Alistair and Fiona Smith’s Visit, Cattle Sale and a Growing Feeling of Unease in 1998.
- Janine MacSporran
- 1 minute ago
- 8 min read
I am writing this a day late this week, as we have just dropped Alistair and Fiona Smith off in Porto, following a short visit by them. Alistair and Fiona now live in Brisbane, some 18,000 kilometres from us here in Portugal.
“True friendship is not broken by time, geography, or even lack of frequent communication.” - Peter McSporran
When they arrived, there was no hesitation in us picking up in our relationship, no worries about what to say or fear of causing hurt or embarrassment. Alistair and I last saw each other in Tanzania twelve years ago. Both of us trying to trying to accumulate some funds for our fast-approaching retirement following our farm confiscations. As for Fiona, I had not seen her since a farewell dinner held by the Whaleys in December 2001 on Crebilly Farm, Norton. At that meal, there were Joe and Wendy Whaley, our hosts and owners of Crebilly Farm, Alistair and Fiona, Alistair's brother David and his wife, Lilly. The meal was on the front lawn of the Whaleys’ magnificent farm homestead. It was our last meal together before we set off the next year, in fact, the January of 2022, to various parts of the globe, David and Lilly to the United States, Alistair and Fiona to Australia, Joe and Wendy were to remain in Zimbabwe a little longer before also coming up to Zambia, where I had already partially moved. I remember that evening twenty three years ago so well. Joe has now passed, Wendy lives in the UK, and Alistair and Fiona still in Australia with David and Lilly, whom I have not seen since that night at Crebilly, now firmly American. We also had a short catch up with Richard, Alistair and Fiona’s son when we dropped the Smiths off in Porto. The Smiths are going on to meet up with David and Lily in Italy, her ancestral home. Unfortunately, they did not pass through Portugal on their way to Italy.
I first met Alistair way back in January 1972, when he was still a schoolboy and I was a ‘green behind the ears’ new to Africa, farm assistant working for his dad, Hamish. Hamish was not only my first boss in Africa but also my mentor in all things cattle-related. Alistair also became a renowned cattleman, and David was to take his dairying skills to America. Now he is a successful businessman in manufacturing. I have previously recorded Mike Clark, who was my roommate at the West of Scotland Agricultural College at Auchincruive as my oldest friend; Alistair is my second. We have known each other for some fifty-three years and been friends since, he being the best man at my first wedding way back in 1976.
It was great reminiscing about the past, the ‘good old days’, so to speak. As we told old war stories, remembered old friends, even some incidents best forgotten, it made me wonder how we would have fared if we had not been cast asunder by the Mugabe regime. At least whatever Mugabe did, it did not destroy our friendship, and we remain with some fantastic memories when we used to work hard and at times played harder. Being farmers and farming in the same district, along with our shared interest in cattle, has given us many common friends. Sadly, some have now passed away, or their spouses have, ensuring, as we all know, that there is no return to the past. Only the memories and friendships.
“Memories are to be cherished in old age. People, places and events. They record your path through life. Old friends can remind you of those you have forgotten.” - Peter McSporran
Last week, I wrote about our visit to the Alentejo and the fighting bull ranch, and I promised to tell you about the cattle auction in Portalegre we attended on that trip. Here is a summary of my observations. I was unsure what to expect, although I had attended many cattle auctions in Zimbabwe, both as a seller and a buyer, and in Scotland as a child accompanying my father. I loved attending cattle sales, not just for the auction, but also for the social aspect. Firstly, I couldn't believe how slick this one was. The cattle entered the ring after being weighed and categorised. Age, breed, sex, and vendor. Weights on the big screen showed the total weight of the lot and the average weight. These details were on a large live screen above the auctioneer. Also on the screen was the breed, type of animal, weaner, store, finished or cull, with age and sex of each lot. Furthermore, a base price at which the auctioneer would initiate bidding was displayed, depending on the category of animal. Notably, I never saw a bid go lower than this base price; I presume it was derived from the trade on a given day, rather than a request by the vendor. Each bid was displayed, and once bidding slowed down, a bid timer started, meaning any subsequent bid had to be placed within three seconds or the hammer would fall. This certainly sped up proceedings. There were both live bids and online bids. The number of the winning bidder would be shown, including those who bid online. The digit numbers identified online bidders; any number with three or more digits was considered an online bidder. The closest description of the auction to ex-Zimbabwean farmers would be an amalgamation of CC Sales live auctions combined with a Zimstock video auction. Now that would have been something back in Zimbabwe if Zimstock and CC Sales combined to introduce such sales back home. Whatever, it was very slick and the auctioneers in the UK I watch online could learn a lot from their Portuguese counterparts. Livestock auctions in the UK are very protracted events, as the auctioneer can spend much time in squeezing the final bid out of potential buyers.
As the sale was virtually on the Spanish border and much of the cattle were youngstock, the majority of buyers were Spanish, purchasing the cattle for finishing before export to North Africa and the Middle East, a premium market that commanded prices better than those in Europe. Now, another surprise, many would be exported live once finished. In the 1990s, in Zimbabwe, there was a strong public opinion and pressure through the media, including Carte Blanche, against the live export of goats and cattle from Zimbabwe—the cattle were destined for Mauritius. Now, thirty years later, I hear in Europe it is going on, and to my knowledge, to limited opposition. At least little enough for me not to have picked it up in the farming press. Over the past five years, more than three million animals have been exported through Cartagena, Spain. Cartagena is the primary export port for live animals from Europe by ship. A further 200,000 are exported annually through other Spanish ports.
The next thing that impressed, or perhaps surprised me, was the prices. The price of cattle here in the Iberian Peninsula, in fact all over Europe, presently is the highest it has ever been, with weaners selling at over €6 per kilogram live and cull cows at over €3 per kilogram live. Perhaps the ongoing demise of the mixed family farm is a major contributing factor to the falling cattle numbers on offer. The cattle were primarily Limousin and Charolais crosses, bred from local cross-bred cows with weaners weighing 240 to 300 kg and cull cows ranging from 650 to 700 kg.
“Mixed family farms are the epitome of fully integrated agriculture. The livestock make use of the crop residue while legume and grass leys benefit both crop and livestock production. At the same time the livestock benefit from the crop residues and make use of the non-arable land. Corporate farming cannot successfully manage this system to its optimum. Mixed family farms are more environmentally friendly than intensive monoculture. The question is then, why do governments seem to be putting policies in place that will bring about the demise of family farms? The answers in truth are probably both ignorance or simply rural folk who are low in voting numbers.” - Peter McSporran
In 1998, after making a fool of myself with women in 1997, I now reverted to a closer friendship with the two Hamp-Adams ladies, Sally Sandeman and Jane Crossman, both widows and platonic friends happy to wine and dine without any commitments or requirements to fit into each other's lifestyle. Jane actually set about refurbishing my rather empty farmhouse at that time, changing the curtains that had been in place for some twenty odd years and recovering the furniture, which transformed my bachelor pad into looking more like a home. Farm bachelors notice things on the farm, but rarely the deterioration of their living quarters. As long as it's clean, it does not matter about the wear and tear. Fishing took up much of my free time, on Darwendale now more often than not on my own with the loss of my fishing buddy Henry Bezuidenhout at the beginning of that year, although on occasion, with my immediate neighbour Des Bruk-Jackson. Both Henry and Des were keen and good fishermen, however Des was by far the best beer drinker, an important skill when fishing in Zimbabwe. At that time, Des preferred trawling for bass rather than taking the effort to cast. When at Kariba, he enjoyed catching the Niloticus hybrid bream that had escaped the commercial fishery cages using rabbit pellets as bait. I did not mind the trawling but decided catching bream with rabbit pellets was not for me, preferring the wilderness further up the lake, away from the maddening crowd. The Zambezi river was always a favourite, and that October, as always, Keith Holland, Neville Baker, Gravy Scott, Nick Holman (sic), and I spent five days on the Zambezi at D camp. Things were changing there, whereas before we could travel around at night, game viewing with searchlights; National Parks by then had stopped this. Nevertheless, many an exciting drive we had in the late evening on our way back from the Nakasangwa river mouth to either E or D camp. Last light was meant to be the latest time allowed, we would stretch the term dusk. Many evenings, we came across lions, more often than not, an unsettled elephant, angry about us disturbing his evening meal, or a herd of grumpy buffalo. That year, we ran out of ice and drinks, and rather than returning to Chirundu, Sally Sandeman, accompanied by Jane, flew in with a resupply. It did mean we had to give up our sheltered sleeping spots that night to the ladies. Luckily, the drink allowed us to ignore the dangers of prowling cats and hyenas. Gravy, at that time in his life, was happy to tempt fate by sleeping by himself on the ground by the fire every night. We often wondered what was so abhorrent about him that no predator took a few extra steps to eat such an easy meal?
Despite all this, I was becoming very concerned about the country. At the time, rumours were rife that we did not have to worry, Mugabe was seriously ill. In fact, terminally ill, the rumours said, he would soon be gone. This was all wishful thinking. I was sceptical about this latest rumour and started thinking about what would happen if we had to stop farming in Zimbabwe. That year, spurred by this unease, I was to take a closer look at Australia and Mozambique to explore opportunities—more about this next week.
Disclaimer: Copyright Peter McSporran. The content in this blog represents my personal views and does not reflect corporate entities.
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