Chapter 155: That Time I Invested Overseas (6)

TL: Skye

Wasn't there a saying about the student surpassing the master?

After learning from what Yu-jin had done with Tortilla Farm, Telsy deliberated long and hard before successfully taking the idea one step further.

“We should send the prison inmates to Tortilla Farm.”

She had decided to use convicted criminals to bolster the nation's finances.

In a way, the idea made sense.

Venezuela's prisons might be notoriously dreadful, but feeding and clothing the inmates still cost the government money.

That would have been no problem during Venezuela's glory days in the 1950s, when its GDP per capita ranked fourth in the world. Now that it had fallen into the ranks of the world's poorest countries, however, the expense could only be an enormous burden.

When they were already worried about falling behind on government employees' salaries, how could they not begrudge the money spent on prisoners?

With that in mind, Telsy resolved to put the inmates to work and secure funds for the government.

“But the UN Human Rights Council may raise objections.”

The cabinet members expressed their concerns, but...

“Let them. Are we really in a position to worry about that right now?”

“......”

“Besides, these people were imprisoned for committing crimes in the first place. Why should we feed and house them for nothing? They should at least produce the food they eat themselves. Don't you agree?”

There was no stopping Telsy now that she had completely lost it.

In the end, the Venezuelan government decided that day to reassign the prison population to Tortilla Farm.

The inmates would become laborers, and the guards would become managers.

Among the inmates at Caracas Prison was a young man named Rafael Moreno.

He was twenty-two years old and had spent seven years in Caracas Prison for drug trafficking and robbery-murder. He could rightly be called one of the criminal world's elite.

Even for him, however, prison life was far from easy.

In truth, Venezuela's prisons were less facilities intended to rehabilitate inmates than places designed to punish them.

Twelve inmates were crammed into cells meant for four, and rats scurried across the floor. A meal consisted of nothing more than one moldy tortilla and a few spoonfuls of beans.

The guards would not lift a finger without a bribe, and violence broke out inside the cells every day.

Once, the body of an inmate who had been stabbed to death was left lying there for two days.

At the time, however, Rafael had no idea.

He would come to miss that godforsaken prison dearly.

One bright, sunny day.

“You're all being transferred! Get on the buses!”

The guards handcuffed every inmate in the prison and dragged them out to the rear yard.

They then shoved them onto buses whose windows were covered with iron bars.

By the time Rafael boarded, dozens of inmates were already seated inside.

The bus soon departed and drove for hours. There was no way to guess where they were headed.

When they finally arrived, they found themselves in a barren wasteland with nothing in sight.

A guard carrying an assault rifle addressed them all.

“This is your new home.”

Their new home? Rafael looked around.

There was nothing.

Heavy machinery appeared to have scraped the vast tract of land clean, tearing out every tree and bush. The only things in sight were dozens of containers in the distance whose purpose he could not discern.

There were even guard posts equipped with heavy machine guns spaced around the perimeter.

‘Where the hell is this place?’

Before he had time to wonder, the guards handed each inmate a shovel.

“Starting today, you're farmers. Follow the rules and complete your assigned work, and you'll be fed and housed. Refuse, and you'll be punished. And if you try to escape...”

The guard casually raised his assault rifle.

“I'll leave the rest to your imagination.”

The inmates' faces went pale.

Even escaping from prison only meant a longer sentence, not death.

Yet here they were being told they would die if they ran.

Wasn't that going too far?

Whether the threat was genuine or not, any thought of testing it vanished from their minds.

And so Venezuela's own Tortilla Farm began operations.

Reveille sounded at five in the morning. Roll call was held at five thirty, followed by breakfast, and then the workday began.

“Move it!”

“Anyone who dawdles gets a beating!”

Anyone who tried to slack off even slightly was battered with clubs from every direction.

“Isn't this going too far?! You have to give us time to rest!”

A few inmates tried to resist, but...

Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!

“Agh! Aaaagh!”

It did them no good whatsoever.

From the outset, the guards... no, those who had now become farm managers did not regard the inmates as human beings.

The grueling morning labor was followed by equally grueling work in the afternoon, and they were not allowed to rest until sunset.

At eight, they entered the container dormitories and went to sleep.

The same cycle repeated every day.

‘Prison was better than this.’

‘I have to spend the rest of my sentence like this?’

‘This place is hell...’

At least in prison, he had been able to lie down.

He could do nothing but stare at the ceiling and let the hours pass.

Here, however, there was not a moment to rest between opening his eyes and closing them again.

His entire body ached, and blisters repeatedly formed and burst across his palms.

The only reason he could endure it was that the food was better than in prison. Otherwise, he would have collapsed long ago.

“Ah... Mother.”

Rafael regretted the crimes he had committed.

***

Meanwhile, on the Seventeenth Tortilla Farm in San Marcos.

Some twenty thousand Venezuelan migrants had settled there. One day, a recruiter from Tortilla Construction and an official from the Ministry of Construction arrived.

An information session was held in the farm's central square, drawing around eight thousand adult men and women.

The recruiter took the microphone and made an announcement.

“We are recruiting people willing to return to Venezuela.”

The square instantly froze.

Return?

It had by no means been easy for the migrants to settle on Tortilla Farm.

The land was fertile, but there had been nothing there when they first arrived.

They had been given nothing but container housing, seeds, and farming tools, then told to manage on their own. How could it possibly have been easy?

They had cultivated the fields with their bare hands beneath the blazing sun.

They hauled water, cleared away stones, and pulled weeds.

Even so, they had gritted their teeth and endured because they had hope.

Having a child meant that the child would automatically receive San Marcos citizenship and could attend school free of charge.

They could also receive a share of the proceeds from the crops produced on Tortilla Farm.

They had the hope that if they worked hard, they would not starve. They had endured doggedly on the strength of that single hope, and now they were being told to go back?

“Wait! Just a moment!”

A man shouted.

“Do you know how much we suffered to establish ourselves here? And now you're telling us to go back?! We're the ones who built this farm!”

Voices of agreement erupted across the square, but the recruiter raised a hand and calmed them down.

“I believe there's been a misunderstanding. We aren't asking you to return to Venezuela permanently. We're recruiting workers to go there on assignment.”

The murmuring subsided somewhat.

“I don't know whether any of you have heard the news, but Tortilla Construction has secured the contract for Venezuela's infrastructure projects. The reason we're here today is to find people willing to work at those construction sites.”

“......”

“The salary is seven hundred dollars a month, with room and board provided. The contract lasts two years, and anyone who completes the full term will be granted permanent residency.”

The square fell silent as the grave.

Permanent residency.

The right to legally reside, work, own property, and make a life in San Marcos.

It was what the migrants had yearned for so desperately.

More importantly...

“After you return, you may continue working on the farm or find a new job in Libertad or another region.”

Permanent residency would give them freedom of movement.

“Permanent residency...”

The nature of the murmuring changed completely. The anger from moments ago vanished without a trace, and their eyes were full of longing.

The salary was generous as well.

At seven hundred dollars a month, they could earn sixteen thousand eight hundred dollars in two years.

With that kind of money, they could go to the city and buy a proper house.

“I'll do it!”

“Please choose me!”

“I'll take just six hundred dollars!”

Countless men raised their hands.

***

A reception room in the Presidential Palace of San Marcos.

Benjamin Smith, the president of Tortilla Bank, entered in a neatly tailored suit.

It had already been three years since he came to San Marcos, saddled with the disgrace of SVB's collapse.

In that time, Benjamin had built Tortilla Bank into one of the soundest banks in Latin America.

He had made full use of the sound management skills that had earned him recognition on Wall Street.

“Your Excellency, it has been a long time.”

“I'm sorry to call you away when you must be busy.”

“Not at all. Whenever you call, Your Excellency, I'll come running.”

Once Benjamin was seated, Yu-jin got down to business.

“You've heard the recent news from Venezuela, haven't you?”

“Of course. I've been following it with great interest.”

“Then you must also be familiar with Venezuela's financial situation.”

Benjamin nodded. As a banker, it was only natural that he knew.

“The bolivar is effectively a dead currency, and the state-owned banks are little more than empty shells. The people live with their dollars hidden under their mattresses.”

An accurate assessment.

Yu-jin leaned forward.

“In that case, what would you say to Tortilla Bank expanding into Venezuela?”

Benjamin's gaze shifted ever so slightly.

“We'll provide a portion of the UJ Fund's capital to cover the cost of opening branches and their initial operating expenses.”

“......”

“They say opportunity lies in every crisis. Things may be difficult now, but if the economy recovers, I expect demand for financial services will explode. We would also be helping restore Venezuela's broken financial system.”

Yu-jin's intention was simple.

If Tortilla Bank expanded overseas and grew in scale, San Marcos's financial industry would grow along with it.

Just as Singapore's DBS Bank had made Singapore a financial hub by expanding across Southeast Asia, Tortilla Bank would raise San Marcos's stature if it spread throughout the Caribbean.

That was Yu-jin's calculation, but an entirely different picture was forming in Benjamin's mind.

‘His Excellency wants me to seize control of Venezuela's financial system.’

Benjamin remembered his interview with Lucio.

‘We don't need a kindhearted bank president.’

Several years of experience had taught Benjamin exactly what those words meant.

Tortilla Bank was no ordinary bank.

It was closer to an instrument for carrying out Yu-jin's policies.

And now Yu-jin was telling him to take that instrument into Venezuela.

Benjamin asked himself a question.

‘What if we offer dollar-based financial services while the bolivar is worthless?’

They could gobble up Venezuela's financial services market in one stroke.

If deposits, loans, transfers, and payments all went through Tortilla Bank, San Marcos would hold Venezuela's purse strings.

Of course, the risk was immense.

If Venezuela's economy failed to recover, they could lose every dollar they invested.

But...

‘His Excellency's judgment has never been wrong.’

The corners of Benjamin's mouth rose.

Taking control of an entire nation's financial system. What could be more thrilling for a banker?

“Your Excellency.”

Benjamin answered in a resolute voice.

“Give me three months. I'll open a head office in Caracas and branches in every major city.”

Yu-jin's eyes gleamed.

“That's why you're the bank president.”

“In return, may I ask you one question?”

“Of course.”

“How far is Tortilla Bank permitted to go in Venezuela?”

“You may do anything that benefits the Venezuelan economy.”

Only one phrase reached Benjamin's ears.

Anything was permitted.

“Understood. I won't disappoint you.”

Through the window, Benjamin gazed beyond the horizon in the direction of Venezuela.

*****

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