I am determined to keep this weeks blog within the recommended 1,500 words. Anything longer I am assured makes it too tedious for people to read while importantly it becomes a bigger chore for me although once I start on a Monday or Tuesday I am inclined to ramble on. My editing daughter gently chides me each week especially when I reach 3,000 words. I have been reading some wonderful experiences on the Rhodesian Heritage page on Facebook with both black and white contributors. Often histories of their own pioneer ancestors. Rozanne is of pioneer stock through her great grandfather who came to Fort Victoria in 1891, where I believe he became a magistrate. In fact, surprisingly there is still a Cary Street in Masvingo as it is now known.
All those brave men and women were enticed by the British South Africa Company mandated by the British Government. Rozanne’s great grandfather was born in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada, the child of a British army officer there. When his children and grandchildren tried to renew their British citizenship, it was denied as he was born in a British colony, not the UK despite being a Brit soldier on her Majesty’s service. This was not unique, so many Zimbabweans who can trace their routes back to British soldiers, especially in India also lost their right to citizenship. Very interesting, as many will always carry that grudge against the British for denying them their ancestral right.
For me, after completing my national service and further call-ups in the territorial force, I took up Rhodesian citizenship. It was a proud day for me but at Independence, the new Government in 1984 changed the laws and for us to remain Zimbabwean citizens with the same rights as any other citizen, including property rights, we had to renounce our British citizenship. Of course, the rights of white farmers to their land and in some cases, miners and industrialists all lost their land because of the colour of their skin, not their citizenship in the upheaval under the guise of indigenisation in the late ’90s, early 2000s. I will no longer renew my Zimbabwean passport when it is up for renewal this year.
Of course, the British Government decried this action but as we will learn, as in the Ukraine situation, words hold little fear for dictators. Putin is bogged down, losing men and surely embarrassed by the action or lack of action of his army. I have no doubt he is condoning the shelling of residences, hospitals, schools and other civilian targets. The West repeatedly say they do not want to get into direct war with the Russians for fear of the consequences. Hesitation may well delay the inevitable but if he does not gain a victory soon he will surely start digging into his dirty arsenal. All despots do, it becomes more a war for their personal survival rather than anything logical. Guerrilla tactics by Ukraine will bring about summary executions by a poorly trained, mainly conscript army frustrated, badly treated and far from home.
“Conscripts on foreign soil compelled to fight a war they have no wish to be involved in, making very poor soldiers.” - Peter McSporran
We saw this first hand with the Portuguese conscripts in Mozambique.
Have I been harping on too much about this?
My American friend, Dan Erlenborn, a well known retired political journalist agrees with me, but like many, fear a desperate Putin will ‘press the button’. He may be right, so maybe just sit back and watch the destruction of a nation? The West are adept at that, in a slightly different way, the same happened in Zimbabwe.
For me the mindset is so focused on political correctness, so loosely defined now that none of us really understand it, especially in regard to gender identity.
“We are being led by self-appointed Jacob sheep with little understanding of structured society or history using the media to convince the politicians, through fear, that their way is the only way to social enlightenment. Like all Jacob sheep, they are eventually slaughtered (figure of speech) once those instigating their actions have no further use for them.” - Peter McSporran
Never forget politicians are mainly focused on one thing, their political survival, not the lives of others. Of course, there are plenty of professional bureaucrats that also subscribe to this as the status quo is much safer than change. Change to them means unwanted work coupled with risk in employment.
I once again over the weekend had serious stomach problems and later in the week found I had Covid-19. I am not too sick yet, so let's hope it remains so.
Farming and Call-ups
In the latter half of 1974, I settled into a way of life that was to be the norm up until Independence in 1980. Once the harvest was complete I set off to the drill hall to join my company at that time; H Company 1 Rhodesia Regiment. As I said last week we were now a more mixed bunch, up until now in the National Service, the vast majority of the troopies were still in their teens and townies excluding me as an oldie at 23 years old. Outside national service, I was now mixing with farmers like me and many miners. Much more mature even in their early twenties. We set off after a few days training back to the Northeast, once again through Mount Darwin where the first Fireforce was now established. Our journey took us along the road known as landmine alley below the escarpment into the Mavuradona Mountains where we set up camp. No mud as it was the dry season. In place of mud, many more landmines and ambushes. We were always at our most vulnerable on the vehicles which often had to slow to a snail's pace to negotiate dry river beds and winding roads. Our vehicles now had water in the tyres to absorb the blast and the driver was better protected within steel plates set at an angle beneath the seats to deflect the explosion. Of course, drivers were keen observers of the road, more worried about landmines than potholes. It was found there were fewer casualties if we travelled slowly when we hit a mine but of course more vulnerable to an ambush. We were still in RL Bedfords which were open with conveyor belts and sandbags to help protect the troops in the rear. During the war, security vehicles hit some 1,300 landmines. Unfortunately, the terrorist's use of mines indiscriminately caused many more civilian casualties often travelling in unprotected buses and trucks. As we further protected our vehicles they increased the charges mainly by adding a further mine, on occasion triple mines. By the end of the war, a land mine had minimal effect on us or our vehicles other than having to replace wheels and chassis on the side damaged by the explosion. Most casualties over the years were caused by flying debris, weapons or stores. Set belts were supplied but most times avoided to allow quick ‘debussing’ in the event of ambush. I was lucky enough not to have been in a vehicle ambush, unlike many of my friends. The same I cannot say about landmines.
Our base camp allowed us to work in the Chiswiti TTL including Dotito village areas, all transit stops for terrorist incursions, along with the Mavuradona Mountains. Chiswiti being a favourite stop-off for the guerilla's incursions, it was a hive of nationalist activity. The local population were getting it from both sides and as we were gentler than our opposition, we got little cooperation from them although at that time we were certainly winning the war. At one time I had a Special Branch operative attached to my stick who I considered very harsh when questioning villagers. I do not know if his conscience got to him or his spiritual ancestors visited him in the night or he was just suffering from fear, whatever he can best be described as going mad and had to be restrained before he shot some innocent citizen or one of us. Over the war years, I came across a number of people for whom the war became too much, often predisposed to mental illness which was not necessarily recognised by the army in those days. Unlike WWI they were sent to the camp kitchen, not the firing squad.
After a couple of weeks, we moved into the base camp at Mukumbura, a legendary place at the forefront of the fighting on the northeastern border with Mozambique. The Mukumbura River marked the border which much of the year was dry, but as we had to learn in the summer it could be marked by ferocious flowing torrent.
There was a troopie pub there known by all the Rhodesian soldiers as ‘Surfies.’ The cordon sanitaire was being laid by them and sadly there were some grotesque trophies on the walls much to those involved shame. The cordon sanitaire was a minefield being built along the northeastern border put in place to try and slow incursions. It was to prove inadequate and when the Portuguese left in 1975 the incursions could now happen along more than 1,400 km. The country did not have the resources to mine this area.
That winter of ‘74, my first call-up had a number of incidents and skirmishes but otherwise fairly uneventful. We spent a lot of time on OPs or reacting to sightings. Notwithstanding, what you were doing on most nights we were to carry out ambushes as the guerillas mostly moved after dark. We were to learn if you made no hits in the first few seconds there was little chance of success. More and more claymore mines were being used by us to initiate ambushes. I may not have mentioned over and above our normal weapons and grenades, each stick would normally carry at least one claymore. If the task was a specific ambush on strong intelligence then a number would be carried. We also carried smoke grenades to guide strick aircraft and flares for night. These only of use after initial engagement as any terrorist would be well gone by the time it lit up. These guys could run and crawl at amazing speed. A couple of times someone would carry an automatic shotgun for ambush but also these were soon left behind.
On returning to the farm, it was the task of land preparation with dry planting of maize. I already had my call-up papers for my next bush stint and knew I would be in the army for my second Christmas in a row. Change was in the air. Many farms were now being abandoned in some of the ‘hot’ areas with farm attacks, landmines and ambushes becoming more common in the northeast farming communities, especially Centenary, Mount Darwin, Motoko and Murewa. The Mayo farming area which was very isolated, it also became a community under continuous attack. It always surprised me to find farmers, mostly sons of farmers in those areas, on call-up while their families were at the forefront of the war. This uncertainty brought about by the threat of war spreading across the country and the tough economic conditions caused by sanctions made many farmers decide to leave. Land prices collapsed offering opportunities to those willing to take the risk in purchasing with an eye on the future. Nyabira, our area was no different. The Beaties, Blacks and Arnotts were buying north of the Kariba-Salisbury main road while Hamish, my boss was buying in the south. He first bought Royden and Chezani, a large chunk of land belonging to Chesney Lilford, the infamous Boss Lilford's son. Unfortunately, unlike his father, Chesney was not a farmer with a reputation of dubious sexual tastes related to the younger family members of his workers. Rumour or true, who can say as he was well protected by his powerful father who ruled his farming enterprises with an iron rod or should I say a sjambok.
Royden and Chezani Farms were bought for Hamish’s son Alistair in mind when he finished his national service in the police. Later that year he also purchased Wild Duck Farm from the du Toits for his other son David who at that time was still in school. This was a tobacco and horticultural farm originally employing a Portuguese gentleman to run the horticultural production. David du Toit, the head of the family, took the produce to Salisbury Market every day. This was a red flag as far as Hamish was concerned. A farmer's job was on the ground not heading into town every day to sell veggies and perhaps drink coffee? Anyway, I think David du Toit had sort of lost interest as his tobacco which was not great that year, he had decided to retire early. This was now a massive farm holding for only two of us to manage, so an assistant was employed in the form of James Scroggie whose family farmed in the Raffingora area as I recall. It was the most wonderful training I could have on the job. Crops, beef and dairy and now a touch of horticulture as it was wound down with tobacco. I know my old farm managers will not believe this, but I even changed the engine on our old Massey Ferguson combine in a field at harvest. Here we go. ‘Those were the days.’
Travels with Han in Mozambique
Rather than following a sequence I think it is easier to consolidate around countries, rather than timelines. From Chimoio, Han and I visited many budding enterprises. I should mention the commercial farmers were mostly ex-Zimbabweans or South Africans. There were a couple of large Mozambican enterprises probably the most successful one being a large chicken enterprise, Abila Atunes. This business has grown substantially, now a household name throughout the country producing eggs and boilers. They, at that time, were getting their parent stock from Irvine’s, Zimbabwe. This Mozambican-Portuguese family survived the war and the socialist days somehow. A remarkable achievement. We visited Valley of Macs, a pioneer macadamia plantation up in the mountains opposite Nyanga in Zimbabwe. A beautiful area where Monty Hunter is now growing ware and seed potatoes.
One of the depressing trips was to visit the abandoned farms along the Nyadzonia River. Seeing the ruins reminded me of events at home, so much work so quickly in dilapidation with the last few farmers about to leave over the coming next two years. Nobody was interested in buying these farms. To go farming you need money.
Chris Serfontein was the one exception who with his wife, Filipa, and family were living in tents on the river banks where they suffered continuous bouts of malaria. Real pioneers. This was a cropping and goat enterprise that was at that time just surviving. He set about improving his business by building an abattoir, improving his agronomy meanwhile also improving his small scale neighbouring farmers' goats by importing Kalahari Reds from the Karoo in South Africa. Chris is now a large successful bean and seed maize producer supplying beef and goat to stable markets in Maputo. Well done Chris and Filipa. I am sure their sons are more involved now although still in their teens. At some time they should write their story, a testament of determination and love.
I am going to stop here as either my age or body is getting to me.
Disclaimer: Copyright Peter McSporran. The content in this blog represents my personal views and does not reflect corporate entities.