Continuing on with friends this week we are happy to say with the semi-demise of Covid-19, we are now again welcoming some international friends despite the havoc airport management and airlines have created for themselves. Imagine now, chaos at European airports because they do not have enough staff to process passenger documentation and in this world of technology, not enough people in the airlines to organise a simple itinerary for a trip from A to C via B. Were some of the symptoms of Covid-19 the loss of basic ability coupled with a form of brain seizure making a simple task now a mission far too difficult to complete in a normal working day? By the day they seem to create more and more technology barriers between themselves and their customers. Just try changing a flight. You get as much of a response from their service centres as I have had from God.
“This so-called modern-liberal world is rapidly excluding the elderly and the digitally challenged from their mainstream society.” - Peter McSporran
Notwithstanding this, Sytske Muijs, an old work colleague from AgDevCo, Zambia and close friend arrived for a few days taking some time out whilst attending her grandmother's funeral in Holland to visit us. Yes, that takes friendship. To take a trip for two days, with travel time almost as long as the stay, while on a domestic duty trip to Europe from Africa. Needless to say what a pleasure to have her and together we explored some of the rugged West Coast of the Algarve. What a beautiful and wild place, much of it in a National Park. Further, she brought with her a gift in the form of an oil painting of the Kalambo Falls from her, some of my old workmates and friends from AgDevCo. Such a spontaneous and appreciated gesture, thank you one and all.
As I was writing this week's blog my daughter on reviewing it said I needed a better description of the layers of friendship by definition. She rightly said the 'upper layer' is OK but to describe someone as a 'middle' or 'lower layer' could be construed as insulting. Also on the internet, it all became more confusing as it appears there are many definitions for types of friends. So afterthought, I have decided to call the different types of my friendship in the following manner:
There are friendly acquaintances, people you know and like but have no close friendship with due to location or circumstances. Then there are just friends, people you know and like and when the opportunity arises get together for mutual enjoyment. A close friend is someone whose company you enjoy, actively seek out and are happy to share life’s joys and tribulations with. Finally, a best friend is a really close friend who you are happy to share your most intimate thoughts with.
Others not so common are my army friends, known as comrades and sports friends, known as teammates. Of course, there are many more descriptions but these are mine.
“Your life's partners can have a huge influence on who you remain friends with, such an unfortunate fact.” - Peter McSporran
Sytske’s visit was followed up with Scott and Michele who also joined us in the Algarve for a few days. Many will know them both from Zimbabwe and more recently Chimoio, Mozambique where they ran an agricultural company supplying farmers, seeds and fertiliser along with other agricultural supplies. Michele was one of my laymen and one of those feared nurses when I went down with a bad bout of malaria whilst visiting. To be feared, however, a beer will normally calm her down. Scott always has a smile on his face, perhaps that is because he only got married later in life. They are now living in Spain only a few hours away by road.
Back to college friends. On arriving at Auchincruive that first year I booked into the male hostel. Finding myself one of the few who had to share a room as I mentioned in last weeks blog I met my roommate Mike. Mike Clerk was tolerant and a great roommate who has become a lifelong friend. In fact, he is my longest enduring friend. When he found digs at a local farmhouse the following year through Dave Johnson at Highfield Farm, he invited myself and an Irish rugby teamate and classmate, Willie John Gilliepie, to join them. Next month we have the fiftieth reunion of our graduation as housemates in Perth, Scotland, the week before the Highland show which I also hope to attend. This is a second get together having celebrated our enrollment fiftieth a couple of years back. We had it then thinking health and age were becoming an issue. Yet despite all the recent adversity, we are all still breathing and looking forward to a wee dram next month. My drinking habits have certainly changed from my college days.
Mike Clerk and his wife have remained in contact throughout for fifty years and I have visited with them many times over the years especially when he farmed at Bonnytoun Farm, Linlithgow. In terms of actual time spent together, it is very little, notwithstanding this, he has remained a friend all these years. That brings me back to what I call layers of friendship. As Mike has always kept in contact, he even offered me financial help when he heard we were losing our farms in Zimbabwe, although very grateful for the offer, I did not accept. Meanwhile, our other housemates although pally at college, I have not kept in close contact. My other two close friends at college were Harry Benny, from Doups Farm, Denny and Robert Ingles from Dalachy Farm, Fife. Harry kept in touch like Mike did up until his tragic death in a road accident driving his livestock truck, while Robert, I am no longer in touch with. I can safely say, therefore, even though Mike may not know it, I consider him one of my oldest best friends which over the years we have kept strong over an occasional dram. Another friend from college who I kept in touch with was Bill Walker, not in our course. His subject was Tropical Agricultural Engineering. Before graduation, I went to work for his cousin in Norfolk. Bill and I moved to Rhodesia independently of having any knowledge of eachothers movements until watching a rugby match in Salisbury in 1973 where we found ourselves seated together. The last time I saw Bill before that was when I took his car keys onto the train at Peterborough by mistake after graduation from Auchincruive leaving him stranded. Bill was also an good friend until his death from cancer about eight years ago.
Bill Walker’s wedding was one of the most exciting I have ever been to. It took place at Victoria Falls where we all met the day before the wedding, including Bill’s very genteel English mother, William to her. She latched onto Diane and I for company and I think reassurance as she felt she was with friends among those reprobates she knew as Rhodesians. Still colonials in her eyes. The night before the wedding a huge domestic storm blew up as the bride's father accused the bride's mother of having a liaison with the master of ceremonies, a family friend and a very senior police officer to boot. The bride's father, a reputed spy for the British, decided he would ruin the wedding on finding out and took the wedding dress and set off on a 900 km trip back to Salisbury in his Morris Minor. The bride was in tears and the wedding delayed until some of the groomsmen, including Larry Cummins, whose farm the reception was held, chased and recovered the dress before it reached Bulawayo. By then between the sun and the hard-drinking all day there was only one sober person in the retinue that being Bill’s mother. Even she was a bit tipsy. The wedding finally took place late evening and no sooner had we sat down in the marquee than a huge summer wind and rain storm hit us destroying the marquee sending the tables, chairs and food into the surrounding bush. We all then retreated into Larry’s house for the reception, guests in every room, standing room only, due to limited space. A couple of hundred revellers do take up more than a farmhouse. As we gave Bill’s mother a lift back to the hotel I asked her if she had she enjoyed her day, her reply was, “It was one of the most memorable days of my life.” She never said good or bad.
Larry, even though I do not see him often I would call a friend. I knew his brother Arthur better as we attended The School of Infantry in 1973. Arthur was killed when his long-standing faithful house servant opened the security gate to allow a group of terrorists entry. I have not seen Larry for quite a while so perhaps should be termed a lasting friend, a great guy and a stalwart of the Victoria Falls community. Next week I make new friends in Rhodesia.
Gonarezhou
I am sure I will have some of the timings wrong here due to memory lapses but if I remember correctly our first trip on Operation Repulse in the South Eastern Lowveld of Zimbabwe was to the Gonarezhou area with the company base at Malipati some fifteen kilometres from the National Park boundary in May 1976. I remember the company deployment well as we would never have gotten there without our 2.5’s (Unimogs) pulling our larger troop carriers out of the black cotton soil mud along the river banks. We would never have made it without them, we were entering an unfamiliar area under darkness. If I recall correctly we hit a landmine as we passed Boli Siding on the way to Mabalauta that first time or it may have been the second. Memory! We were to do a number of call-ups down in the South East, some five hundred kilometres from home.
A couple of our platoons including mine were soon deployed into Gonarezhou National Park, which despite the fact we were meant to be fighting a war was a real bonus for us wildlife enthusiasts. Also, those with poaching genes keen to bag some fresh meat were seen to be licking their lips.
Gonarezhou is Zimbabwe’s second-largest National Park and is situated in the southeastern Lowveld of Zimbabwe on the border with Mozambique. It covers an area in excess of 5000 square kilometres. “Gonarezhou” means “The Place of Many Elephants.” It is an extremely wild and scenic park full of rugged and beautiful landscapes including the renowned feature of the Chilojo Cliffs on the banks of the Lundi River now known as the Rundi River.
The powers that be on information received were convinced there was going to be a large CT incursion at the confluence of the Sabi and Lundi River where I was dispatched with my stick to tediously cut back and forward looking for human tracks indicating a CT presence. We were instructed to remain south of the river as our informants were convinced the river still in flood along with the presence of a large population of crocodiles were sure the CTs would not cross to the north. Each morning we would walk from the river south for about ten kilometres and retrace our steps in the afternoon. Wildlife was plentiful but the elephants being poached made them extremely aggressive, often making us bombshell from our ambush spots at night. In training, we had been told that peeing on an animal track would warn off the wildlife. We figured here it was like ‘chumming for elephants’ and we soon stopped the practice. Safer to be totally clandestine not only to the CTs but also to the elephants. The problem was that each night we had to put in an ambush at the confluence of the rivers, they knew exactly where we were. After about six nights with no action other than with elephants, we became convinced contrary to what we were being told that the CTs were crossing the river to the north before reaching our patrol and ambush area. We then searched the river and low and behold we found a rock causeway, unseen under the murky floodwater that went right across the river. To convince our brave leaders back at camp that it was passable we had to cross the river which was about seven hundred metres wide at that locale. More luck than good judgement, we were fortunately not attacked by crocodile or one of the numerous hippos. Our anuses were tight the whole time.
Another platoon, under the leadership of Quentin Haarhoff, a friend, had its base on the heights above the Chilojo Cliffs, acting as a base, radio relay and excellent observation post. One day I was with some trucks sent to collect provisions from an Engineer Unit based at Chipindi Pools. Among the Escort, I had a couple of Afrikaans farmers, Sailor Naude and Vinty Breytenbach among them, both from Quentin’s home farming area in Mangula/Doma. I never met an Afrikaans farmer who was not a hunter and sure enough, they had a 22 rifle they carried discreetly to supplement our rations if the opportunity arose. Obviously, no such thing happened on patrol but on a resupply run why not? That is, providing you were not caught. We agreed they would shoot an impala on the way back if we saw one which was a certainty as they were very prolific there. Unfortunately, Vinty decided to shoot one on the outward journey much to my annoyance. When reprimanded he said, “Aw sarge what if they weren't there on the way back?” What could I say? What we were doing was illegal so army discipline was not an option. We could not leave it as the scavengers would devour it so now we had to enter another army unit's camp with this contraband that could see us all court marshalled if discovered. Into the spare wheel compartment went the impala and on we went. On collecting our supplies and just before departure, the Engineers O/C, a Major, came to chat with us right next to our trucks. As I spoke to him I suddenly noticed blood dripping from the truck's spare wheel compartment. Luckily he did not look at his feet where a small river of blood was forming. It was a hot day but my sweat was just not only generated by the temperature. Back to our camp, freshly braaied impala, cold beer seasoned with relief. You have to have fun on continuous call-up.
A couple of days later Sailor woke up in his bivvy to be confronted by a lion. Both survived the shocking experience although the lion probably took longer to recover.
Benin
I will give Han and my travels a break and chat about some of my own singular ones. As our consultancy in the form of AAI (Agricultural Advisors International) was now recognised as a service provider to the World Bank and the EU we were receiving more requests to do work further afield be it always within the African continent. One such request was a trip to Benin on behalf of InFraCo to look at the privatisation of some state cattle ranches. InFraCo was a long-standing client who I had done work for in Zambia and Mozambique. I had not visited many Francophone countries other than the DRC so with the misunderstanding that perhaps other ex French-speaking colonies would be better than its chaotic governance, I agreed to the work. I was to meet my InFraCo project coordinator for Francophone countries in the form of a very young lady whose name slips me, luckily. There is only one thing more difficult to work with than an upwardly motivated young man and that is an upwardly motivated young woman as I was to learn.
It was decided that the InFraCo travel agent in London would organise my flights and itinerary which they did. I set off for Benin City via Nairobi, Kenya and then Accra, Ghana. I was comfortable with Accra as a stopover having been familiar with it and also being much better than the alternative Lagos in Nigeria where I would have needed a transit visa. From the beginning things started to go wrong as my departure from Lusaka was delayed with me only arriving in Nairobi to see my onward flight taxi-ing down the runway ready for take-off. On calling my contact in Benin and informing her of my problem she tried to organise an alternate with her travel agent as she said it was essential that I was in Benin the following day for a meeting with the Agricultural and Financial Ministers. Something I was never too excited about from previous experience. On failing to find a flight that night I had no alternative but to book a hotel and find a new flight in the morning. I had always wanted to stay at the Norfolk Hotel in Nairobi as it is so often mentioned in books both fact and fiction. Following a splendid meal, I no sooner had put my head down when the phone rang with the young lady informing me she had found an alternate flight via Lagos then onto Cotonou in Benin. I immediately pushed back saying I had no wish to go via Nigeria and added to that I had no transit visa to do so. I pushed back so hard that eventually, she had me speak to her London based bosses and travel agent to give me assurances, all of which were worthless I was to learn. The problem was further compounded as I would get my ticket from Virgin, Nigeria on landing at Lagos for Cotonou. More red flags. This is now going on at 2 am in the morning with me finally agreeing, reluctantly against not just my best, but any sensible judgement.
“Decisions made under pressure from others are rarely the right ones.” - Peter McSporran
At around 5 am I clambered on a Kenya Airways flight to Lagos where my worst fears were proven. On arrival, no transit visa and more importantly where was my ticket to Cotonou? Questions I could not easily answer. Those that have been stuck in an African airport without the required documentation will know the feeling. It is now a game. After much argument, I got access to the transit area where I was to receive my ticket and boarding pass only to find that the Virgin, Nigeria ticket desk was outside of the transit area. I approached immigration for permission to get out to the airline's desk which immediately opened a whole new can of worms with them accusing me of trying to enter Nigeria illegally and thereupon confiscating my passport. I refused to make any payment, so stalemate and despite calls from the London based travel agent, the said airline refused to bring my ticket to me in transit. No doubt much collusion between them and immigration. By mid-afternoon, the London based travel agent stopped accepting my calls and any responsibility for the predicament they had put me in. What should I do? A brainwave. Call Jenny Lovell, my travel agent in Harare to help, she knows Africa. Low and behold by late evening she had found a flight for me to Benin although I only received my boarding pass and passport at the boarding gate late that night once I had paid cash for a ticket I never even saw. No doubt, the cash was shared between immigration and airline staff. It is never fun to be stuck in an African airport without a passport. Of course, one should never travel in Africa without cash.
Arriving safely, in Benin after what should have been one day travel actually took two days and two sleepless nights, I thought to myself what else could go wrong?
Disclaimer: Copyright Peter McSporran. The content in this blog represents my personal views and does not reflect corporate entities.
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