Airports. Italy. A Won but Lost Election Brings Retribution. My Article in Farmer Gets Attention

Trani Southern Italy

I will keep this week’s blog a little lighter and shorter than the last few weeks, and discuss my current situation. Health-wise, good, still in remission. Next month, they plan to stop my heart and restart it in the hope of getting rid of my arrhythmia. Having had it done once before and the arrhythmia returning, the doctor has little hope but would like to give it another try. Generally speaking, I feel the best I have in five years. I am generally in good health until the doctor tells me I am not, either on a routine visit to his surgery or when Rozanne forces me to go to the Emergency department. Avoiding doctors can lead to a false understanding of one's health status. 

“It is better to get the correct status of your health as soon as possible, as the majority of ailments, including cancer, if caught early, can be cured. Human nature dictates we often delay hearing possible bad news.” - Peter McSporran

I am actually writing this on an aeroplane heading for Italy on Sunday afternoon. Why Italy? I hear you silently question. We are attending the wedding party of our son, Selby, and his new wife, Maggie. Yes, we attended his registrar's office wedding in Edinburgh a few months ago, rather gate-crashed it, and now we're invited to celebrate that wedding in Italy. There are a few of us oldies, by definition, anyone over forty, for the purpose of this event, not numbering more than my fingers. I am not sure of the agenda and am therefore writing this on our Ryanair flight from Porto to Bari, in southern Italy. Who knows when I will get an opportunity during the week?  

Rozanne on the seafront promenade in Trani

“I have learnt I am no longer an oldie, I am an ancient. Even simple tasks have taken on a challenging dimension, be it in sight, sound or strength.” - Peter McSporran

Italy is a country I have never visited, and one we planned to visit by car before my illness. This is my second flight this year. Rozanne has proven capable of convincing me to take a short haul, while a long haul would just be that step too far. I am no small burden to her in this regard; nothing is simple despite being relatively well. Unfortunately, I carry baggage from the surgery and radiation.

Following a recent blog, I have been following my own advice and spent many of my evenings calling old friends. With WhatsApp, it is free; gone are the days of kids asking their parents to pay for calls if they wanted to stay in touch. Like us, all former Zimbabweans, our friends are scattered across the far corners of the world, some of which are pretty inaccessible. Nearly all say, “When are you going to visit?” Especially those remaining in Africa. Most seem to think it is easier for us to visit them than for them, us. Why, I ask myself? Perhaps they still consider it our home, while, if I am truthful, I try to rid myself of that notion in our efforts to adopt our new country as home. All I know is that they all sounded pleased to hear from us, some having not met face to face for twenty-odd years. People I worked with, the people who worked for me, the individuals with whom I sat on boards, committees, and associations, the service providers, neighbours, and fellow farmers —all of whom over the years had become my friends, all of whom added some happiness to my life and, significantly, memories of shared experiences. All, at their requests, I promised to keep in better touch with. I do warn you, while these calls bring mutual happiness, there is also a touch of melancholy. Sometimes sadness when I learn they are ill, or their life partner is sick or has passed away. Despite this, all were very much worth it and from the texts received following them, much appreciated.

Arriving at the airport today in good time, I have to arrive early for assistance, which gives me time to reflect and also an opportunity to ‘people watch’. As you get older, watching people takes over from game viewing and bird watching. It is not a substitute for fishing, though. Airports offer so much time and opportunity for this pastime. We all know people come in all shapes and sizes, even colours. They all have different characters, which, in places like airports, despite their best efforts, even the mildest person can become a raging bull when a flight is delayed or, even worse, cancelled, where even the strongest character's demeanour can change with the flick of the flight information board. The normally confident leader becomes subdued when he is directed by someone in a yellow jacket to stop, change direction or wait. All orders are typically given and not taken. Then there are the timid who spend ages looking at the timetable boards, searching for their check-in desk or departure gate, only to set off in possibly the wrong direction, with obvious consternation on their faces, and then shortly return to the board for confirmation that they were going in the right direction. To me, as an onlooker, it seems our womenfolk are more confident than we menfolk at the airport. Probably because they had organised the tickets and had them, along with the pre-downloaded boarding passes, hidden somewhere on their person, leaving the male and any children looking at her in expectation of receiving the correct information and direction. Doleful would be a good description of these men awaiting their wives’ directions. In general, men hate it when women are so openly in charge. I especially enjoy the arrogant ones who try to jump the many queues we find at the airport, from the check-in desk to security to actually boarding the flight, where you can find them trying to put their overweight suitcase in your designated overhead locker, all too easily subdued by a yellow jacket unwilling to take any shit.

“The yellow jacket is the new badge of power in this world we live in. From police road blocks, traffic control, security, ground staff at airports and crowd control at a sporting event or even a cultural event, the wearer of a yellow jacket must be obeyed.” - Peter McSporran

The marina in Trani

 As I watched many of the travellers trundling large suitcases or trolleys loaded down with them, I reflected that I had gone to the then country known as Rhodesia with one suitcase. Further, most of the clothes in that suitcase were unsuitable for my new life in the sun as a farm assistant. The two most important articles were certainly missing: a pair of shorts and a floppy hat for the sun. Luckily, my first boss, Hamish Smith, sorted these out for me along with some bush boots and a few khaki shirts from the Farmers Co-Op in Gwynne Street. But perhaps the sadder reflection was that Rozanne and I left Africa with only one suitcase each, leaving all our furniture and most of our personal belongings behind, with only some paintings and a few special personal items to follow at a later date. Anyway, many of our treasured belongings went missing on our swift departure from the farm and the subsequent move to Zambia. Many of us found that when we returned to collect items left in storage in Harare, they had been pilfered. We were no different, but to be honest, we had lost all sentiment for them by then. Material belongings have somehow lost their value, intrinsic and sentimental to us. I do not think it is just because of age. Strangely, due to the paraphernalia I need because of my condition, I regrettably need two suitcases when I travel, while Rozanne still travels light.  

Trani beachfront at night

Back to the year two thousand to finish this blog off. Despite the brutality of Mugabe’s thugs, be they party militia, Youth Brigade or the war vets, the people seemed determined to have their say in the election. Our district came under Zwimba, Mugabe’s home district and place of birth, and everywhere I travelled within its confines, the people displayed their Movement for Democratic Change (MDC) placards. In fact, despite being present, these thugs in our area at that time were relatively subdued; perhaps they thought the writing was on the wall for Mugabe. It certainly looked like it by polling day. However, as usual in Zimbabwe, following the election, there were instant reports of missing ballot boxes, pre-filled ballot boxes in considered marginal areas, miscounts, and destroyed full ballot boxes from obvious MDC strongholds. ZANU(PF) once again stole the people’s vote, while the world, by doing nothing, condoned it. Retribution would not be spared in those areas that the Mugabe followers and state security organisations thought had voted for the MDC. Once again, MDC officials, MDC members, white farmers and farm workers were the favoured target. This was no longer about winning an election; it was simply retribution. Despite hoping things would change after the election, I silently cursed myself for being a fool. I knew the land, used as the carrot to obtain support, was now going to be taken, and to hell with the economy, and to hell with what the rest of the world thought. The land was now being invaded by all in sundry, from rural villagers, townspeople, soldiers, policemen and civil servants. In fact, civil servants, party members and security forces were given priority; the peasant farmers, for whom the land was earmarked for were well down the pecking order. ‘Chefs’ openly argued over prime farms; a large house was particularly attractive to them, after all - this was not about production, but about taking perceived wealth. I am not sure when it was, but around this time, I was having lunch with the Farmer Magazine editor, the late Felicity Wood, and I remarked that we would all lose our farms, many of the white population would leave the country for economic reasons, and I wondered if even businesses would be in jeopardy. I said to her that it was a form of ethnic cleansing. She agreed and said, “Why don't you write an article for the Farmer Magazine saying as much?” This I did, which caused quite a stir. For many years, I had a copy of that article, but I somehow lost it during our numerous house moves. If anyone still has a copy, I would greatly appreciate receiving one. I believe this is what triggered the threatening calls, which I will write about in the near future, along with exploring alternative homes outside Zimbabwe.

Disclaimer: Copyright Peter McSporran. The content in this blog represents my personal views and does not reflect corporate entities.