Chicken concentration camp or how to become a Canadian farmer. Part 1

2024 Author: Seth Attwood | [email protected]. Last modified: 2023-12-16 15:55

"Chicken Trilogy." (The story of an economic investigation)

Part I. Chicken arithmetic

At the end of December 1999, Rita and Yura Ivanova, our friends, doctors by training, called us from Chicago. On holidays we call each other. And then, before the new year 2000, it was their usual call, the usual congratulations on the holiday and our usual exchange of US-Canadian news. Among others, they reported this: in stores in Chicago they sell chicken eggs for 30 cents a dozen. True, they noticed in passing, they do not buy these eggs, because the price is too suspicious. And after this conversation, I imagined to the smallest detail what my wife and I would do this coming spring and summer. The fact is that we have long been going to have chickens for ourselves on our farm. Agree, it's nice to have scrambled eggs made from real, freshest eggs on Sunday for breakfast. And then there is also a chance to check the harmony of Western abundance not even with algebra, but with ordinary arithmetic. And yet, somewhere in the depths, purely intuitively and automatically, my hidden biological mechanism, very similar to computer software, calculated that, since the now widely known toy by the name of a computer is bought no more often than once every three years, and, at the same time, it brings astronomical income to the owners-producers, then food, being bought every day and every day (!) eaten, will bring me a profit, for which I can buy the entire solar system with giblets. There would be a seller! But there are also countries with the code name G-7, in which non-settlement manages to eat three times a day! This will be a profit! - I thought, dialing the number of my friend, Romanian. The fact is that Georges, this friend of mine, works for the telephone company Bell Canada, lives on a farm next to me, and several times already suggested that I have, like him, several chickens for myself.

“Pa-apitka - nee drink! So, Lavrenty Palych? - I recalled a painfully familiar aphorism from a political anecdote.

- Georges, - I shout into the phone. - I'm ripe! Can you help with organizing a chicken coop? This spring I will buy chickens from you.

“No problem, Sasha,” the pipe rumbles cheerfully. - How many do you need?

- Sixty! - I happily inform about my decision. - And two cockerels!

“I’ll only sell thirty and one cockerels,” Georges reasoned with me.

Well, I think, Georges is also from a former socialist country. It is in our blood to cut in half the amount of what is asked.

I ask:

- When to come?

- In the beginning of April. Be healthy, farmer! - and hung up.

On the 4th of April we brought 30 females and one cockerel from Georges to our farm.

They were taken in cardboard boxes with cut holes for ventilation. The chickens were released into the chicken coop. We stand with my wife and rejoice: we will now have testicles, but not American genetic consumer goods, but real, village ones (as once at home, bazaar ones).

Georges explained everything to us: where to buy grain, and how to feed and water the chickens, and how to arrange a nest, and even gave us a phone number where we can buy another 30 chickens and a cockerel. It turns out that there is a farming cooperative where you can buy everything and as much as you want. I ordered everything I needed in this cooperative, and on July 6, my order was fulfilled. So our chicken farm has grown to 60 chickens with two cockerels. The cockerels were different. One, from Georges, red-haired, small, cocky and fidgety. He lowers his wings to the ground in a fighting manner, pulls his head back, half-opens his beak and rushes around the yard with a warlike air, like Napoleon in his youth. The other, from the cooperative, is a large white handsome man. The scallop is like a Kremlin ruby star, calm and dignified gait - from heel to toe, looks down on his harem and sternly - neither give nor take, Marshal Zhukov on a white horse goes round Red Square.

But I wanted to tell you not about this idyll, dear readers. All this I could spy on my neighbor too, if I could only look at him through the fence. I was more interested in the arithmetic of this farming business. And this is such arithmetic. From April 4, 2000 to April 1, 2001, our 58 chickens brought me and my wife 10 thousand 773 eggs (I lost two chickens due to my own inexperience: one friend was trampled in a cardboard box during transportation, and the other was eaten by evil wolves when I was driving one evening a flock of chicken in a chicken coop, did not notice one chicken hiding under a bush and remaining to spend the night on the street).

So, first of all, I calculated the egg production rate. I calculated it like this (you can check if there is an error - call): 10, 773 divided by 360 days. It turned out that 58 chickens brought 29,925 eggs daily. The egg production coefficient from here will be: Ky = 29.925: 58 = 0.5159482. Here I want to make a small digression. People often ask me: when do you manage to do everything? And bees, and a vegetable garden, and a shop, and now there are chickens? I honestly admit: firstly, my wife is from Russia - she works like a horse, does not go to strikes, I for her - that the Communist Party of the Soviet Union is the only and irreplaceable for the Soviet people, I have not paid a salary, like a real Russian president, for thirty years already, I spend this money in my own business and there is no risk - we are Russians. Secondly, I have to do some things during overtime and in terrible unsanitary conditions. That's how it is now. I am writing this article in a chicken coop while cleaning the latter. Hands, of course, are busy with a shovel, legs get stuck in chicken droppings, the stench is incredible, but the head is absolutely free. Each line in the head is born and remains in it until the evening, until it lies on paper. Maybe I would put a writing desk in the chicken coop, but there is no excess. And now, leaning on a shovel, I think: what were my expenses for the maintenance of chickens this year?

1) The chickens themselves (together with the cockerels) cost $ 465;

2) Feeders, drinkers and other little things - $ 100;

3) Food for chickens - $ 907 43 cents;

4) Heating the chicken coop - $ 80;

5) Gasoline (trip for grain, etc.) - $ 48.

The total cost was $ 1,600 43 cents. I am not yet adding the cost of the chicken coop itself, posts and nets for the fence, etc. Let's say that all this was given to me by aliens. The townspeople are very fond of imagining that to farmers (or collective farmers) everything falls right out of the sky. Now I will divide the amount spent in the year by 360 days: 1, 600.43: 360 = 4.4456. This means that it costs me almost four and a half dollars a day to maintain a chicken family. I take a nail and scratch this check digit on the floor of the chicken coop. Chickens have surrounded me and are surprised to examine these my monograms on the floor. One of them constantly pecks at my right hand, she liked my wedding ring. At this time, the other two are pulling the laces on my sneakers. "Shoot!" - I wave my hands at them. An unimaginable hubbub and flapping of wings rises in the chicken coop. I tie my shoelaces and shovel again. Broken chicken droppings cleanse my brains better than ammonia. The head is clear and spacious, like in a floodplain meadow before sunrise.

- My thoughts, my horses, - I hum and continue to count further. So, chickens bring 30 eggs per day (let's round up to a larger number), that is, two and a half dozen. I divide 4.4456 by 2.5. It turns out that selling a dozen eggs even at the price of $ 1.77824 is at a loss. Now let's remember what else I did not take into account in the expense column. This is the cost of buildings, water, the cost of transporting eggs to the consumer, tax on the territory, the cost of the territory itself, the cost of work clothes and shoes, and, finally, my personal work to care for the chicken coop and hens. These are: cleaning the chicken coop, repairs, a tray of food, water, early in the morning - open the chicken coop and release the chickens, in the evening - close, collect eggs (and all this seven days a week, and you won't go to Cuba even for a week at any time of the year). I calculated that, on average, I spend an hour and a half to two hours a day on a chicken coop. Under Canadian law, the minimum wage is $ 6 85 per hour. This means that for an hour and a half of work, I have the right to count on at least $ 10 and 27 cents. To receive this money, it must be included in the sales value of the eggs. This means that a dozen should be worth 1.77824+ (10.27: 2.5) = 5.88624 dollars. Remember to add to this figure the cost of capital and consumables. I cite all these calculations not to cry on the reader's waistcoat, but so that a person who buys eggs even at $ 1.69 per dozen would think: what quality are they?

And now let's move on to the most important issue - the sale of finished products. Eating 30 eggs a day is not an easy task for my wife and me. Having studied the historical literature over the past two thousand years, having grabbed some information from three thousand years before the New Era, having listened to major nutritionists (who, by the way, looked awful in appearance), who, adhering to a "healthy diet", and, referring to authority doctors, strongly advised us not to eat more than one egg a week, my wife and I decided: I will eat five eggs a week, she - four.

No sooner said than done. The rest of the eggs were sold.

(For people who are very cautious, I can tell you that in March 2001, that is, a year after the start of such an egg diet, a handsome young man persuaded me to buy Life Insurance for a large sum. This required a medical test, which I did. Their results gave me the Preferred Plus category, which is a pipe dream for many people much younger than I. This is not to brag, but to emphasize that natural food always maintains the basic characteristics of the body - blood pressure, cholesterol, hemoglobin and sugar levels - in However, I eat daily 150-200 grams of honey, which for me is the main regulator of the "technical" characteristics of the body.)

So, we started selling the "extra" eggs. After some hesitation, the sale price was set at $ 4 a dozen. This means that for an hour and a half of working with chickens, I have $ 5 and 56 cents. Delighted that I didn’t lose, but still have, I grab a wheelbarrow with chicken droppings and take them to a special sump - a place in my forest under an old poplar tree, where in a year the droppings will burn out and become fertilizer for my tomatoes. I carry and count on. If I have 348 chickens, that is, six times more, then I will earn six times more. Now I need to calculate this: with 348 chickens, when will I catch up with Bill Gates in welfare? I have multiplied, I have multiplied. Multiplied. I had already cleaned out the chicken coop, and the chickens were climbing onto new perches. No, it seems that with so many chickens, I can't even catch up with the worst programmer. It is necessary to add chickens, I decided, and the next day I called the Ministry of Agriculture to talk with knowledgeable people on this topic. The information I received there had the same effect on me as Hiroshima and Nagasaki had on the Japanese in 1945. But I'll start in order …

Part II. Chicken gulag.

So, I called the Ontario Department of Agriculture. A man answered the phone and introduced himself. I gave my name and went straight to a business conversation:

- Tell me, can I visit a chicken farm?

- Hmm, - I heard in response, - what do you want to do there?

- I want to get acquainted with the technology of keeping chickens and egg production.

- Why do you need this? The voice on the other end of the line grew dry and irritable.

- Yes … you know … I would like to know what kind of product I buy in stores.

- It's impossible, - rumbled in the receiver, - not a single farmer will show you this. And no one will waste precious time on all sorts of excursions. You should know that farmers are very busy people. Goodbye.

I also hung up and thought. To be honest, I did not expect such a response. Okay, I think I'll go the other way.

The next day, I call the Ministry again. My yesterday's interlocutor answered the receiver.

“Sorry,” I say in a firm voice, “I need to look around a medium sized chicken farm. I would like to ask you to help me in this matter.

- Why do you need this? the yesterday interlocutor, who did not recognize me, asked in surprise.

- I recently came from Russia, - I answer, - received the status of permanent residence in Canada and decided to become a farmer. I was interested in egg production and now I am considering buying a chicken farm.

- Do you have money?

I confess I did not expect such a question. But, as we used to say in Ancient Greece, he called himself a load - climb into the back.

- Yes, I have. And I think it would be a good investment for my capital.

- How much money do you have?

Well, guys, I'll tell you, and I'm in a situation! I have heard so much over the ten years of my life in Canada about all kinds of correctness on the part of civil servants that after such a question I was speechless for a few seconds. But my brain continued to work. I remembered the collective farm poultry farm near Uryupinsk. A huge territory without a single bush and grass, densely covered with chicken droppings, wooden troughs with bran and several car tires adapted for drinkers. The entire territory is surrounded by a half-rotten hedge, and in the middle there is a barn with a gates wide open forever. How much could such a farm cost? Well, let's say that in Canada everything is cleaner, more subtle, perhaps even with some kind of automation. One hundred thousand? Two hundred?

Well, okay, I'll add a little more for safety net. And suddenly, unexpectedly even for himself, he confidently blurted out into the phone:

- One million dollars!

The wife, who was sitting next to me and listening to our conversation, clutched her head and turned pale.

The receiver was silent for a bit and somehow softly and friendly said:

“Well, that's not bad. I think that you can find a bank that will agree to talk to you.

- What? Talk to me? Bank? What for?

Then I hesitated a little. Did you overdo it?

“Don't worry, everything is fine,” the ministerial worker told me. “With that kind of money, I will personally help you find a bank that will give you the missing amount and at a good percentage. So so. In Canada, as determined by practice, there are three types of chicken farms. A small farm for ten thousand chickens, an average one for thirty thousand chickens, and a large one for fifty thousand or more. Did you say that you are interested in the middle one?

Everything! Then I came to my senses. Some clerk is talking to a millionaire! I leaned back in my chair, casually shifted the receiver from my right hand to my left:

- Yes, you know, I would prefer a large farm, but first, let's talk about an average one, in the future I myself will be able to operate with numbers.

“You are absolutely right,” a velvet voice poured from the tube, pleasing my ear. So, a farm for thirty thousand chickens. Here, by chance, I have information on such a farm at hand. It was just put up for sale by Mr. N. He is asking for six million eight hundred thousand dollars.

- What about? - I roared not in my own voice, and even in Russian.

- Did you say something? - asked the official.

“No, no,” I reassured him. It is not very expensive. I just doubt if the income from such a farm will be sufficient.

- Sorry, Alexander, I think that you want to invest not the last million. If you had the courage to invest two million in cash, you could qualify for a large farm. I will now fax all the information on the three standard sizes of chicken farms and you will get acquainted with the numbers.

- Yes, yes, - I agreed, - but still I want to personally inspect the production.

- I think that we can do this next Friday, - the official clearly settled down to me, - I will send a car for you with our representative.

The car with their representative arrived at the appointed time. The newly minted millionaire (that is, me) and his wife flopped down on the soft seats of the ministerial car. The accompanying young man named Steve was very talkative and helpful. All the way he entertained us with stories about his work, about laying hens, about buying companies, about cooperatives, and so on and so forth.

An hour later we drove into such a small village. Clean, neat and incredibly green. Our car stopped in front of a long white building in the very center of the village. We got out of the car.

- Where is the farm? - I asked in surprise, looking at the manicured lawns with flowers in front of the building.

- And here it is, - our escort waved his hand in the direction of the snow-white building. - We will go inside, only now we have to put on this, - and he took three white overalls and gauze caps out of the trunk.

Laughing and joking, we dressed up in overalls. While we were dressing, I saw an old woman come out the door of the building, clutching two standard packs of eggs to her chest.

“Locals buy eggs directly from the farm,” our guide explained, intercepting my bewildered gaze.

- And here is the owner! - Immediately he exclaimed joyfully, seeing a large man of about fifty coming out after the old woman.

- Charlie, - the farmer came up to us.

“And this is Alexander and Rita,” Steve introduced us.

“And I already know almost everything about you,” Charlie said and continued smiling, “you want to buy a farm and you have a million in cash.

My wife and I looked at each other.

- Nothing, nothing, - added Charlie, - we will agree on the price, and everything else is a matter of technology.

Charlie extended both hands towards the farm and added:

- Welcome!

We entered a small clean room, fenced off at the end of the production building. Through a neatly cut opening in one of the walls, a black conveyor belt entered the room, along which chicken eggs of unnatural whiteness moved. A girl in a white overalls sat at the transporter and sorted eggs, placing them in specially prepared boxes. In addition to the noise of the transporter and light music pouring from the speaker, I caught some unusual sounds, similar to the barking of a pack of hunting dogs. "But where could dogs be on a chicken farm?" - I thought. Charlie led us to the door leading to the back of the farm, elegantly let my wife in front, and just as elegantly threw open the door. I brought up the rear of the procession. And then something completely unexpected happened. Crossing the threshold, my wife shoved the men apart and rushed back:

“Sasha, I’m not going there,” she said with trembling lips, “it’s scary there.

I apologized to Charlie and stepped boldly inside. The mad dog barking immediately deafened me. Charlie and Steve came in after me. I looked around. From floor to ceiling, there were massive cages in several rows, containing chickens. Oh, I have never seen such chickens. Large, seven or eight kilograms each, with predatory eagle beaks and blood-red massive crests, angrily staring at me with huge immobile pupils, like the muzzles of a firing squad's rifles, the chickens … were barking. Have you seen the barking chickens? I advise you to go to a Canadian chicken farm.

- It's very simple, - Charlie began to explain the technology, - here are cages with chickens, here, in front, an automatic feed and water supply.

Charlie pressed the button. Around everything rattled, creaked and poured. The feed moved along a special trough.

- Look, Alexander, behind the conveyor on which the eggs roll from the cages. Below is a conveyor for cleaning chicken droppings. Everything! - summed up Charlie. - Let's go, Alexander, play golf.

- No, Charlie, I don’t know how to play golf and I don’t have time. I'd rather ask you questions.

- Come on, go ahead! Charlie agreed sadly.

- Tell me, Charlie, how long do you keep these chickens, I mean - after what time do you change them?

- In a year.

- So, the whole year chickens sit in cages under electric lighting?

“Yes,” Charlie confirmed.

- Is the food you give the chickens genetically modified?

- Yes.

- Are the chickens themselves also genetically modified?

- Yes Yes Yes! Why are you, Alexander, clung to your genetic modification? I'll tell you a story later.

- Okay, Charlie. Now tell me what are you doing with these chickens in a year?

- For sale. Buyers come and buy these chickens from me at 18 cents apiece. For meat.

- So, how much do you buy new chickens?

- For a dollar apiece.

- Wonderful. How many people work on the farm?

Charlie laughed.

“I’m the girl who sorts the eggs. An electrician comes to check the equipment twice a month. I come every day, for thirty or forty minutes. Then I go to play golf. You know what, Alexander, let's go play golf. Leave this farm with your questions. A? I'll tell you everything there.

“No Charlie, I want to know everything about your farm. Better tell me, what income do you have from the farm?

- Dirty - 450 thousand Clean - 300 thousand. The costs are high, you can see for yourself - food, water, electricity, different equipment, and so on.

- How do you sell eggs?

- All the eggs are taken from me by the intermediary company with which I sign a contract.

- At what price?

- 80 cents a dozen. Well, you saw it yourself, sometimes the locals come and buy eggs. For them, the price is like in a store - 2-2.50 per dozen, depending on the size of the eggs. Three to eight weeks later, after the eggs are washed in a pool with a special chemical solution, they go to stores.

- Eight weeks after the hen laid the egg? - I suddenly choked.

- Do you think millions of eggs are washed by hand under a tap with warm water?

- Okay, Charlie, now you explain what the price of your farm is. I calculated already in advance: chickens cost 30 thousand dollars (one dollar each), land, building, equipment, plus …

“Two million,” Charlie prompted.

“Let's say,” I say, “then everything together costs a little more than two million, and you are asking for six million eight hundred thousand.

“So you haven't calculated your quota yet,” adds Charlie.

- What is it? - I am surprised.

- In order to obtain permission to own chickens, you must buy a quota. A quota for one chicken costs 130 dollars today, so multiply it by 30 thousand.

My head started spinning.

- Yes, it's almost four million! And why? Just for the right to have chickens?

“Yes,” Charlie said calmly.

- But what about free competition, the market, freedom of entrepreneurship, human rights, humanity, conscience and everything else?

Charlie laughed out loud.

- I see you, Alexander, an idealist. Where did you learn all this? There are many things you don't understand. What is capitalism? This is overproduction, underproduction, price hikes, ruin, bankruptcy. This is old capitalism. Now it's different. Thirty years ago, several smart farmers gathered and went to the government. We achieved the adoption of a quota system. What does it mean? It was considered that in Canada, with a population of thirty million, you need to have, say, roughly, 100 million chickens. So much it was. Each farmer at the time paid for a quota of one chicken at the original quota price of about thirty dollars. Everything! Quotas are sold out, the market is provided with eggs, sales are guaranteed. Our income has become stable, no hesitation for you.

Charlie drew a sinusoid in the air with his hand and crossed it out symbolically.

“And what is more important,” he added, “then my father bought thirty thousand quotas at thirty dollars each, at one time he gave them to me, and now, as you already know, the quota is worth one hundred and thirty dollars. A good investment ?!

I scratched my head and agreed that yes, good. However, he immediately saw through all the devilish ingenuity of this venture and the terrible consequences that are already beginning to manifest, but Charlie does not see this yet, he enjoys playing golf.

“Okay, Charlie,” I say, “let's say I buy your farm. I have to take a loan from the bank for more than five million. If I give the bank all my net income from the farm, then I will have to repay the loan for almost twenty years. And also interest! That is, for thirty years I will not be able to eat or drink!

- Well, what am I telling you! Let's go play golf.

- Charlie, this is a monopoly! Do you have any idea what's going on? We become dependent on these monopolies. Even with such an enormous fortune, they will drown me at the right moment, along with a loan and along with this state. Yes, and your days are numbered! You feel it in your gut, but still unconsciously. After all, it is not for nothing that you want to sell the farm, and not give it to your son.

- You, Alexander, fear thistle. You are exaggerating. Now I will tell you a story with my neighbor. He sued me because his wife died.

"Did you kill her, Charlie?" I ask in surprise.

- Well, how can I tell you? I did not kill her, but he claims that she died through my fault.

- Why weren't you arrested?

“Ha, ha,” Charlie smiled. - You never know what comes to mind. I'll tell you in order. My neighbors have a vegetable garden. Five years ago, they asked for permission to take chicken manure for fertilization. I have given permission. Last year, his wife got sick. Crayfish. She died a month ago. Her husband now claims that she got cancer because I gave them manure from chickens that eat genetically modified food.

- Do you think he's wrong? I asked.

“Right or wrong, it doesn't matter. Nobody will judge me. I don't have to explain to anyone that my chickens eat genetically modified food. All farmers use this feed. The law does not prohibit.

“Yes,” I say, “you’re absolutely right.” In Canada, this is not required by law. But we have a lot of cancer patients. There is a reason for this!

“Well, you know, let the scientists and politicians figure it out,” Charlie replied.

“Charlie,” I ask, “are you eating those eggs?”

- Of course not. Look, - Charlie led me to the back door and opened it, - my family chickens are running around the field. We eat eggs from these chickens. But you know, Alexander, these eggs are outwardly very similar to those that these chickens are laying yonder - he waved his hand in the direction of the cages - but the taste is completely different. Why?

“Charlie, your farm is a chicken gulag…” I began.

- Oh, I know the Russian word "GULAG" and also - "SOLZHENITSYN". You think … - Charlie looked around in surprise.

- Your farm chickens do not see the Sun, they suffer in cages for a year, are completely motionless, eat genetically modified food, do not see roosters. They are terribly stressed. And in this state, they lay eggs. An egg is a fruit. Place your wife in similar conditions and conceive a child. Who will she give birth to? Ask the doctors about it. Any stress, poor quality nutrition, lack of fresh air and the sun, limited movement - and the child is born a freak with diseases already inherent in his genes. Imagine now that the laying hen transmitted all these ulcers to its egg-fetus. And you ate that egg. What did the cells of your body receive?

Charlie stared at me with wide eyes.

“So that's why my wife doesn't want to eat those eggs. It was she who made me get some chickens for herself.

- Charlie, where do you drain the chicken droppings?

“Come on,” Charlie gestured toward the large gate at the far end of the building.

We walked along a narrow passage between the cages, and we were accompanied by the polyphonic barking of raging birds. I constantly looked around, worried that these mad Cerberus would grab my heels. Coming out of the building, I happily breathed in deeply and gladly turned my face up to the spring sun.

- You see, the conveyor transports manure from the premises directly into this metal tank, which is dug into the ground, - I heard Charlie's voice.

I examined the tank. Its dimensions seemed too small to me.

“How often do you empty this tank,” I asked.

“Once a month, farmers come to my house and sort out this dung,” Charlie replied.

- Where? - I was surprised.

- How where? Charlie gave me a gaze. - They carry around the fields, fertilize the land.

- So-a-ak, I said slowly. “Thank you, Charlie, for the tour. Do you have a separate exit from here, well, so as not to go through your GULAG again?

Charlie lifted his shoulders almost to his ears and shook his head.

As we removed our snow-white overalls and gauze caps, I watched Charlie sideways. He stood a little further away and looked at me sadly and sadly. Then he came up, held out his hand to my wife in parting and, turning to me, said:

- Alexander, don't buy a chicken farm. You have a million, put it in the bank and live on interest. We will go and play golf with you.

I smiled.

A few months later, the world started talking about bird flu …”.