Free Eat the Rich: A Treatise on Economics by P.J. O'Rourke Page B

competition drove the promised rates of return high and higher. At one point the Sude pyramid was offering interest of 50 percent a month.
    “The pyramid schemes,” said Ilir Nishku, “created the idea that this is the free market and just four years after communism, we could get rich. They created the wrong idea that this is capitalism.”
    “Everyone was sitting in cafés,” said Elmaz.
    Albania’s economic statistics looked great: 9.6 percent growth in 1993, 8.3 percent in ’94, 13.3 percent in ’95, 9.1 percent in ’96.
    “Albania’s economy chalks up the fastest growth rate on the continent,” chirped the slightly clueless Bradt travel guide.
    The very clueless United Nations 1996 Human Development Report for Albania declared, “The progress in widespread economic well-being reported in the 1995 Human Development Report for Albania has continued, forming a social basis for [here’s where our UN dues really go to work] human development.”
    Something called the Eurobarometer Survey said the Albanians were the most optimistic people of Eastern and Central Europe.
    Even Enver Hoxha’s ancient widow, Nexhmije (pronounced…oh, who cares), waxed positive on capitalism. Released from prison in December 1996, she had a new bathroom installed in her apartment. Jane Perlez of The New York Times interviewed the communist crone: “‘This is the good thing about the consumer society,’ [Nexhmije] said, showing off some pink Italian tiles. ‘Though it’s very expensive, you can find everything.’”
    The glory days lasted until February 1997. Then five of the big pyramids collapsed, and all the little ones did. Four other major pyramid schemes quit paying interest and froze most accounts, which is to say they went kerflooey, too. An estimated $1.2 billion disappeared, more than half the Albanian gross domestic product; that is, more than half the value of all the goods and services produced in Albania that year.
    “Where did all that money go ?” I asked Nishku.
    He began ticking off possibilities: Swiss banks? The Albanian government? Money-laundering operations in Cyprus? Turkish Mafia? Russian Mafia? Mafia Mafia? “We don’t know,” he said.
    I asked Nishku if there was any possibility that people would get their money back.
    He said, “No.”
     
     
     
    The capitalism I’d encountered on Wall Street was, said its proponents, all about freedom. Albania has lots of freedom. Everyone admires freedom. And, indeed, one of the best places in the world from which to admire freedom of every kind is the Hotel Tirana’s balcony bar overlooking Skenderbeg Square in the center of Albania’s capital city.
    Sheshi Skenderbej is an all-concrete piazza the size of a nine-hole golf course. A dozen streets empty into it. From each street come multitudes of drivers going as fast as they can in any direction they want. Cars head everywhere. Cars box the compass. They pull U-ies, hang Louies, make Roscoes, do doughnuts. Tires peel and skid. Bicycles scatter. Pushcarts jump the curbs. Pedestrians run for their lives. No horn goes unhonked. Brakes scream. Bumpers whallop. Fenders munch. Headlight glass tinkles merrily on the pavement. There’s lots of yelling.
    Until 1990, Albanians were forbidden to own motor vehicles. They didn’t know how to drive. They still don’t. Every fourth or fifth car seems to have an AUTOSHKOLLE sign on the roof, and not a moment too soon. Now there are 150,000 automobiles in Albania. If you’ve ever wondered why you don’t see beaters and jalopies on Western European streets, why there are no EU junkyards, it’s because the junk is in Albania. Elmaz said, “When we were first open to Europe, we bought used cars. Very used cars. After one year…” He pursed his lips and made the Mediterranean “kaput” noise.
    The bad cars of Europe are in Albania. And the hot cars. An unwashed Porsche 928 lurching inexpertly through the square just out of range of my highball ice cubes seemed a