Always Right, Wedding and Western Australia Adventures.
- Janine MacSporran
- May 2
- 8 min read
How is it our womenfolk are always right? That is not quite true, but we men, being reasonable, or at least cautious, rarely like to point out when our better halves are wrong. If we do, the consequences can be dire. It is, therefore, especially annoying when they are right.
“In truth, our wives are more often right than wrong. Therefore, we are inclined to be gleeful when they are proven wrong. This is so stupid.” - Peter McSporran
Before heading to Edinburgh, we had several discussions on whether I should request assistance in boarding and debarking from the aircraft. Rozanne insisted I should and booked it despite my protests, which continued even during my six hundred metre walk from the long-term parking to departures at Porto, pushing my twenty kilogram suitcase. Kilts are not light apparel, and I had packed mine to wear at our son Selby’s wedding, which was the reason for the trip. But as it was, events were to prove her right.
Before boarding, we found ourselves in the dock corridor with nowhere to sit, awaiting the plane's arrival. Eventually it came, passengers disembarked, and the aircraft was cleaned before we boarded. Thank goodness for the wheelchair, although I rushed to the toilet as soon as possible after takeoff. I have to release the mechanism I use for my bladder control every hour; any longer, and it becomes both harmful and painful. Just so much grin and bear it, one can do. That was not too bad, but at Edinburgh, a small airport by world standards; we waited ages for the doors of the aircraft to open and for the other passengers to disembark, finally being assisted to the minibus which took us to the main building where we found ourselves in a bus queue. Yes, not a human queue, a bus queue. This bus queue eventually manifested into a human queue extending outside the airport building as passengers waited for their documents to be checked by immigration. It seemed the biometric scanners were not working even if they had any. It was Sunday night, so perhaps there was a shortage of personnel; no matter, it was a very slow-moving queue. Thank goodness for the assistance and for Rozanne being right to insist despite my protestations. Even with help, it took us an hour to get out of the airport.
“Is it one's pride or bloody-mindedness that makes you resist airport assistance? Now that I have experienced it, I will be happy to set aside my pride in the future and recommend it to others.” - Peter McSporran.
It is now Wednesday morning, the day after Selby and Maggie’s wedding. It was a quiet affair, with only two witnesses in the Registrar’s office to witness the event. This was followed by lunch at the Rhubarb Restaurant, Prestonfield House Hotel, which exudes an old-style luxurious ambience, somewhat out of my budget for a stay. This was for immediate family and the witnesses, then drinks later at a couple of well-known watering holes in Edinburgh with friends. Selby has to head to London for work tomorrow, so the wedding celebrations are being delayed until September in Italy. No reason for the wedding now other than a wish to be married, and in doing so, they are happy to postpone the celebrations until a more convenient time. Maggie is a lovely, vibrant young lady who has fitted well into our family, with all of us having been on a number of enjoyable holidays together. Remember, they got engaged last year while staying with us. Welcome, Maggie, and all the best to you both.
“I'm sure we are gaining a daughter and not losing a son.” - Peter McSporran
1998 was a year of both hope and trepidation. As I stated, most farmers just got about their everyday business with little choice despite farms being listed for appropriation. Without access to foreign currency, although we seemed wealthy in Zimbabwe, in real terms, our local money was worthless outside the country. Therefore, we were still using our profits to replace capital and buy the next year's inputs. By this time, the ZW$ was devaluing and inflation was around 50%, a fraction of what it would be in the future. In the meantime, our little business and social group, which included Vernon Nicolle, Kevin O’Toole, Warwick Small, and me, enjoyed the races at Borrowdale most weekends. Vernon and I were farmers, Kevin was a Financial Director and businessman, and Warwick owned H.E. Jackson Engineering. During the week, if in town, we usually meet for lunch on a Tuesday at Alexanders and on a Thursday at Harare Club, where the food could best be described as mediocre, but the company was good. Our little Australian import venture was coming along nicely, with sales of Grizzly equipment going pretty well. Being well-made, should I say made to last, it was not cheap, but farmers could see its benefit; no better way to sell a piece of agricultural machinery than showing its performance and resilience. Vernon and I both had some of their equipment on our farms. Those who have farmed in Africa know it is not a place for lightweight farm machinery due to the rugged conditions and carefree operators. As I said, the Western Australian government was keen to promote trade between Australia and Zimbabwe, so their local trade attache at the High Commission, Mark Lynch, and the Western Australian Director of the Department of Trade, Kevin Strapp, offered excellent assistance and became close friends. Mark, like all Embassy or High Commission staff, we were never sure of his fundamental role. Mark did seem to promote trade, although a few years later, he introduced me to what I would term as being ‘spooks’ shortly after I arrived in Zambia.
Until I became Vice President of the Commercial Farmers Union, I had never encountered such types of people outside the army. Some were commercial, representing private enterprise, some were political, but some were just straight spies. As I think back, I think many of the friendliest were the spies.
I cannot remember how many trips we made back and forth to Australia from 1997 to 1999. We made at least two trips yearly, while in 1998 I made four. The second trip was early in the year, undertaken with my ex-brother-in-law at that time, Mike Belinsky and his wife Irene, as I had convinced him to consider Droughtmaster as his second breed to Herefords, which he bred successfully. You could still get Reserve Bank permission to obtain foreign currency to import pedigree livestock—another of those crazy anomalies in Zimbabwe. The Droughtmaster is a composite breed mainly of Brahman and Shorthorn background, including some Devon blood as its base. Funnily, the idea of introducing Bos Indicus cattle to Australia followed the introduction of ticks and the use of three Zebu bulls lent from Melbourne Zoo to cattlemen in Northern Queensland. Even stranger is that the tick was first introduced to Australia when twelve tick-infested Brahman bulls were imported in the 1890s. The benefit of introducing and crossing these cattle with British breeds in Australia’s harsh, drought-prone conditions became obvious. It initially led to the Brahman's introduction for crossbreeding, leading to the Droughtmaster. Mike, Irene, and I set off about Easter 1998 for Western Australia to look at purchasing some Droughtmaster cattle to import into Zimbabwe. The idea was to fly in some live females and use them for embryo production to enable a speedy increase in numbers.
My connections from the Western Australia government had set up a meeting and prospective viewing with a long-term and renowned Droughtmaster breeder in the form of Richard Apel, who, after many years as a grazier in Queensland and Western Australia, now ran a stud herd in Moora in his later years. Moora was fairly accessible, being some two hundred kilometres north of Perth. Richard had been involved in the Droughtmaster breed since the sixties; before that, his family ran Herefords. After viewing his cattle and a long discussion in our rustic hotel room in Moora, Mike and I agreed to select and purchase some eight females and a young bull, provided they passed the veterinary requirements for Zimbabwe. The next day, we looked at Richard’s animals in the required age bracket, selecting those we wanted to enable expedient veterinary testing. We were excited about bringing the Droughtmaster to Africa, although Richard informed us he had sent a bull earlier to Botswana.
It happened to be a Friday night, and in hearing stories about the drunkenness and behaviour of the indigenous people on receiving their social security cheque, we always considered it an exaggeration. Events on the streets and bars of Moora that night were to give these stories some credence.
The next time we visited Richard, I stayed in a monastery in New Norcia close to where Richard’s son farmed. It was the first and last time I stayed in a monastery; perhaps the austerity was meant to set a tone. I cannot remember Richard’s son's name but I remember being impressed by the vast acreage of dryland cereals and lupins he grew single-handedly. He and his wife did all the land preparation and sowing, seeking a helper only at harvest. Being from Africa and the intensive use of labour there, we found it amazing. Hectarage was huge but despite being farmed with low inputs, accepting low yields due to the vagaries of the weather, seemed to give them a living. Just. Sheep grazed the crop residues, and most fields would have a pond or earthwalled reservoir where yabbies could be found. We had a fine meal of them there during my visit; they reminded me of sea bugs.
A few months later, Mike and I returned to be told by vets that the cattle had failed one of the required tests to export to Zimbabwe, a disease fairly endemic in Australia, but, yes, this is true, they suggested perhaps it could be fixed. This had nothing to do with Richard. I could not believe what I thought they were suggesting, and anyway, the cattle would be retested in quarantine in Zimbabwe, and Mike and I would never have considered it. Perhaps they thought the cattle would die in Africa. In the end, we organised some embryos, I think thirty from Richard and set off to prepare some heifers at home as recipients. Rob Rees was the vet who assisted and carried out the process, which ended in a very satisfactory result. I made one terrible mistake and did not vaccinate recipients for lumpy skin, as we had not had the disease on our farms for years. Obviously, our cattle had resistance, so when our little Aussie calves arrived, many were struck, and we lost a couple due to lumpy skin. Careless and stupid on my part. At about this time, I advertised for someone to assist Karen Steyn in our office, as our farming business had become significant, bigger than one part-time administrator could handle. Anyway, one of the applicants arrived in the form of Lady Daphne Powell, and after the interview, it was apparent she was unsuitable for administration purposes as I do not think she had ever turned on a computer, but I suggested she consider the job as cattle manager. She surprisingly agreed. How wonderful, sometimes a spontaneous decision works out. This one did, she turned out to have excellent skills in cattle management, learning those she did not have quickly, and she fell in love with our ‘Yellow Heifers’ as she called our young female Droughtmasters. She also became a firm friend and still is. Sadly, she fled for her safety during the farm invasions in 2002 fearing for her life, having had a horrible experience with a mob of armed thugs battering and banging on her doors and windows. Dreadful.
Disclaimer: Copyright Peter McSporran. The content in this blog represents my personal views and does not reflect corporate entities.
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