Braai. Community Duty.
Finally, almost a year after Covid-19 restrictions in Portugal, last weekend Rozanne and I decided to have a luncheon with as many of our local friends that could attend. The theme of the lunch would be African cuisine in the form of a braai with boerewors for starters and steak for the main or Moroccan chicken for those non-red meat eaters. We paired this with an African-style relish and sadza. We did not specifically cater for vegans or vegetarians, although hummus and plenty of salads were available.
My role in the whole event was to braai the meat and taste the various sauces as Rozanne prepared them. She organised everything, even marinating and curing the steak before my fifteen-minute cameo in cooking it. For braais, we order a whole rump and then let it age for a further three weeks in the bottom of our fridge before vacuum packing and putting it into the freezer for a few days. We then marinate it for two days to ensure the meat is melt in the mouth. Our guests always remark on the tenderness and tastiness of the meat we serve, being surprised it is bought in the local village butchery. As for the boerewors, a couple of South African families now make it for sale by order here in Portugal.
Predictably and true to the weather forecast, it rained all day and I found myself sitting by the braai in the rain as our guests oiled their appetite. All went well with the last guests leaving long after dark reminding me of those lunchtime braais we had on the farm where you were disappointed if your guests left before dark or in the case of the Nicolle's, Sandeman’s, Bezuidenhout’s and Vermaak’s; midnight. At such events, the solutions to the problems of the world were theoretically resolved although never implemented.
We really enjoyed once again having our friends, both local and expatriates, it gives us all a sense of inclusion within the community as it did in our farming district at home. While we did entertain at home with friends on the farm we also had the local club to meet for tennis and supper with the wider community. For women, of course, there was the WI (Women’s Institute) whose affairs could make events in British politics look tame. If you want to see vicious politics in action, get involved in any voluntary association’s committee. Ambition has no limits in such groups which often contain strange etiquettes and unholy alliances creating divisions well out of their official constituency. When women are at war, husbands can only meet for a drink clandestinely. My closest neighbours' wives, Sheila Gordon and Jean Bruk-Jackson, fell out over the voting for the WI chair ladyship or secretary-ship, not sure which, and did not speak to each other for many years although John and Clem, their husbands remained close friends outside of the family homes. The wives only really renewed their friendship following the death of Clem. I will not suggest who instigated the ‘no speak’, as they are now both deceased but let me assure you in female terms no speak means not a word.
Within our community, there were three critical roles. Head of Security, chairman of the Farmers’ Association and chairman of The Club, that being Nyabira which was on the main Kariba road some sixty kilometres from Harare and twenty-six from our farm, the latter mostly on gravel. All these organisations had important roles to play in the community. All chairmanships were expected to be done on rotation to ensure everyone would have a share of what was sometimes a burdensome responsibility. Naturally, all wives of the respective chairs had to play an active role with funds always short. This meant all secretary work was normally carried out by the incumbent wives. It was deemed to be on a voluntary basis which was not in the least true. The reward was a bunch of flowers at the AGM or if you were lucky a box of chocolates. All were handed over with words of appreciation, including the usual platitudes.
“Too often thank you speeches are seen as a chore and as such are swollen with meaningless platitudes rather than unique content and genuine appreciation.” - Peter McSporran
How awful were we? In all those years we did not have one female chairman. Therefore, at election time you chose not a single person on his merits but a man and wife team with the capability to run the said organisations. You could get away with a weak chairman but never a weak chairman without a strong wife. Even a strong chairman was only effective with a capable wife so on reflection it would appear that the women ran our community without the title. Similar in the household where the man thinks he is the head.
Although each position was up for an election every year he was expected to do at least two before standing down. You had to be really bad at the job not to get re-elected although it did happen on occasion. In saying that, there were those enthusiastic about the job for the assumed status rather than the responsibility. These enthusiastic volunteers were the worst to deal with as some members would rather vote for anyone, no matter how ineffectual or dishonest than stand by themselves. They would have probably voted for a scarecrow if there were no other options rather than putting their name forward. When one of the ineffectual by default found themselves in charge, they were extremely hard to dislodge.
“In rural communities just like urban communities, those that do the least always complain the most.” - Peter McSporran
Despite all this, the community worked well with your neighbours always there to help, be it in regard to farming, security or just support in times of personal loss or need. At the club in winter, sports were cricket, badminton and league tennis. During the farming season, from planting to curing, farming communities were too busy to play sports. In summer, only social tennis was practised mainly supported by the ladies. Our clubhouse was a hall with a snooker room, bar, kitchen and toilets. Despite being in Africa, no swimming pool. The club opened on Wednesdays and Saturdays for tennis. In winter on Sunday there was league tennis or cricket. The bar and cooking was done on a weekly basis by couples in rotation. Being a very small club, most couples did at least three weeks a year. Good cooks attracted more members against the bad with few. Unfortunately, the more that came, obviously the greater volumes of food were required with most club evenings only ending around midnight, well beyond official closing time. Farmers Association meetings were held monthly in the club with the ladies always trying to outdo each other in the baking delights they brought for tea. No dinner following farmers’ meetings only drinks.
The Golden Years.
We were not aware of it at the time, but the next twenty years farming in Zimbabwe was to become our golden years just as between the second world war and UDI (Unilateral Declaration of Independence) had been Rhodesia’s. Rhodesia prospered in those years being rich in minerals for export along with huge agricultural exports in the form of top grade cotton, high quality tobacco, beef to Europe and maize. Yes, maize which was exported to Scotland for blending as white alcohol in the whisky industry. In fact, that was why Rhodesia started growing maize, not for food, growing white dent maize unlike America which preferred yellow flint. During WWII food production was king but shortly after Rhodesia became one of the world leading tobacco exporters producing 20% of the world’s needs. The Golden Leaf both in colour and value. That being said most farmers then were unaware of its health risks with everyone imagining themselves lighting up on horseback riding into the sunset.
At UDI this all changed, production dropped but somehow the products, minerals and agriculture despite sanctions still found a market. The country resorted to producing as many of its own manufactured requirements as possible which not only helped it to survive economically but also built a huge artisan and technical skill base. Unfortunately while the importance of farmers was recognised at independence for food and employment this skill base saw no future for itself in the new Zimbabwe and most left.
Following independence, despite sanctions being lifted to all sense and purposes due to the shortage of foreign currency and its politically motivated allocation, all businesses in the newly independent Zimbabwe had to rely on local manufacturers for products from generic spares to fertilisers to livestock pharmaceuticals. Dedicated spares for specific vehicle and tractor models, crop chemicals and many other inputs such as fuel we relied on were thankfully made fairer by allocation by the CFU (Commercial Farmers Union) batting for our corner. The highest attendance at farmers meetings was during the time foreign currency was to be allocated for tractors or motorbikes. There was never enough to go around so everyone would attend to argue their case. We were also lucky in that the immediate past president of the CFU at the time of Independence was made Minister of Agriculture as an act of reconciliation. How times change then the ruling party felt comfortable with us to twenty years later violently getting rid of us mainly due to their own insecurity. Dennis Norman, the Minister, was a very intelligent gentleman who was able to represent us while having enough political know-how to remain friends with the government often intervening in times of crisis. Although the hand of reconciliation was held out, it did not stop random arrests and incarcerations, often without immediate trial.
On the farm with Diane and I purchasing Diandra Farm, Derek Belinsky, my father-in-law and myself started to look for more land. He, to replace the grazing for his cattle that was lost with the sale of Diandra and enable me to expand my tobacco and crop production. One particular large farm which was attractive near us was owned by an absentee landlord Bill Gulliver, the wealthy owner of a large civil engineering business. His managers including one son-in-law had all failed badly in its management, perhaps partly to his lack of interest in it, other than for bird shooting. I eventually convinced my father-in-law to place a bid thinking we had it in the bag. To our great disappointment, an ex-son-in-law of the Gullivers, a successful tobacco trader and farmer became the new owner. Ian Gordon was to bring a brand new dynamic to the area with his seemingly bottomless cash resource for development. After a couple of hard farming years, he decided he needed to irrigate his whole farm, which was slightly off Darwendale Dam, requiring long and large mainlines. No problem for him while, in the meantime, he increased his curing facilities and planted trees. Later Ian would become one of the largest horticultural exporters in the country up until we lost our farms. He probably employed more than two thousand workers, his farm was a showpiece with the state president visiting him on a number of occasions.
Sadly in 1981, my closest neighbour and someone who was an immense help when we started out farming suddenly dropped dead. Clem Bruk-Jackson was a character in his own right, had few enemies and was in awe of his wife, a short talented red haired lady who appeared to rule the roost. Clem was the one to introduce flying ant (termite) fishing for red-breasted bream on Darwendale. He also had a unique bonus system for his barn curing labour. At the beginning of each season, he would give each one a bicycle which had to remain in the grading shed until the end of curing. Each time he found the temperatures too low or even too high or a fire out in the barns, he would remove a piece such as a pedal, a bell and so on. By the end of each season, there was rarely much left of the bikes which were slowly reassembled in the workshop for use in the following year.
His youngest son, Des, who had studied agriculture at Gwebi College and had completed his National Service in the RLI (Rhodesian Light Infantry) was in Israel at the time having worked on the rigs in Scotland to earn some money to travel was required to return to run the farm. On his day of departure to Europe, he and his ex-army friends on getting to the top of the gangway dropped their trousers and gave their parents, all waving from the viewing platform, a moonie or brown-eye as it was called in Rhodesia. I have reflected that the last sight Clem had of his son was his backside, much to the consternation of his mother who was so affronted in telling us about the act the next day.
On returning to the farm, Des proved himself a hard worker and a good farmer remaining a bachelor. He is still a bachelor and is now farming in Zambia being one of those who made use of our scheme. I have many tales about Des that in the future I may reflect on.
Disclaimer: Copyright Peter McSporran. The content in this blog represents my personal views and does not reflect corporate entities.
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