I would like to thank all the people who responded positively to me continuing my blog. Of real pleasure is the people I have not heard from for many years contacting me due to the blog. Some going as far as saying, "I did not think you would still be alive". Cheeky buggers!
On Tuesday this week, I received an article from Mike Rook, ex-General Manager of the Farmer magazine, for many years. The article was from The Scotsman newspaper in the early 2000s written by Trevor Grundy. The story was about me and my move to Zambia, taking along other farmers following the forceful appropriation of our farms in Zimbabwe. At the end of that article, it states that I planned to remain in Africa and not return to Scotland. I claimed, it said, I was a “Scottish African.” There were many families laying claim to this title in Rhodesia and later Zimbabwe. Some of the better-known ones were Millars, Blacks and Smiths. How wrong was I? Part of the statement is correct; to date I have as yet not returned to Scotland. Meanwhile, I have left Africa. The Iberian Peninsula is the closest Europe is to Africa, but a far cry from central southern Africa in culture and climate.
After the land invasions, I thought when things settled down, I might return to retire in Zimbabwe or even just remain in Zambia. Both are beautiful countries with amazing rivers, lakes and wildlife. Not to mention wonderful people. Even when we bought our house here in Portugal some 7 years ago we planned to spend half of our time between Africa and Europe. Indeed after moving here 3.5 years ago, for the first two years I carried on with about 50% of my time in Africa both for work and pleasure. We even retained a house and vehicle in Harare for that purpose. But alas, the cost of medical care and the uncertainty in Africa made us decide to spend more time here in Portugal. I had just been treated for prostate cancer before we left and my medical insurance was becoming prohibitive. Further, more roadblocks with the accompanying corruption were becoming very prevalent in Zambia. We did not want to lose what little we had accumulated again. Actually, I got so grumpy some of my friends refused to travel in a vehicle as I was inclined to vent my anger at any policeman that dared pull me over. Rob Fisher once in Marandellas, on our way to Mozambique, got out of my car and took the accompanying bus rather than face another police roadblock with me driving. He was convinced we would end up in a cell. A proliferation of roadblocks is a sure sign of poor governance and wider corruption, so similar to what we had left in Zimbabwe. Finally, in this past year, Covid-19 has kept us from travelling. In saying that, both Rozanne and I are very keen to visit her mum, our friends in Zambia, Zimbabwe and Mozambique plus of course enjoy some fishing on Kariba, the Zambezi and Inhassoro. Fishing and the weather in Africa is much better than in Portugal, the people are on par. Luckily if we commute by car to our favourite fishing spots we will be able to see most of our old friends including those in Lusaka and Harare. Will it be this year?
I do reflect on the times on the farm when I thought I would like nothing better after death than to be buried on the farm following retirement. Including counting my cattle and trying to catch the odd fish until that day. Not hugely ambitious, although a comforting thought at the time.
The slowness of the vaccine roll-out in Europe is becoming hard to envisage us making an African trip before next year. I could not believe statements made in the EU this week about threatening to confiscate vaccines destined for other countries, never mind the draconian threat of cancelling patent rights. Coupled with the soap opera in Scotland it seems they are behaving like those Governments I left behind in Africa. Believe it or not, we are still fighting with the airlines for the refund of flights we booked to Africa last March. They gave us vouchers, no refund as requested. Of course, the fares are no longer the same although purchased as fully refundable. We have written to the European Consumer Centre in desperation, as yet no reply. Grrr.
So contrary to what I said 20 years ago I have left Africa. Once again it has proven to me, “Never say never.” Of course the most common time my words are contradicted by my actions is during a hangover when I have oftentimes said, “I will never drink again!
The C Word
I am improving, although I still get tired quickly and my bowels are irregular, to say the least. I am increasing time in the garden, which is looking quite tidy now with the spring flowers out. After last week's blog with the result of the biopsy, my brother-in-law, Lindsay, who was married to my late sister Morag and my niece Nicky, reminded me that cancer I had, leiomyosarcoma, was the same cancer my sister died of. I had forgotten. This particular cancer is not meant to be hereditary and it is rare. Are we the exception to the rule? The difference between us, is I had it in the form of a GIST while she had it in a blood vessel close to the heart, the Vena Cava. A very difficult place to operate, although the surgeons thought they removed it all at the time. Sadly, her cancer came back after 7 months. I am told you cannot compare them. We just have to wait and see.
Great Escapes
Although not enjoying the lessons and the strict discipline coupled with the sitting of periodic bothersome exams, the school was not really such a bad place. I just hated it rather than enjoying it, probably very much to my own detriment in future life. In winter rugby training twice a week, a game at least once a week and sailing in summer. No girls though. As we got older, more freedom. When we went out on a permission (afternoon exeat) after year 4 you could wear long flannels. Just as well, as a schoolboy in our green school uniform blazer, wearing a kilt was an excellent target for local “hooligans.” Many retreats were taken back to school under threat from these street warriors. Going in groups was fine, individuals had a testing time. Visits to dentists caused much apprehension, not only due to being subjected to the dentist chair but on the streets there and back. Of course, most sojourns were trouble-free, the occasional incident compounded by the schoolboy trait of exaggeration made such trips a real mental and physical challenge. Luckily my fitness for a quick retreat was never a problem.
We had various means to escape the walls legally. For every International rugby match at Murrayfield, the school would lay on coaches. I never missed the opportunity to attend. Wonderful, especially if you escaped into the terraces rather than remaining in the allocated schoolboy seats. In 1964, I witnessed New Zealand draw with Scotland. We celebrated as if it was a win. The great Don Clark was playing fullback for NZ that day.
Other legal outings were an annual trip on the “Maid of the Loch” up to Rowerdennan on Loch Lomond. The “Maid of the Loch” was a paddle boat that plied the length of Loch Lomond. We then climbed Ben Lomond, by some, it was treated as a race. I thought I would give it a go once. Believe it or not I was 3rd up the mountain that day, at that time I was still a junior.
We were allowed on ‘sort of’ outdoor weekends if we could put a goal together. For example, goals could include such things as climbing a mountain, circumventing a loch or doing a long cross country challenging hike in a set time. I and three others, Urquhart, Carmichael and Innes, set off one Friday, to climb Ben Ime, the highest “Arrochar Alp.” What a disaster, after climbing to our first overnight designated camping site having walked some 12km from the Arrochar Tarbet railway station, the rain lashed down driven by a ferocious wind as we set up camp. No sleep, we spent the whole night holding our tents down. We found the following day no better. We could not move, we were soaked and freezing cold. There was still snow on the mountain tops. That night, the Saturday, we abandoned our plans and retreated to a farmers barn at the head of Loch Long. There we found it was already occupied by many adult mountain hikers and climbers surprised to see us come in so late. They had all abandoned the hills early on the Saturday. On return to school, we had to explain the failure of our mission. Our excuses were treated with suspicion as always. Why do adults never believe schoolboys?
Of course, we had many illicit outings. Myself and Urquhart would sneak out of the dorm at night running free on the school grounds and down to the Clyde River. Reasons, none. It was just to break the rules. Sometimes we would swim in the Clyde, in those days a smelly sewer with its banks consisting of stinking, oozy mud. How we did not fall ill, I cannot say. An even bigger surprise was not getting caught. We tried to avoid Prefect checks by leaving after midnight but returned carrying a stinking cloying odour with our clothes covered in mud. Neither did we ever achieve anything worthwhile on these escapades other than a feeling of freedom.
I informed my parents that I wanted to leave school after O’Levels and go to agricultural college. Every school holiday I would go home and work on the farm, now being paid. I loved it and had no doubt in my mind that is what I wanted to do. I met strong resistance from my parents, especially my stepmother. Eventually, on the Christmas holidays of my final year, with my father, now convinced under duress into helping me fill in the application for Auchincruive, the West of Scotland Agricultural College. My error, with hindsight, was I used my home address, not my school address. Time passed with no acknowledgement of acceptance from the college. What was I to do? Then in my final term, British India Steam Navigation (BI) came to the school with a presentation on the Merchant Navy as a career offering positions as navigation officer cadets. From the discussions at home, it was clear there was much disenchantment about me getting involved in farming as a career. Suggestions from my parents such as becoming an architect, this, I presume due to my well-accomplished art and technical drawing. The City, another alternative suggested, being London where my fathers co-director could find me a place having offered such previously. Anything but Agriculture. In addition, I was good at Physics, Maths and Chemistry. Anyway, on the spur of the moment, I applied for a navigation deck officer cadetship. Following a couple of days of interviews in London, I was offered a cadetship. Of course, Keil and British India had common original founders and a close affiliation. By this time there had been an amalgamation with P&O but British India maintained its own identity and ships. I must admit not the best way to set off in a career, basically on a whim having reached an impasse with my parents.
In later years, when I eventually put my foot down and enrolled in agricultural college I learned my acceptance had ended up in the fire. My father had the naivety to ask me why I did not go when I had been accepted earlier.
Next week, I am off to sea.
Diversification and Pigs
In my early years farming, I bought much of my equipment for farming at farm sales of which there were many due to farmers leaving either because of the war or later feeling uncomfortable under a new independent government. Even at that time, many were predicting that Zimbabwe would end up like the rest of Africa north of the Zambezi River. Chaos! Other idiots like myself argued that surely lessons had been learnt by now. Idiotic assumption, yes! Notwithstanding the longer-term outcome, we had a wonderful 20 years post-independence, not to be missed. During this period equipment could be bought cheap albeit second hand. Due to sanctions and currency restrictions, new equipment such as tractors were seen as luxuries, not necessities. The exception was agricultural implements. Rhodesia had built up a huge industrial base manufacturing everything from light bulbs to our own chocolate brands. We had the best potato chips and corn curls in the world. Ask any Zimbo. There was a proliferation of engineering companies manufacturing ploughs, disc harrows, planters and all the tools required to farm. Therefore, as I said a new or expanding farmer could find most of what he required at a dispersal sale. These were not bankruptcy sales with useless broken equipment but going concerns.
I built up the cattle herd, borrowing always less than the herds worth for our annual cropping and expansion financial needs. Being Scottish I was averse to borrowing too much money. Eventually, my accountant started pestering me. I think he foresaw the writing on the wall for commercial agriculture in Zimbabwe, encouraging me to diversify into export crops. Foolishly, I only paid slight attention, however did plant a hectare of export flowers, Hypericum. Not high value enough, nor a large enough area. I had no real interest in flowers myself and left it to one of my managers with the assistance of a flower consultant. Equally, for every little bit, I made offshore on export, our agents and the Dutch traders made much more. They always got their commission even when we sold at a loss. My neighbour, Ian Gordon, had successfully set up a large horticultural export business. Ian was smart, setting up his own distribution in Europe and sub-contracting local outgrowers. Mind you, he used to complain to me often that the only people making real money out of his business were his European staff and partners. Those could be counted on two hands but be claimed they cost as much as his entire local labour force of several hundred.
My time as Oilseeds chairman came to an end, a very strict length of term in the Commercial Farmers Union (CFU), a good thing. My father-in-law tried to convince me to stand as Vice President of the CFU on being approached. I argued I was not ready with an expanding farm and a young family. I remember the day we talked about it clearly as I assisted him in calving a cow on his home farm following a Sunday lunch. So free of farming politics, we grew our enterprises introducing a pig unit. Never a dull moment. What did I know about pigs? Only what I learned in college and on Sundays on my great uncle's farm. Sorry, I stand corrected, on Sundays on Doune Estate I would stand in as relief pigman in our mid-college course practical. I did know about pig shit and the stench, as my landlady at the time knew too well.
We installed a 200 sow unit from scratch on the back of a contract with Colcom Foods, the largest pork processors in Zimbabwe at the time. We produced baconers for this market, selling all the progeny produced, both male and female. I bought all our replacement gilts, Landrace crossed with Large White, from Doug and Lynne Bean in Shamva. We used Duroc as the terminal sire for hardiness and lean meat. I really enjoyed the pigs as they reacted quickly to management, gave a monthly income and were financially rewarding.
In 1992, after earlier turning down the opportunity to stand as Vice President of the CFU, in 1989, I accepted the offer to run when approached for the second time. With the support of many of the Commodity Associations, I was duly elected Vice President of the CFU in August 1992, a life-changing decision.
Disclaimer: Copyright Peter McSporran. The content in this blog represents my personal views and does not reflect corporate entities.
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