Life Should Be Fun.
After writing that I rarely go to Coimbra last week, this Monday, we set off there again. Two weeks in a row! By 10 am on Monday morning, the temperature was in the high thirties heading for the forties, and although our house is well insulated, we do not have air conditioning whilst our car does. Rozanne has been looking locally, in vain, for one last ball of thread of a specific colour to finish crocheting a double bedspread. Obviously, with these temperatures no desperate hurry, but it gave us an excuse to sit in the car at below eighteen degrees for an hour there and back.
After leaving our side roads, we noticed in front of us an old Mercedes Benz with what looked like, and on closer inspection, was a cow or bull's tail hanging from the boot. If it had been in Africa, it would have been no surprise as often cows, more commonly their carcasses, are carried in the boot of vehicles in rural areas. Usually, a local informal taxi is the transporter. In fact, on my travels in Africa, on occasion, I have seen cows on the back seat of a car, although more common in a pick-up where up to four full-grown cows have been seen. As this tail was protruding from the centre of the boot, we gathered it must be for fun, being successful in that it made us laugh, reminding us of our old home. We have now classified Portugal as our home and plan to try and live our lives out here. We duly photographed the car’s rear and, on overtaking, were not surprised to see a set of horns attached to the front grill. I am sure this vehicle got more attention than the latest supercars the wealthy are want to flaunt in Portugal, mostly either on lease or credit, as few here can afford them despite wanting to display to the contrary. Whether a fancy car or an old one with horns, both bring joy to the drivers, but only the latter is a shared joy, something the fancy car cannot readily do. More likely, this will attract envy or distaste for its extravagance. In Africa, a cow in the boot or even on a bicycle hardly causes any attention as it is a daily occurrence there due to necessity.
The thing is, the owner, and probably the driver of the old Merc, was in every likelihood a poor man, happy with life and in this action sharing his sense of fun with others. That is partly why we like Portugal so much; everyone has a ready smile, in greeting or goodbye, just like in Africa. You can say many derogatory things about Africa, but it is really hard not to enjoy the spontaneity of their laughter, song and dance. Let's not spoil this blog by listing my perceived negatives of that continent’s governments and public servants, the core cause of its problems. Often in the most impoverished places, adults are happy to share a meal and a smile while their child plays with his best toy, an old bicycle rim or a model car constructed with wire capable of being steered on dusty tracks.
I must admit, I get a bit depressed with the Western countries' youth, even the not-so-young adults nowadays. Social interaction is on a screen where shared smiles, or tears are in the form of an emoji, not direct human interaction.
“It is a sad world we live in when the caricature of a face, happy or sad, replaces the real thing and is considered normal human interaction.” - Peter McSporran.
This modern world is leading us away from everyday regular and essential interaction with others while at the same time making us highly dissatisfied with our own personal lives. Going to work was never a wonderful experience for the poor, but it always ensured friendship and interaction. Now the modern youth are happy to forfeit this and work from home, relying on their phone or tablet screen for company when required. It is a world filled with fake news, half-truths, downright lies, and, importantly, unrealistic aspirations, with envy a major component and driver of people's lives. The hunting ground of predators selling unnecessary items. Aided and abetted by the suppliers of credit cards.
The company you meet on your tablet or phone screen is self-selective and, therefore, only likely to share your tastes, life’s expectations and politics. It ensures you do not have to listen, let alone show sympathy to others, depriving you of the diversity which is essential for normal human interaction and the ability to have empathy with others and their views.
“The internet is the ideal vehicle to allow the so-called influencers to destroy your peace of mind by sharing their obsession or paranoia on a chosen subject, not necessarily one they or you have an informed understanding of.” - Peter McSporran
My advice is to get out of the house; you may happen, perchance to see an old Merc with a cow's tail, which is much more accurate of life than what appears on your phone screen and, importantly, costs nothing. There is rarely a day here in Portugal or in Africa that someone or something has not caused me to smile or have an outright laugh about.
By the way, we did not find the ball of wool, nor did we try hard, and I avoided buying some new socks to replace those with holes, opting rather for a coffee after visiting only one store in the Baixa de Coimbra, an area of that city not unlike an Arab souk.
The Loss of Two Mentors.
In 1990 I can say with truth we Zimbabwean farmers were living the dream. In the early eighties, our Minister of Agriculture was an ex-president of the Rhodesian Farmers Union, Dennis Norman, who was an excellent choice by Mugabe, giving comfort to commercial farmers, ensuring most would remain after Independence. In the mid-eighties, he was replaced by Morven Mahachi, a rotund pleasant intelligent fellow who understood farmers' needs, followed by David Karimanzira, who we considered, right or wrong, a moderate. Both were considered fairly benign, not unaware of the needs of this productive sector which was also the largest employer in the country. All this changed in 1991 when Witness Mangwende became Minister of Agriculture, knowing little about agriculture and what was required to sustain it. It also coincided with the time people started openly talking about the failure of resettlement blighted by corruption in the procurement and resettlement process itself, with Ministers allocating farms to themselves. Especially raising concern amongst the funder's land resettlement program, the British. It was also nearing the end of the Lancaster House Agreement in regard to land rights. I am getting ahead of myself here as two events happened in late 1990 that also had a profound effect on me.
On a Tuesday morning in late October 1990, I was waiting at the cattle dip on Mede Farm for my father-in-law, Derek Belinsky, who was coming to look at his cattle being dipped on that day. The farm had been purchased as a possible inheritance vehicle for my sister-in-law, Sandra, in the meantime, she plied her trade in the UK. I farmed the arable land while my father-in-law used the grazing for cattle, which I looked after. On arriving, as he alighted from his car, I could see immediately he was seriously ill. He could not speak, gasping for breath, and his assistant Sindenge, who had travelled from Arden Estate with him, said he had been like this for the last part of the thirty-minute journey. I immediately informed him we should head for the hospital in Harare, some sixty kilometres away. No cell phones to call for help in those days, but before we could do anything, he collapsed and appeared to stop breathing. I immediately applied CPR, and he seemed to recover. Perchance, my manager from Diandra at the time, Alan Fraser-Bell, arrived, and we got Derek into the car with the seat at its lowest while Allan supported his head. We set off at speed for Harare, but after only about fifteen minutes, opposite Nkomo Barracks, Allan informed me he thought Derek had stopped breathing again, and in stopping, this time, we found we could not resuscitate him. Nothing for it but to continue to town; I had no wish to take him to the Parirenyatwa Hospital, better, I thought, rather The Avenues private clinic. Upon arriving there, the reception medical staff refused to remove him from the car or let alone certify him as dead. Only after I instructed Allan to come with me and leave Derek in his car at the entrance did they take him into the clinic. So much for the caring private health service in Zimbabwe at the time.
Derek had been an excellent farmer both in cropping and in rearing pedigree cattle. He had come to Rhodesia from South Africa after studying agriculture to join the Department Of Research and Specialist Services (DRSS) in the plant breeding department. Here he kindled the knowledge and love for plant breeding, ensuring his lifetime interest in crop variety improvement, being for many years a director in charge of research at the Seed Co-op and then Seed Co. One of his great friends was Allan Rattray, one of the two breeders of the first single-cross maize hybrid in the world, SR52. It held the world record for yields for many years. On leaving the DRSS Derek became farm manager for the Cairns family at Arden Park. The Cairns had many businesses best known for auto sales and food processors, including the manufacture of Willards Crisps. Through hard work, Derek eventually bought the farm using the to be well-known company Bell-Inn as his trading name. He was an excellent crop farmer specialising in seed crops for Seed Co-op and chipping potatoes, the latter on contract to Cairns Foods, his ex-employers. He originally took over the Cairns pedigree Jersey herd, which he eventually sold in its entirety to Mozambique, where it was eaten shortly after the independence of that country. A sad blow to him. From dairy, he went into beef production with his Pedigree Herefords winning top honours on several occasions at Harare Show Beef Interbreeds as his Jerseys had done in the dairy classes. I should mention this was before I began judging the interbreeds. He also had a well-attended annual on-farm bull sale, never failing to sell all the bulls mostly to returning customers. His other interest, after family, was being on the Board of Seed Co and the advisory board of Gwebi College, his home often entertaining students through whom I was to meet him, his son Micheal, and my to-be wife Diane. Isobel, his wife, was an amazing hostess and a wonderful caring mother-in-law. On Derek’s death, Micheal, who already ran the cropping, took over the cattle and business of Bell-Inn, proving to be as good a farmer as his father.
For me, Derek was not only a great friend and father-in-law, he was one of those whom I consider my farming mentors. The first at an early age, my father, who taught me about livestock; the second, Hamish Smith, cattle and crops; then Derek Belinsky, business and farming and finally, John Gordon, tobacco.
Derek allowed Diane and I to go farming on our own by leasing Diandra in Darwendale during the war, which I managed to buy just as he had done with the Cairns. His advice was always given with the utmost integrity, and he was not scared to call me “a bloody fool.” when required.
Not long after Derek’s death, in fact, in December of that year, I received a call to say my friend and neighbour John Gordon was in hospital seriously ill following a car crash. John and Clem Bruk-Jackson, both neighbours, had taught me how to grow tobacco, with John being slightly more innovative and a more frequent visitor to our fields and house than Clem. John and I both started irrigating the first year I arrived in Darwendale, and we learnt a lot from our shared mistakes. Many a beer and evening fishing we spent together discussing our crops and plans. John and his wife Sheila became close friends, and we were often entertained in each other's homes. I still remember vividly the night when asked to carve a fillet steak roast, John cut it into squares, very much to Sheila’s embarrassment and chagrin. Sheila was an English city girl, although this did not deter John from time to time bringing home unusual fare for her to cook, including a porcupine and in one instance, shocking to Sheila’s touch, an electric barbel.
As time progressed, with success, John purchased a plane and travelled the country advising farmers on the curing of tobacco in bulk curers in which, amongst other ventures, he had invested in or at times just visiting friends such as the Whittles in the Lowveld. He always told me, “If you have a plane, you must find reasons to use it.” The times I flew with him, I was always happy when we landed safely.
No matter what he had a smile on his face, introduced wildlife into our area and, while not such an expert as his father, had an excellent knowledge of the flora on our farms. He was inclined to have whims, from sailing and clay pigeon shooting, to name a few. When we first met him, an evening meal at his house had to end with a Springhare shoot with a light mounted on his old Series1 petrol/paraffin Land Rover. His farm seemed to be the epicentre of the Springhare universe, being of light sandy soils. I luckily had few of these destructive creatures, which would happily eat rows of maize seed or groundnuts following planting. I also remember the day he told his family he was buying a new Mercedes Benz and rocked up in a car more than twenty years old much to his children and wife’s disgust; which, if you travelled with him, you had to listen to the one and only tape he had, which was by Nana Mouskouri, his musical lover.
John sadly remained in a coma for a few weeks before passing, leaving Sheila, his three children; Ross, who took over the farm; Ewan, who showed no interest in the farm other than for shooting and Gina, who left for England and eventually the United States marrying a very successful banker.
For many years the scar from his car left on the eucalyptus tree, which he hit on the fatal night of his accident on the Parsons Farm at Nybira, was a constant reminder to us that travelled the road of his premature passing. John loved life and was a great friend and mentor, although considered slightly eccentric by some.
Disclaimer: Copyright Peter McSporran. The content in this blog represents my personal views and does not reflect corporate entities.
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