Chapter 156: That Time I Invested Overseas (7)

TL: Skye

The Caracas–Maracaibo highway construction site.

One month after construction began.

A new road stretched out from the point where China had stopped laying asphalt.

The pace was astonishing.

The Venezuelan migrants from Tortilla Farm worked like madmen.

They woke at five in the morning, washed, ate, and picked up their shovels at six.

They did not stop even at midday, when the sun was high and the tropical humidity drenched their entire bodies, and they kept working until the sun sank westward and the shadows grew long.

“Hey, take a break. What are you going to do if you collapse in this heat?”

“This is nothing compared to the farm!”

“That's right! We should work hard for the money we're being paid!”

Indeed.

As far as they were concerned, highway construction was actually easy compared to Tortilla Farm.

Of course, that would have sounded insane to any ordinary person, but those who had endured the farm meant it sincerely.

Besides, they had another compelling reason.

Permanent residency.

If they held out for just two years, they would receive permanent residency in San Marcos.

The status that would free them from being migrants and allow them to legally reside, work, and own property. The right for their children to attend San Marcos schools with their heads held high.

That hope put strength into the arms holding their shovels even beneath the blazing tropical sun, where temperatures approached forty degrees.

Thanks to them, progress far exceeded expectations.

There was even a report that the eighteen-month construction period estimated by Tortilla Construction's head office might be shortened to fifteen months.

Naturally, that speed soon produced results.

And those results were not limited to the highway.

The other infrastructure projects were also advancing at an incredible pace.

The port of Ciudad Bolívar was beginning to take shape, the power plant that had come to a standstill was being rebuilt, and towers for the telecommunications network were rising across Venezuela.

At the same time, a new sign went up on Sabana Grande Boulevard, the busiest street in Caracas.

Tortilla Foods.

The San Marcos food distribution company had opened its first Venezuelan store.

The store was not large. It occupied only about six hundred and sixty square meters, but anyone who stepped inside could not help staring wide-eyed.

Produce from Tortilla Farm was neatly arranged on the shelves.

In addition to staples such as rice, flour, corn, beans, sugar, cooking oil, and salt, the refrigerated section displayed frozen fish and shrimp caught by Tortilla Seafood.

Bananas, mangoes, and papayas were piled in the fruit section, while the meat section carried pork and chicken raised on Tortilla Farm.

But the first thing to catch the citizens' eyes was not the food. It was the price tags.

“What? Why is everything so cheap?”

The prices were less than half the going market rate.

“Is this for real? Did they put the wrong prices on these?”

“We bring everything directly from San Marcos, so there are no middlemen. That's why it's so inexpensive.”

“Good heavens...”

The reason was simple. The produce grown in large quantities on Tortilla Farm already had low production costs.

San Marcos's cheap energy also kept processing costs down, while the logistics network built by Tortilla Construction reduced transportation expenses as well.

Without distributors taking a cut, margins were slim, but the sheer volume was enough to turn a profit.

Naturally, a long line formed from the very first day.

To the citizens of Caracas, who had been suffering from food shortages, the arrival of Tortilla Foods was like rain after a drought.

On the second day, the store sold out within two hours of opening and had to dispatch trucks to replenish its stock.

Within a week, three additional stores had opened in Caracas, and new locations were confirmed for Maracaibo and Barquisimeto.

The name of San Marcos was beginning to appear on dining tables across Venezuela.

At the same time, Tortilla Bank's expansion into Venezuela began in earnest.

In truth, the Venezuelan government had initially shown some reluctance.

Infrastructure construction was welcome, and food distribution was appreciated, but allowing a foreign bank into the domestic financial market was another matter entirely.

No matter how friendly their relations were, letting a foreign country enter the financial sector could amount to handing it the heart of the national economy.

The minister of economy voiced his concerns, and Tortilla Bank President Benjamin Smith flew to Caracas personally to persuade him.

“Finance is the heart of a national economy. If the heart stops, the economy cannot function no matter how hard you try.”

The veins stood out on Benjamin's neck as he spoke.

“Tortilla Bank can revive Venezuela's dying financial sector. Frankly, aren't Venezuelan banks so insolvent that they're practically in default?”

Faced with Benjamin's argument, the minister ultimately had no choice but to nod.

“...I have no grounds to refuse.”

With nearly every bank incapable of issuing loans, Tortilla Bank, at least, needed to enter the market to meet the demand for financing.

More importantly, hadn't Acting President Telsy already gone all in on San Marcos?

Even if he blocked the bank now, it was obvious that his superiors would overturn the decision.

“I'll grant approval. However, you must report your operating status to the Ministry of Economy every quarter.”

“Of course.”

The minister still had no idea what sort of door he had opened.

And so Tortilla Bank entered Venezuela.

*

One month later.

A three-story building on a major thoroughfare in downtown Caracas, the capital.

A large Tortilla Bank logo hung on the exterior wall, and the glass automatic doors gleamed.

Its appearance stood out sharply among Venezuela's run-down buildings.

A banner hung from its striking facade.

[Tortilla Bank Working-Class Refinancing Loans: 15% Annual Interest]

By developed-country standards, of course, fifteen percent was a high interest rate.

But in present-day Venezuela, where moneylender loans routinely carried rates well over one hundred percent, fifteen percent was nothing short of salvation. It was bound to attract attention.

Moreover, no one in Venezuela could currently obtain a loan except from a private moneylender.

There was a simple reason Venezuela's existing banks had closed their lending windows.

The value of the bolivar was falling by the day.

Even if a bank lent out one million bolivars today, their value would be cut in half a month later.

Two months later, they would be worth a quarter as much. For banks, every new loan meant another loss.

That was why the state-owned banks had given up on lending altogether.

The people who could no longer obtain bank loans had only one place to turn: private moneylenders.

Venezuela's moneylending market was hell itself.

Annual interest rates of one hundred percent were standard, and rates of two hundred or even three hundred percent were all too common.

Borrowers had to repay three times what they had borrowed.

Worse still, failure to repay was met with violence.

Families were threatened and homes were seized. Some debtors were even told to work off their debts and forced into crime.

Once someone fell into the mire of debt to private moneylenders, there was no escape.

Debt bred more debt and interest bred more interest until their entire life collapsed.

Under those circumstances, it was only natural that people flocked to Tortilla Bank when it began offering dollar loans at fifteen percent annual interest.

Of course, there were considerable concerns within Tortilla Bank itself.

“President Smith, shouldn't we make the loan-screening criteria more stringent?”

“What's the problem?”

The deputy bank president spread out the documents.

“We've analyzed the income of the 3,400 people who applied for loans over the past two weeks. Only twenty-three percent have a verified stable monthly income. The remaining seventy-seven percent are either unemployed, working day labor, or unable to provide any proof of income at all.”

“......”

“To be frank, lending to these people will inevitably leave us with a growing pile of nonperforming loans. No matter how small the amounts may be, if we cannot recover the principal, this will undermine the bank's financial health.”

The head of risk management added his voice.

“Do you know why Venezuela's private moneylenders charge interest rates above one hundred percent? The risk of default is so high that they raise their rates to compensate. They aren't fools, either. That one-hundred-percent rate reflects the risks of this market.”

Their concerns were reasonable.

It was only natural for seasoned Wall Street elites like them to assess the risks dispassionately.

Benjamin, however, saw things differently.

“I fully understand your concerns.”

Benjamin slowly surveyed the conference room.

“But let me ask you one thing. Why have the incomes of the Venezuelan people fallen?”

“......”

“Because the national economy went bankrupt. There are no jobs, so people cannot earn money. And because they cannot earn money, they cannot repay their debts.”

“That's certainly true, but...”

“Amid all this, His Excellency decided to invest in Venezuela.”

Benjamin turned and looked at the executives.

“Tortilla Construction is building highways. It is constructing a port. It plans to build a power plant. Tortilla Farm has been established, and Tortilla Foods is opening stores.”

Benjamin counted them off on his fingers.

“That means jobs are being created. People may lack the ability to repay now, but things will be different in six months or a year. They will work at construction sites, on the farm, and in the stores. When that happens, they will be able to repay their loans.”

Benjamin spoke firmly.

“His Excellency will revive Venezuela's economy. Once the economy recovers, the loans will be repaid, and Venezuela's financial sector will fall into the hands of Tortilla Bank.”

At the mention of His Excellency's investment, the executives had no choice but to agree.

After all, judging by what they had seen in San Marcos, Yu-jin was nothing short of a Superhuman on a White Horse.

“...Understood. We'll follow your judgment, President Smith.”

Benjamin rose from his seat and gave his instructions.

“Let's free the people from the shackles of debt to private moneylenders. That is why we came to this country.”

Of course, Benjamin had another calculation in mind.

If Tortilla Bank rescued the people indebted to private moneylenders, they would remain Tortilla Bank customers for life.

Gratitude and loyalty were values money could not buy.

Customers who had once received such a favor would never leave.

This was the surest way he could imagine to seize control of Venezuela's financial sector.

***

Near the Petare district in eastern Caracas.

Rosa Mendoza. Forty-two years old. A mother of three.

She had been raising her three children alone since her husband was murdered by a gang two years ago.

Her only source of income was selling fruit in a corner of the market, but she earned less than three dollars a day.

Four people had to survive on three dollars a day.

They skipped breakfast. For lunch, she fed them cornmeal mixed with water, and dinner consisted of a few spoonfuls of beans.

When the children cried from hunger, she gave them water and put them to bed.

Then, six months ago, her youngest contracted pneumonia.

She went to a state-run hospital, but it had no medicine.

In the end, she had no choice but to take the child to a private hospital and pay two hundred dollars for treatment.

Of course, Rosa did not have that kind of money.

Then how had she found it?

She borrowed it from a private moneylender.

“Two hundred dollars? Sure, I can give you that. The interest is twelve percent a month.”

Twelve percent a month.

One hundred and forty-four percent annually.

At the time, Rosa had not understood how terrifying that figure was. Her child was dying, and she had no time to worry about the interest rate.

She paid a heavy price.

Twenty-four dollars in interest every month.

Paying only the interest left the principal untouched, and the next month she had to pay another twenty-four dollars.

After three months, overdue interest had increased the principal to two hundred and eighty dollars. After four months, it was three hundred and twenty. Now, six months later, it was three hundred and fifty dollars.

The moneylender came by every week.

“You know what happens if you don't pay fifty dollars by the end of this week, right?”

“J-just give me a little more time...”

“Don't give me that crap about time. Don't you know the interest keeps growing with every day that passes? If you can't pay, you should sell your body if that's what it takes!”

Rosa cried every night. She wept soundlessly after her children fell asleep.

Then, one day.

While selling fruit at the market, she happened to find a leaflet.

[Tortilla Bank Refinancing Loans: 15% Annual Interest]

Rosa studied the leaflet.

Fifteen percent a year?

When the interest she was paying now was one hundred and forty-four percent a year?

She stared at the leaflet for a long time, then folded it and put it in her pocket.

The next morning, Rosa went to Tortilla Bank's Caracas branch.

The bank was clean. It had air-conditioning. The employees smiled as they guided her. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced at a state-owned bank.

“I'd like to apply for a refinancing loan...”

The teller immediately understood what she meant.

“How much do you currently owe the private moneylender?”

“Three hundred and fifty dollars...”

“Did you bring your identification?”

“Yes.”

“Once we verify your address, we can approve the loan immediately. The annual interest rate is fifteen percent, so the monthly interest will be about four dollars and thirty cents. You can repay the principal and interest in monthly installments of seventeen dollars.”

“Seventeen dollars?”

Rosa could not believe her ears.

The moneylender had demanded fifty dollars by the end of the week, and now she could repay even the principal with just seventeen dollars a month?

“Are you really... going to give me a loan on those terms?”

“We can. All you need to do is sign the documents.”

Tears flowed from Rosa's eyes. She tried to hold them back, but she could not.

She signed the documents with a trembling hand.

The bank transferred three hundred and fifty dollars directly to the private moneylender.

Just like that, Rosa's debt disappeared.

She now owed Tortilla Bank three hundred and fifty dollars instead, but it was an amount she could afford to repay.

For the first time in six months, she felt as though she could breathe.

On the way home, she stopped at a Tortilla Foods store, bought fish and meat, and fed them to her children.

“Mom, why is there so much food today?”

“Because today is a special day.”

“What day is it?”

“The day our family came back to life.”

The children did not understand, but when they saw their mother smiling, they smiled with her.

*****

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