Boomerang: Travels in the New Third World (15 page)

In the months after Brian Lenihan’s bank bailout, Keogh, for the first time in his life, began to pay attention to the behavior of the Irish bankers. His own shares in AIB, once thought to be as sound as cash or gold, were rapidly becoming worthless, but the bank’s executives exhibited not the first hint of remorse or shame. AIB’s chairman, Dermot Gleeson, and its CEO, Eugene Sheehy, troubled him the most. “The two of ’em stood up, time and again, and said, ‘Our bank is one hundred percent sound,
’
” explains Keogh. “As if nothing at all was the matter!” He set out to learn more about these people in whom he had always placed blind trust. What he found—high pay, corporate boondoggles—outraged him further. “The chairman paid himself four hundred seventy-five thousand to chair twelve meetings!” he still shouts.

What Keogh learned remains both the most shocking and the most familiar aspect of the Irish catastrophe: how easily ancient financial institutions abandoned their traditions and principles. An upstart bank, Anglo Irish, had entered their market, and professed to have found a new and better way to be a banker. Anglo made incredibly quick decisions: an Irish property developer could walk into Anglo’s office in the late afternoon with a new idea and walk out with hundreds of millions of euros the same night. Anglo was able to shovel money out its door so quickly because it had turned banking into a family affair: if they liked the man they didn’t bother to evaluate his project.

Rather than point out the insanity of the approach, the two old Irish banks simply caved to it. An Irish businessman named Denis O’Brien sat on the board of the Bank of Ireland in 2005, when it was faced with the astonishing growth of Anglo Irish. (Anglo Irish was about to
double
in size in just two years.) “I remember the CEO coming in and saying, ‘We’re going to grow at 30 percent a year,
’
” O Brien told me. “I said how the fuck are you going to do that? Banking is a five-to-seven-percent-a-year growth business at best.”

They did it by doing what Anglo Irish had done: writing checks to Irish property developers to buy Irish land at any price. AIB, which had paid its lending officers based on how many dollars they lent, opened a unit nicknamed ABA (Anybody but Anglo), dedicated to poaching Anglo’s biggest property developer clients—the very people who would become the most spectacular busts in Irish history. In October 2008 the
Irish Times
published a list of the five biggest real estate deals from the past three years. Allied Irish lent the money for ten of the fifteen, Anglo Irish for just one. On Irish national radio the insolvent property developer Simon Kelly, who personally owes 200 million euros to various Irish banks and who belongs to a partnership that owes another 2 billion euros, confessed that the only time in his career a banker became upset with him was when he
repaid
a loan, to Anglo Irish—with money borrowed from Allied Irish. The former Anglo Irish executives I interviewed (off the record, as they are all in hiding) speak of their older, more respectable imitators with a kind of amazement. “Yes, we were out of control,” they say, in so many words. “But those guys were
fucking nuts
.”

Gary Keogh thought about how Ireland had changed from his youth, when the country was dirt poor. “I used to collect bottle caps,” he says. “Now the health service doesn’t even bother to take back crutches anymore? No! We’re far too wealthy.” Unlike most people he knew, Keogh had no debts. “I had nothing to lose,” he says. “I didn’t owe anyone any money. That’s why I could do it!” He’d also just recovered from a serious illness, and felt a bit as if he was playing with house money. “I had just got a new kidney and I was very pleased with it,” he says. “But I think it must have been Che Guevera’s kidney.” He describes his elaborate plot the way an assassin might describe the perfect hit. “I only had two rotten eggs,” he says, “but by God they were rotten! Because I kept them six weeks in the garage!”

The AIB shareholders meeting of March 2009 was the first he’d ever attended. He was, he admits, a bit worried something might go wrong. Worried parking might be a problem, he took the bus; worried that his eggs might break, he designed a container to protect them; worried that he didn’t even know what the room looked like, he left himself time to case the meeting hall. “I got to the front door early and had a little recce,” as he puts it, “just to see what was going to happen.” His egg container was too large to sneak inside, so he ditched it. “I had one egg in each jacket pocket,” he says. Worried that his eggs might be too slippery to grip and throw, he’d wrapped each of them in a thin layer of cellophane. “I positioned myself four rows back and four seats in,” he says. “Not too close but not too far.” Then he waited for his moment.

It came immediately. Right after the executives took their places at the dais, a shareholder stood up, uninvited, to ask a question. Gleeson, AIB’s chairman, barked, “Sit down!”

“He thought he was a dictator!” says Keogh, who had heard enough. He rose to his feet and shouted, “I’ve listened to enough of your crap! You’re a fucking bastard!” And then he began firing.

“He thought he had been shot,” he says now with a little smile, “because the first egg hit the microphone and went
Po
w
!” It splattered onto the shoulder pad of Gleeson’s suit. The second egg missed the CEO but nailed the AIB sign behind him.

Then the security guards were on him. “I was told I would be arrested and charged, but I never was,” he says. Of course he wasn’t: this was, at bottom, a family dispute. The guards wanted to escort him out, but he actually left the place on his own and climbed aboard the next bus home. “The incident happened at ten past ten in the morning,” he says. “I was home by ten to eleven. At ten past eleven the phone rang. And I was on the radio for an hour.” Then, but briefly, all was madness. “The press descended on the house and they wouldn’t get out,” he says. It didn’t really matter; he wasn’t sticking around. He’d done exactly what he’d planned to do and saw no need to make a further fuss. He flew out of Dublin Airport at six the next morning for a long-planned Mediterranean cruise.

IV

THE SECRET LIVES OF GERMANS

B
y the time I arrived in Hamburg, in the summer of 2011, the fate of the financial universe seemed to turn on which way the German people jumped. Moody’s was set to downgrade the Portuguese government’s debt to junk bond status, and Standard & Poor’s had hinted darkly that Italy might be next. Ireland was about to be downgraded to junk status, too, and there was a very real possibility that the newly elected local Spanish governments might seize the moment to announce that the former local Spanish governments had miscalculated, and owed foreigners a lot more money than they previously imagined. Then there was Greece. Of the 126 countries with rated debt, Greece now ranked 126th: the Greeks were officially regarded as the least likely people on the planet to repay their debts. As the Germans were not only the biggest creditor of the various deadbeat European nations but their only serious hope for future funding, it was left to the Germans to act as moral arbiter, to decide which financial behaviors would be tolerated and which would not. As a senior official at the Bundesbank put it to me, “If we say no, it’s no. Nothing happens without Germany. This is where the losses come to live.” Just a year ago, when German public figures called Greeks cheaters, or German magazines ran headlines like
WHY DON'T YOU SELL YOUR ISLANDS, YOU BANKRUPT GREEKS?
, ordinary Greeks took it as an outrageous insult. In June of 2011 the Greek government started selling islands, or at any rate created a fire-sale list of thousands of properties—golf courses, beaches, airports, farmlands, roads—that they hoped to auction in order to help repay their debts. It’s safe to say that the idea of doing this had not come from the Greeks.

To no one but a German is Hamburg an obvious place to spend a vacation, but it happened to be a German holiday, and Hamburg was overrun by German tourists. When I asked the hotel concierge what there was to see in his city, he had to think for a few seconds before he said, “Most people just go to the Reeperbahn.” The Reeperbahn is Hamburg’s red-light district, the largest red-light district in the world, according to one guidebook, though you have to wonder how anyone figured that out. And the Reeperbahn, as it happens, was why I was there.

Perhaps because they have such a gift for creating difficulties with non-Germans, the Germans have been on the receiving end of many scholarly attempts to understand their collective behavior. In this vast and growing enterprise a small book with a funny title towers over many larger, more ponderous ones. Written in the early 1980s by a distinguished American anthropologist named Alan Dundes,
Life Is Like a Chicken Coop Ladder
set out to describe the German character through the stories that ordinary Germans liked to tell one another. Dundes specialized in folklore, and in German folklore, as he put it, “one finds an inordinate number of texts concerning Scheisse (shit), Dreck (dirt), Mist (manure), Arsch (ass). . . . Folksongs, folktales, proverbs, riddles, folk speech—all attest to the Germans’ longstanding special interest in this area of human activity.”

He proceeded to pile up a shockingly high stack of evidence to support his theory. There’s a popular German folk character called
der Dukatenscheisser
(The Money Shitter), who is commonly depicted crapping coins from his rear end. The world’s first museum devoted exclusively to toilets is in Munich. (A second has opened in New Delhi.) The German word for “shit” performs a vast number of bizarre linguistic duties—for instance, a common German term of endearment once was “my little shitbag.” The first thing Gutenberg sought to publish, after the Bible, was a laxative timetable he called a “Purgation-Calendar.” Then there is the astonishing number of anal German folk sayings. “As the fish lives in water, so does the shit stick to the asshole!,” to select but one of the seemingly endless examples.

Dundes caused a bit of a stir, for an anthropologist, by tracking this single low national character trait into the most important moments in German history. The fiercely scatological Martin Luther (“I am like ripe shit and the world is a gigantic ass-hole,” Luther once explained) had the idea that launched the Protestant Reformation while sitting on the john. Mozart’s letters revealed a mind, as Dundes put it, whose “indulgence in fecal imagery may be virtually unmatched.” Hitler’s favorite word was
Scheisskerl
(shithead): he apparently used it to describe not only other people but himself as well. After the war Hitler’s doctors told U.S. intelligence officers that their patient had devoted surprising energy to examining his own feces; and there was pretty strong evidence that one of his favorite things to do with women was to have them poop on him. Perhaps Hitler was so persuasive to Germans, Dundes suggested, because he shared their quintessential trait, a public abhorrence of filth that masked a private obsession. “The combination of clean and dirty: clean exterior–dirty interior, or clean form and dirty content—is very much a part of the German national character,” he wrote.

Dundes confined himself mainly to the study of low German culture. (For those hoping to examine coprophilia in German high culture he recommended another book, by a pair of German scholars, called
The Call of Human Nature: The Role of Scatology in Modern German Literature
.) Still, it was hard to come away from his treatise without the strong sense that all Germans, high and low, were a bit different from you and me—a point he made in the introduction to the paperback version of his book. “The American wife of a German-born colleague confessed to me that she understood her husband much better after reading the book,” he wrote. “Prior to that time, she had wrongly assumed that he must have some kind of peculiar psychological hang-up inasmuch as he insisted upon discussing at great length the state of his latest bowel movement.”

The Hamburg red-light district had caught Dundes’s eye because the locals made such a big deal of mud wrestling. Naked women fought in a ring of filth while the spectators wore plastic caps, a sort of head condom, to avoid being splattered. “Thus,” wrote Dundes, “the audience can remain clean while enjoying dirt!” Germans longed to be near the shit, but not in it. This, as it turns out, is an excellent description of their role in the current financial crisis.

A WEEK EARLIER,
in Berlin, I had gone to see Germany’s deputy minister of finance, a forty-four-year-old career government official named J
ö
rg Asmussen. The Germans now are in possession of the only Finance Ministry in the big-time developed world whose leaders don’t need to worry whether their economy will collapse the moment investors stop buying their bonds. As unemployment in Greece climbs to the highest on record (16.2 percent, at last count), it falls in Germany to twenty-year lows (6.9 percent). Germany appears to have experienced a financial crisis without economic consequences. They’d donned head condoms in the presence of their bankers, and avoided being splattered by their mud. As a result, for the past year or so the financial markets have been trying and failing to get a read on the German people: they can obviously afford to pay off the debts of their fellow Europeans, but will they actually do it? Are they now Europeans, or are they still Germans? Any utterance or gesture by any German official anywhere near this decision for the past eighteen months has been a market-moving headline, and there have been plenty of them, most of them echoing German public opinion, and expressing incomprehension and outrage that other people can behave so irresponsibly. Asmussen is one of the Germans now being obsessively watched. Along with his boss, Wolfgang Sch
ä
uble, he’s one of two German officials present in every conversation between the German government and the deadbeats.

The Finance Ministry, built in the mid-1930s, is a monument to both the Nazis’ ambition and their taste. A faceless butte, it is so big that if you circle it in the wrong direction it can take you twenty minutes to find the front door. I circle it in the wrong direction, then sweat and huff to make up for lost time, all the while wondering if provincial Nazis in from the sticks had the same experience, wandering outside these forbidding stone walls trying to figure out how to get in. At length I find a familiar-looking courtyard: the only difference between its appearance now and in famous old photographs is that Hitler is no longer marching in and out of the entryway, and the statue of the eagle perched atop the swastika has been removed. “It was built for G
ö
ring’s Air Ministry,” says the waiting Finance Ministry public relations man, who is, oddly enough, French. “You can tell from the cheerful architecture.” He explains that the building is so big because Hermann G
ö
ring wanted to be able to land planes on its roof.

I have arrived about three minutes late, but the German deputy minister of finance runs a full five minutes later, which, I will learn, is viewed by Germans almost as a felony. He apologizes a great deal more than he needs to for the delay. He wears the slender framed spectacles of a German film director, and is extremely fit and bald, but by choice rather than circumstance. Extremely fit white men who shave their heads are making a statement, in my experience of them. “I don’t need body fat and I don’t need hair,” they seem to be saying, while also implying that anyone who does is a wuss. The deputy finance minister even laughs just as all extremely fit men with shaved heads should laugh, if they want to remain in character. Instead of opening his mouth to allow the air to pass, he purses his lips and snorts the sound out through his nose. He may need laughter as much as other men, but he needs less air to laugh with. His desk is a template of self-discipline. Alive with implied activity—legal pads, Post-it notes, manila folders—every single object on it is perfectly aligned with all the others and with the edges of the desk. Every angle is precisely ninety degrees. But the most striking optional décor is a big white sign on the wall beside the desk. It’s in German but translates easily back into the original English:

THE SECRET OF SUCCESS IS TO UNDERSTAND THE POINT OF VIEW OF OTHERS.

—Henry Ford

This surprises me. It’s not at all what an extremely fit bald man should have as his mantra. It’s
soft
. The deputy German finance minister further disturbs my wild assumptions about him by speaking clearly, even recklessly, about subjects most finance ministers assume it is their job to obscure. He offers up, without much prompting, that he has just finished reading the latest unpublished report by IMF investigators on the progress made by the Greek government in reforming itself. “They have not implemented the measures they have promised to implement,” he says simply. “They are not making the agreed-upon reforms.”

“The people at the IMF put it
that
clearly?” I ask.

He turns to page seven of the IMF report, where it recommends not giving the Greeks the next tranche of the money the government needs to avoid defaulting on its bonds. “They have a massive problem still with revenue collection. Not the tax law itself. It’s the
collection
which needs to be overhauled.”

The Greeks are still refusing to pay their taxes, in other words. But it is only one of many Greek sins. “Their labor market isn’t changing as it needs to.” I ask him for an example. “They had very clearly as a tradition a thirteenth or fourteenth monthly salary,” he says instantly. “Due to developments in the last ten years, a similar [civil service] job in Germany pays fifty-five thousand euros. In Greece is it seventy thousand.” To get around pay restraints in the calendar year, the Greek government simply paid employees for months that didn’t exist. “They need to change the relationship of the people to the government,” he continues. “It is not a task that can be done in three months.” Changing the relationship between any people and its government, he added, was not a trivial matter. The Greeks needed to change their culture. He couldn’t have put this more bluntly: if the Greeks and the Germans were to coexist in a currency union, the Greeks needed to change who they are.

This is unlikely to happen soon enough to matter. The Greeks not only have massive debts but are still running big deficits. Trapped by an artificially strong currency, they cannot turn these deficits into surpluses, even if they do everything outsiders want them to do. Their exports, priced in euros, remain expensive. The German government wants the Greeks to slash the size of their government, but that will also slow economic growth and reduce tax revenues. And so one of two things must happen. Either the Germans must agree to integrate Europe fiscally, so that Germany and Greece bear the same relationship to each other as, say, Indiana and Mississippi—the tax dollars of ordinary Germans would go into a common coffer and be used to pay for the lifestyle of ordinary Greeks—or the Greeks (and probably, eventually, every non-German) must introduce “structural reform,” a euphemism for magically and radically transforming themselves into a people as efficient and productive as the Germans. The first solution is pleasant for Greeks but painful for Germans. The second solution is pleasant for Germans but painful, possibly even suicidal, for Greeks.