70 million won could feed 10,000 people for a day.
I was in the midst of a massive deal exceeding 300 billion won in nominal circulation value, with the blueprints I'd gain worth far more. Thus, I was willing to spend 1-5% of the total as security costs. Factoring in risk, up to 10% if unavoidable.
That was enough to shake this poor city to its core.
The problem was the excuse. I needed a plausible one. Something to keep all those people docile...
“Señor.”
The waitress drew my attention.
“What are you thinking so deeply about?”
How to keep this port peaceful until I left. What happened after didn't matter. If they declared martial law like in Guadalajara, it was all over.
Lost in thought even after her question, I suddenly spoke on a flash of inspiration.
“I was thinking of doing some good.”
“Some good? Like what?”
“Giving hope to this city's people.”
“...?”
Maria tilted her head mid-bite. But I wasn't joking.
Once the immediate starvation threat vanished, even well-paid but dangerous jobs lost appeal. Cartel scum might not even pay generously for meat shields and grunts.
Thus, bestowing false hope on this starving port—showing the poor a mirage—would prevent rival factions from recruiting desperate hitmen. At least until my deal closed.
“You said earlier that Manager Chun was with the port authority, right?”
At my question, the waitress nodded cautiously.
“He was suspended for government budget issues, but he's still an official.”
“Perfect. Since we're fated, why not have him introduce someone?”
“Someone? From my dad?”
“Yes. I was looking for the right contact for my business anyway. You might not know, but Mexico is famous among businessmen as the 'Land of Friends (Amigo).' You have to make friends first to do business.”
In other words, the “Land of Friends” meant a place where you couldn't do anything without connections. Like China, the Philippines, Myanmar, Thailand—political backwaters.
I rested my chin on my hand politely.
“Since Manager Chun's off due to force majeure, today should work, no?”
“Well, that's true, but...”
“I'll compensate him.”
“Hm...”
Maria pondered the sudden proposal.
Originally, I'd planned to use her as a stepping stone to the port's plaza jefe—the cartel local lord. Outsiders might wonder what connections a mere waitress could have, but this was Mexico.
A pier where luxury cruises dock constantly across the street, a casino next door where foreigners shower cash, beaches lined with hotels to the south... No plaza ties would be suspicious for a place like this.
Impossible to run a business here without paying cartel tribute like “floor rights” (Derecho de Piso). As an employee, Maria surely knew plaza members. With her neat features, even mid-level might be possible.
In short, I sought a “suitably insignificant” introducer. A high-status one might raise alarms.
I was a clueless foreign businessman here. Not El Munecionero.
Her dad being a port official made him the better option. Fewer bridges to cross.
She still serves as the stepping stone, though.
A bit of luck, that.
Maria, true to Mexican form, agreed after hesitation.
“Okay, I'll set it up! Dad's been down lately; it might cheer him up. But you pay me and him separately, right?”
“Generously.”
“Then we're friends from today! But I still don't know your name.”
“Call me Hwang.”
“Hwang. Call me Mari from now on. Nice to meet you!”
In guanxi terms, I'd leveled up from new friend (xin pengyou) to good friend (hao pengyou). From stranger to acquaintance. Tough times lowered relational walls.
We shook hands smiling. Maria eyed the table.
“Finish this first before calling, okay?”
“Of course. You eat well; it's nice to see.”
“Really?”
“Yes. In Korea, we say people who eat heartily are blessed. In local terms... yes, a feliz cara.”
“Wow, I learned something new!”
Maria ate happily, truly blessedly. Kyung-tae, sipping orchatta and glancing over, marveled, “Man, she'd be a mukbang star back home.”
Mukbang—eating broadcast, right? Modern slang was confusing.
I preserved her goodwill with steadfast patience. Thus, after cleanly devouring what must've been six portions, the happy Maria called her dad right away, voice bright. Said she'd made a great friend.
About 40 minutes later, an old Nissan Versa pulled up outside.
The car was poorly maintained overall, bumper scarred from dutiful service. The man who stepped out eyed our waiting security vehicle carefully before entering.
Maria hugged him lightly and introduced me.
“This is the Hwang I mentioned. Hwang, this is my dad.”
I shook hands with the potbellied suspended official.
“Hwang.”
“Pedro. Pedro Santos Sanchez. Call me Perucho.”
“Nice to meet you, Perucho.”
Perhaps because of his daughter's intro or the rare chance at work, he offered his nickname right away. Or maybe just the survival instinct of a low-level port official used to businessmen's gestures.
Maria said, “You two talk. Don't forget my tip before you go, Hwang,” and returned to work. The employee's lot: ignoring the boss's discomfort while awaiting absent customers.
The suspended official across from me sized me up calculatingly.
“So, you're in business?”
“Yes.”
“What kind specifically?”
“A foot in every profitable field. Farms in several countries, a trading company, even a few passenger ships—not huge, like the one out there. Scouting ports to add to routes now.”
“Huh. Impressive if true.”
Perucho was skeptical. But I spoke only truth.
Yeouido Kim's portfolio included overseas farmland buys without fail. Trading company was basic, ships: two foreigner-only onboard casinos in the West and South Seas, one Vladivostok cruiser ferry. Smallest was a 500-passenger cruiser ferry bought this year at auction for 600 million won. Previous owner bankrupt in downturn, plus cluster infections on cruises scared buyers.
Everyone saw dark prospects.
After repeated no-sales, it became our affiliate's at a quarter new-build cost. I planned to use it for deals with Russian dealers, the “Bratskiy Krug.”
I suggested, “Let's talk over a drink first.”
“My treat?”
“Naturally.”
November in this low-latitude port was still hot for the plump. Sweat beaded on Perucho's forehead as he accepted.
“Mari! Something cold and sweet here?!”
“Lemonade?”
“Yeah, that!”
Perucho turned to me.
“How long in the passenger business?”
“First real international push.”
“Cruises now? Too reckless?”
“Precisely why now. That cruiser out front isn't staying days idly—prices must've plummeted. Buy premium assets cheap in slumps to get truly rich. All business has risks.”
“...True.”
The official smacked his lips, gazing at the docked cruise. Untended for half a year, it added eerie stillness to the harbor. Why the port authority was shuttered.
“So, what do you want from me? Confidential feasibility data? Smooth permits? Local firms not gouging on cruise schedules?”
I shook my head at the official's question.
“No. First, some charity.”
“Charity?”
“Exactly—help the needy. City seems full of people missing meals. As a Christian, hard to pass by brethren's suffering.”
My pious act caught him off-guard; he asked again, flustered.
“Specifically, what're you planning?”
“Hand out a loaf of bread to every citizen to start?”
“Every citizen? Hahaha!”
Perucho burst out laughing.
“You see the city too small, Señor Hwang. Know how many live here? Downtown alone 220,000! 220,000! Outskirts push 400,000! Even cheap 500g white loaves at 30 pesos each—how much for 400,000?”
“400,000 at 30 pesos... barely 12 million pesos.”
“...”
12 million pesos was about 700 million won. Cheap to feed the city one decent meal.
Silent across from me, the official finally realized I was serious, swallowed hard, and straightened his slovenly posture deferentially. To his daughter arriving with lemonade on a tray, this polite father was a novelty.