Sometimes, Bureaucracy IS Chicken Feed

Although it has been tempting to tackle the subject of Nicaraguan bureaucracy, I have thus far limited my comments to the paper chase that is the residency process. It often seemed as if each step in that convoluted path generated double or more additional requirements, each with its accompanying paper to be signed, notarized, or apostille'd, in triplicate. I exaggerate but slightly.

The fascination for documentation extends to hardware and chicken feed, among various commodities. Actually, it is appropriate to create a good paper trail for building materials that must correspond with exact measurements or dimensions. Chicken feed, not so much.

Happily, my property lies side by side with the farm of Mr. Vonn. You may recall that I bought hay and a slaughtered lamb from Mr. Vonn's place last fall. (It is unclear if there is an actual Mr. Vonn.) The farm entry road is surmounted by a large "V" mounted on a cross bar, and opposite is a small community called "Mr. Vonn," where I visited a small health clinic last year. And about 200 yards down the highway is San Francisco Industries, another company operated by Mr. Vonn, which manufactures and sells dog, chicken, and other agricultural feeds.

When I need to buy a 100-pound sack of chicken meal, I hire a bicicleta—a human-powered conveyance—to take me to Mr. Vonn's farm office where I visit a spartan office with two windows. At the left, I order my chicken feed and receive a purchase order which I then present at the right window—the caja—for payment. (Caja means "box" in Spanish, but it also can mean "pay station." Banks, hospitals, restaurants, and stores have cajas where you pay your bills.) I am given a receipt to add to my purchase order, and I then travel via my bicicleta down the highway to San Francisco Industries. I show my P.O. and receipt to pass through security, and head up to the large warehouse, where I again present my documents. The gentleman at this caja asks my name, and then asks me to sign another form documenting my purchase. He saves a copy for himself, and gives me its mate, and another guy loads the sack of feed onto the bicicleta. As we pedal back toward the entrance, the security guard takes the latter form, and copies its information onto his clipboard. Then, he asks me to sign his paper, staples all my paperwork together, and gives it back to me.

In hindsight, it makes sense for purchases of large quantities of feed to be well-documented, to avoid having a dozen or so sacks "fall off the truck," as it were, and have thorough accountability for deliveries and drivers. I am very small potatoes in this scenario, but my single sack has just as much paperwork as the big guys.