Oh Shit! Not Once, Many Times
I start with the explanation “Oh Shit!” repeated many times. After collecting the Jag last week from the garage and parking it in our garage until this Monday, I dared take it out for two reasons. Firstly to take some photographs for us to post on the net in order to test the market to see if there is any interest in its purchase. That complete, we set off for its biannual roadworthiness inspection. Like many things here in Portugal, this is simple. Just roll up with your car at the centre of which there are many. No pre-booking required, park your car in the queue and pay the €31.80 fee. Easy for me, I sit in the car while Rozanne goes off to pay. The car in front moves forward and in trying to start mine to take its place hey presto, no start. I repeat this a number of times. Still nothing, then the repeated “Oh Shits!” Eventually shit becomes f@%k. Rozanne could clearly see the blue air on her return. Finally, for some reason, it just started. We get it into the test bay where it behaves itself and passes with flying colours. This was after we had to borrow a yellow vest as the service garage had obviously kept ours. No problem, the official at the front desk has one, including triangles if required, to lend for the required box-ticking of the vehicle check. These must be handed back once the inspection is complete. Both inspectors and owners do not want to have you come back just because you have not got some moveable item. They probably have jacks and spare wheels if you ask.
“It is heart warming when officials assist rather than hinder. In Portugal service still means just that.”- Peter McSporran
Then off to drop the car back at the agents having done all of sixty kilometres since its last breakdown. It looks like I will bend to Rozanne’s wish just to get shot of the damn thing. The thing is, as a car to drive, I love it, but this is turning into an ever-increasing feeling that it will always be unfaithful to us and will let us down in some critical situation. Like the last time at the side of an isolated lake where we were fishing. It did not help when the person taking the pictures to post on the internet commented, “It just looks like new.” To all intent and purposes with its new engine, it is. Not only the assembler but the final inspector in the vehicle coming off the line must have had his mind on other things the day the car was made. As I speak, the car is still in the garage ensuring it will be sold with a low mileage if nothing else.
“A car prone to breakdown should be treated the same as an unfaithful spouse. Just get rid of it, no matter how good their looks.” - Peter McSporran
What to buy next? Cheap, reliable or expensive and reliable? Advice, please? I am leaning towards cheap and reliable models like a Skoda or Dacia, at least their resale value holds better than the expensive ones such as Mercedes, BMW or dare I say, Jaguar. The latter is neither cheap nor reliable.
One of the things that I have been aware of and have generally not made a comment on is what is the ongoing illegal use of our old farms, which we still have title for, although confiscated. Very soon after the farm invasions, many political connected figures obtained farms for their use, mostly senior party members and members of the armed forces. This was quickly followed by some astute but low-moral people approaching these thieves seeking partnerships or leases with these ‘new’ owners. At first, there was the guise that they also approached the rightful owners offering meagre rent or by declaring that by utilising the land on the farm will ensure it will be looked after. Both in most cases, disingenuous. In many instances, permission was not seen as a prerequisite to entry, just the request.
“Using someone else’s farm is no better than making use of your neighbour’s stolen car by paying the thief.” - Peter McSporran
As time progressed this became more regular and so a number of bona fide ‘new farmers’ did approach the old owners offering some form of rent. Of course, no legal document could be drawn up as the land in theory, although no compensation was paid, now belonged to the state. However, some did offer letters of comfort. Some were honoured, others were not, time dissipating the spoken word as greed kicked in. So many excuses not to pay, not least the illegal landlord wanted a bigger cut of the profits. How do you argue an unknown quantity? Loans meanwhile were made easier to access when working with the new illegal owners in a country that could no longer feed itself or provide the foreign currency for imports. Hyperinflation also ensured loans, despite high-interest rates were quickly eroded by inflation except those in hard currency which were available for infrastructure and export crops such as tobacco. It would appear the tobacco companies and many of the emerging farming conglomerates only paid lip service to the law, happy to farm, lend and even promote the use of illegally taken land.
“Those that sponsor farmers, including illegal squatters, for mutual benefit on stolen land are no better than those that have taken the land. Hopefully one day they will be instructed to compensate the rightful owner.” - Peter McSporran
I personally have always refused access to my farms when asked but agreed to let a couple of old friends access to Diandra on behalf of Diane. The title of Diandra was in Diane's company, while the other farms and the farm operating company were in mine. This was made easier by the disappearance of Patrick Zhuwao, Mugabe’s nephew who chose Grace instead of Munanagwa as a potential replacement for her husband. Zhuwao had taken over and occupied our home farm until his forced exile.
In conversation with some of my old neighbours, it now appears that some of these new farmers, some only a generation younger than me, now believe it is their right to farm this land.
“Get over it, move on, it is twenty years since you lost your farm.” - Well-known poorly respected new farmer on the rejection of some recompense to the old owner, an elderly lady.
The CFU leadership, shortly after the invasions seem to have neither the moral standing or will or even strength to condemn these people, while at the same time lobbying them to become members of the union. I know circumstances dictate survival, many seeing the need for the CFU in representing them. As an ex-President, I have stayed well away from the recent goings-on in regard to compensation. Only a fool will believe the government is being genuine in this facade. The only winners in the present shenanigans with regard to compensation are the government.
I have just finished reading Ross Gordon’s book. In the final chapters, he relates the struggle he had in trying to keep the farm, some of the dangerous and ill-advised alliances he tried to forge, which in the book he is honest about. This, I can understand when you are fighting to keep your land, unlike the present group.
“There is a big difference in trying to keep the rightful ownership of your land against illegally taking it from others no matter what the circumstances.” - Peter McSporran
I do not expect my little whinge to make a slight bit of difference but maybe we should name and shame at least the non-payers. Especially those that have built empires through political connections at others' expense. They are criminals.
Rae and Whaley
Between myself and my new neighbour, Henry Bezuidenhout was a small farm owned by the Muskett family where the elderly matriarch of the family, Mrs Muskett had lived up until close to the end of the war. This farm was purchased by William Rae, Bill to all who knew him. Bill was a bachelor in his fifties from a well-known Shamva farming family having taken up a career in electrical engineering on the mines. In his semi-retirement, he decided to go farming and to this end, he bought this small farm to grow seed maize. Unfortunately, he found that our sandy soils made hybrid seed production extremely difficult with some of the inbred lines prone to herbicide toxicity. Despite this, over the next few years, Bill became a great neighbour and companion, especially in attending farm dispersal sales, of which there were many in those days. We also undertook what we would call the occasional ‘farm tour’. This would occur during the quiet times of the year in the farming calendar when he and I would go off to visit farming friends as far afield as Banket and Norton. On occasion, day trips extended into overnight depending on the generosity of our hosts and the fullness of their cellars. Of course, there was always verbal retribution on returning home.
Bill loved farm sales and Scotty McDonald, the well-known auctioneer of the time, knew if anything was cheap enough, Bill would be happy to be seen as the first bidder. Unfortunately, he sometimes found himself being the first and last bidder with us carrying pick-up truckloads of junk back to his farm. I tried to be more circumspect and came home with many useful tools. One of the best was a theodolite which I purchased in exchange for a bottle of whiskey and was used in many of the dam and building projects in the area over the years. Bachelors, at least elderly ones, are viewed with suspicion in any given district by farmers' wives. Wives were inclined to believe they would lead their husbands astray in both regards to fishing trips and drinking having no ‘handbrake’ at home. This was true but always enjoyable in Bill’s company. Unfortunately, he became disgusted with events in the country and on leaving, my friend John Gordon bought the farm, much to Henry’s disgust as it would have been ideal to increase the size of his farm.
Late in 1980, another new arrival appeared, Joe Whaley and his wife Wendy. Joe’s family were well-known cattle farmers and lawyers on his father's side while his mother, by then separated from his father, was a Condy, a renowned family which included a wildlife vet and lawyers. Joe’s dad had remarried and his step-mum Jenny who was a Rennie, part of the shipping family. Wendy’s folks, the Clapham’s, farmed in Featherstone, her dad arriving in colonial days to join the BSAP (British South African Police) subsequently going cattle farming. He must have been extremely bitter as having been part of the colonial system and seeing all his work on the colony's behalf ignored when his farms were taken. I loved Wendy’s mum as she made the best rum truffles in the world. Amazingly, she is still healthy living in Australia close to her other daughter, Wendy’s dad having passed away.
Joe and Wendy prior to moving into our district had run one of the Whaley family's farms in Shamva, a very hot area. He decided to leave after a number of ambushes, the last, if I recollect correctly, in which he was wounded in the arm. Despite Joe having attended the East Of Scotland Agricultural College, I, the West, we became very good friends with our families spending much time together normally with Alistair and Fiona Smith, my first boss’s son in Rhodesia. We all farmed, we were ambitious, we all liked cattle, we all had young families and we all enjoyed a whisky after work which was hard to source in those early days of Zimbabwe. Joe, like Henry, had purchased a small farm, which was just outside our district boundary on the Norton side of the Umzururu River. Like Henry, he made it work by diversification. This, in his case as in Henry’s, included poultry and cut flowers for export to Europe. Joe was friends with everyone, except it seemed there had been some sort of family rift between him and his dad and stepmom Jenny. I do not know what the issue was. Perhaps it was due to him leaving the family farm in Shamva which I think he was wise to have done at the time with a number of his neighbours being killed.
Joe was always there to help you, always the first at the time of a family or business crisis. He had time for everyone. Wendy had to cater for many waifs and strays that somehow were attracted to Joe due to his inherent kindness and welcoming hospitality. Wendy was very accommodating but on occasion, she would put her foot down, then, we all ducked and dived for cover. It never lasted long and we would soon revert back to our many escapades, many of which started following tobacco sales in Salisbury soon to become Harare.
We all took losing our farms terribly badly, but it seemed to break Joe’s heart. After some time spent in Zambia he returned to Zimbabwe where I believe, he died of a broken heart. I know it was medical reasons, but in my eyes, he was set back terribly on losing his farm where he and Wendy had brought up a wonderful family having built a magnificent home to house them. Unfortunately, Joe and Wendy also lost their eldest son David in a car crash just before he was meant to leave for university.
Disclaimer: Copyright Peter McSporran. The content in this blog represents my personal views and does not reflect corporate entities.
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