Iceland: downfall of 'a foolish little nation'
Neil Tweedie - 06 Feb 2009
The shockwaves from the country's economic
implosion are being felt in Britain, but the effects are far worse
at home.
Iceland's humiliation begins at Heathrow. Try
buying the currency, the krona, at Travelex and you will discover it
is no longer held. "And whatever you do," says the woman at the
counter, "don't bring any back." The words "failed state" bring to
mind ungovernable Third World hell-holes, but Iceland is a new kind
of failed state, a financially failed one. Without cash from the
International Monetary Fund it would be as near to bankrupt as a
country can be.
The latest aftershock was felt in Britain this
week when the holding company Baugur, with stakes in a string
of British high street chains, went into administration. The group,
which has major shareholdings in House of Fraser, Iceland, Hamleys,
and Mappin & Webb, collapsed with debts of more than £1 billion. The
future of 3,500 stores and some 50,000 jobs is in doubt.
However, the turmoil engulfing Iceland's economy
is far from evident on arriving at Keflavik airport, 40 minutes'
drive from the capital, Reykjavik. The air is clean, the roads good
and the houses that dot the stark volcanic landscape well
maintained. The cars are big, too: four-wheel drives and high-end
marques. But then the stories begin. The taxi driver on the Keflavik
run was in his sixties, respectable, softly-spoken and, to all
intents and purposes, bankrupt.
"I keep on working and pay what I can. The
bank knows I can't do more. There is no point in shutting me down."
His tale is similar to thousands of others. He had
needed a new car and went to his bank for a loan – Icelanders, for
so long a frugal people dependent on fish and agriculture, have
become as addicted to debt as the British. His lender
suggested using a "currency basket", made up of different strong
currencies, to buy a secondhand Cadillac from America because the
krona was weak. The little currency had suffered from volatility in
the past but no one predicted what came next. In October,
the banking system imploded under the weight of an enormous mountain
of debt. The three big banks had boasted assets many times the size
of the country's GDP, but their liabilities were of a similar order.
When the government nationalized the banks, it was left with
liabilities in excess of $60 billion (£40 billion), more than three
times GDP. The krona nose-dived and borrowers like the taxi
driver woke up one cloudy morning to discover that, in krona terms,
their loans had doubled in size. With the krona effectively
dead, the country has been forced to seek the shelter of a bigger
currency – probably the euro.
There were other shocks in store. Inflation
soared as import prices rose, hitting the many mortgages in Iceland
that are index-linked. Repayments went through the roof and the
overheated housing market collapsed. Unemployment soared
towards 10 per cent. The construction industry seized up. Now,
lifeless cranes dominate the skyline of Reykjavik, monuments to
hubris.
The banks had done something else besides lending
money they did not have. Thousands of Icelanders had been persuaded
to swap bank deposits for what were effectively stakes in the banks
themselves. For them, the banking collapse threatened personal ruin.
"Many people who live in beautiful houses and drive beautiful
cars are completely broke," says political commentator Egill
Helgason. "None of it can be sold, they have lost their jobs. People
look wealthy, but worry about the next meal."
Iceland's fall from grace has been swift. In 2005,
it was ranked in the top 10 in the world in terms of GDP per head,
and between 1996 and 2006 its economy grew by 50 per cent. It has
routinely figured near the top of the human development index, which
combines economic and social measures. Now, interest rates are 18
per cent and inflation 20 per cent; and each man, woman and child
could owe as much as $250,000 to foreign creditors.
Tear gas had been used in Iceland only twice
before last month – in 1949, during protests against Iceland's
membership of Nato, and in 1959, when a dance in a remote fishing
town in the north turned into a riot.
Icelanders are not given to public demonstrations,
but last month a mob pelted eggs at the car of the prime minister,
Geir Haarde. Out came the tear gas and out went Haarde's
Right-leaning coalition government. The Left-wing coalition now
serving as a caretaker government, until elections in April, is
headed by 66-year-old Johanna Sigurdardottir.
Respected rather than loved, she is a traditional
Left-winger. Except for a few traditionalists in the backwoods, no
one cares that she is a lesbian, having swapped the father of her
children for her current partner. What matters is that she harks
back to another world, before the rise of Iceland's mini-oligarchs,
the group of 30 or so men and women who, from the mid-Nineties, took
an isolated, conservative society and transformed it into a
freewheeling outpost of capitalism. Some are well known in Britain.
Jón Ásgeir Jóhannesson, 41, typified the new elite, the so-called
Viking Conquerors. He set up a supermarket chain which blossomed
into Baugur. As his wealth grew, so did his ambition. He acquired a
yacht, a house with a bullet-proof panic room and a beautiful wife,
Ingibjörg Pálmadóttir. Her customised Mercedes is known in Reykjavik
as the "white pearl". A conviction for false accounting did him
little harm, but the banking collapse did.
The other big Icelandic name in Britain is
Björgólfur Gudmundsson, who snapped up West Ham United. His son Thor
was the original Icelandic success story, making millions from a
brewing venture in post-Soviet Russia.
The "Vikings" thrived because of the intimacy of
society. The political and financial worlds in Reykjavik are
intertwined – it is said in Iceland that by the age of 50 you will
have met half of the 320,000-strong population. When the three main
banks were privatized in 2002, the business elite assumed control,
turning them from sober institutions into aggressive vehicles for
venture capitalism. The banks were used to financing foreign
acquisitions and the domestic companies of their main shareholders.
Iceland's financial supervisory system was primitive and the media
silent – most of it having been bought up by the Vikings. No one
asked where the money was coming from. The seemingly unlimited
amounts of cash led to suggestions that they were drawing on "funny
money" from Russia. The allegations, so far, have not been
substantiated.
'The madness started with privatization of the
banks in 2002 and their transfer to the cronies of the political
parties," says Helgason. "The true worth of the banks and the
companies they were feeding with loans became obscured. Anything and
everything was used to boost balance sheets.
"There is a market for cod fishing quotas," adds
Helgason. "A kilo of cod was sold for 4,000 krona in this market. If
you went to a shop you could buy it for 1,200 krona. So the cod
swimming in the sea was worth more than cod that had been caught –
madness."
The madness threatened dire consequences for
British savers when Landsbanki, one of the three big banks, set up
the internet operation Icesave, offering very competitive interest
rates to European savers, including many individuals, councils and
charities. When it collapsed, Gordon Brown used anti-terror
legislation to freeze the UK assets of Landsbanki and another
Icelandic bank, Kaupthing.
For Icelanders, the classifying of their banks
with organisations suspected of funding al-Qaeda was an insult too
far.
Iceland's foreign minister Ossur Skarphedinsson is
still shocked by Brown's actions. "Iceland has always looked on
Britain as a helping hand, except during the cod wars. In your
darkest hour in the Second World War, we offered you the use of our
country. No one in Britain knows that Iceland lost proportionally
the same number of people as America in the war. [Many lives were
lost on Icelandic ships after its occupation by British and, later,
American troops.] To suffer the humiliation of having a friendly
country stigmatising you as terrorists was terrible. It was a
disgusting thing to do."
A special prosecutor has been appointed to
investigate the banking collapse. One of his jobs will be to
discover the fate of assets thought to have been transferred to
off-shore accounts by some businessmen shortly before the crisis.
Rumours abound in the still chic bars of Reykjavik's small centre
about billions salted away overseas.
Icelanders are a stoic lot, though, and the
feeling in the hot pools where people congregate, is that the nation
will, as always, pull through – helped by cheap geothermal energy,
healthy fish stocks and a beautiful, if forbidding, landscape,
attractive to tourists.
However, the days of hubris, of the Icelandic
David taking on the Goliath of international finance, are over.
"People don't want blood, but they want the truth," says Helgason.
"In the end, we were a foolish little nation who thought we had
found some new way of making money. We hadn't."
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