How Time Flies, Algarve and Country Selection to Resettle Displaced Farmers.

Clear blue skies following 90mm of rain this week. Much more forecast to come this week but no clue of it in the sky.

I did not mention it, but last week I got lost in the hospital for a while. The procedure to reset my heart does not take place at the Central University Hospital of Coimbra (CHUC), but at Covões hospital, housed in an old building dating back to 1935 with a modern interior, which makes it look more like a maze than a modern medical centre. It had been a sanatorium until 1973, renowned for treating TB. It is a beautiful building with marble floors in the corridors and staircases, and its original facade, but the wards and operating rooms are now obviously covered with modern wall and floor coverings and fitted out with state-of-the-art equipment. There are two buildings, a new one where I was a frequent visitor, when the cardiologists worked on making my heart strong enough for the cancer surgery I required back in 2021, having been diagnosed in October 2020. 

Now there is a thought, it was five years ago this month, October, since I first got diagnosed with stomach cancer and nine years to the same month, October, since being diagnosed and treated for prostate cancer. Five years ago, when diagnosed with stomach cancer, I had a very uncertain future. But here I am enjoying life as best I can, which, considering everything, is not too shabby. The doctors did say it would be a tough battle, but in truth, you just do what you're told. The doctors, nurses and my wife, Rozanne, had a struggle, or battle so to speak, while all I had to do was to keep breathing and try to keep my head in the right space. I have forgotten how many surgeries I have had, but Rozanne was saying that she remembers six. I am a bit tired of them; hopefully, the one I have this week is only minor and importantly, it helps my incontinence, which is the bane of my life. Having had both cancers return, the stomach three times, I sort of do not raise my expectations, but rather live in hope, taking each day as it comes. It's just that time seems to go so fast now. To that end, this will be a short blog written and completed today, Sunday, as I want a day off tomorrow before going into the hospital on Tuesday. If I am not out on Friday, I will get my daughter, Janine, who lives in America, to post it. Time may be going quickly, but to me, the advances in technology are moving even faster, making it hard for this old brain to comprehend, let alone keep up. Hard to think someone five thousand miles away can spontaneously edit your document with you and even post it on your web page if required. Pity Janine cannot write it, but then what would I do with my Sundays and Mondays?

“While I do, from time to time, use Grammarly to correct my English, if left to its own devices, it will change the context of what I am trying to say. Further, it does not understand the idiosyncrasies of Scottish speak.” - Peter McSporran

Hospital Covões. The building and gardens are more reminiscent of a mansion than a hospital

Getting back to the hospital, Covões, I was directed to the cardiology reception, where they found my name on the computer and, being helpful as I have very limited Portuguese, the kind female receptionist escorted me to the station where I would get my first ECG after I informed her I could not remember where it was, being overwhelmed by the rabbit warren of corridors. There it went wrong: on completion, once again a kind nurse escorted me to the next station — weight, BP, etc., etc. — and there they informed me they had not got me down for a procedure that day. They accepted that I may have been in the wrong place and advised me to stay, as someone somewhere would eventually be looking for me, since I was now in the system. Sure enough, after fifteen minutes, a charming nurse came and informed me I was in the wrong place, and after a lengthy walk through the maze, I was readied for the procedure. Three hours later, I was calling Rozanne to pick me up. Two things I know. I still would have problems finding that particular station, and my views on the friendliness of the medical staff and their assistants were once again reinforced. Let's see how it goes this week. They know me there, and I know where I am going in the new (but now old) CHUC, which is now getting old, having been built in the 80s.

The front entrance to Hospital Covões

“The scary thing about age is that, when you look back on your youth, things that hadn't been invented or structures that hadn't been built have now become obsolete or derelict. I think of CDs, VHS, even cassette players, all been and gone in my lifetime.” - Peter McSporran

Last weekend, Rozanne and I visited Jane Crossman, the late Sally Sandeman’s sister and a long-time friend of ours, for a few days. Nothing new about that, and on arrival at her quinta (a house with more land than a garden), we did what all Zimbabweans do: had a drink. She had informed me her brother, David Hamp-Adams, who had just lost his wife Gaelle to cancer, had decided to clean out her and his late sister Sally's belongings and found a painting of a tobacco farm which he thought I would like. I could not believe my eyes when Jane produced it; it was not any old painting —it was one of the old conventional barns on my farm, Mede, in Darwendale.

The perspective of the original picture I had was somewhat off, but still recognisable as some of the barns on Mede.

Neither David nor Jane knew its source, but I recognised the style, having a similar type of picture—a very small one—of other barns on Mede painted by a friend of Daphne Powell while she worked with me. On telephoning Daphne, she had no recall of such a picture, so how it came to be in Sally’s hands I do not know. For me to be presented with the painting, brought back so many happy memories and, yes, also a sense of loss. The delight of receiving it far outweighed the sense of loss.

In 2001, John Knight and I, in our newly formed company, Agricultural Advisers International, had now set ourselves three very difficult tasks.

The picture I received last week was much larger and with a better perspective.

1. Identify a country that would be suitable and accept ex-Zimbabwean white farms.

2. Identify a country that would offer the climate and soils to ensure the ability to produce viable yields, hopefully above average yields.

3. The finance and financial institutions needed to establish these farmers and sustain them long-term.

A much harder task than finding consultancy work, but if successful, much more rewarding. Some countries I had visited were easy to eliminate without further visitations. Ethiopia, culture, language and numerous other challenges, an immediate non-starter, along with the Francophile DRC, followed by Kenya, which had a fairly vibrant commercial agricultural sector with indigenous business-oriented people mainly running the old, previously white owned farms. Mainly politically connected with the state President’s family, having vast land holdings. Land values were high, entry would be expensive, and they did not really want us. Uganda, I decided, had too many challenges; there were still questions over the land ownership with some Asians rumoured to be returning to claim their land. In fact, very few ever returned, but at the time of my visit, it seemed a possibility, and much of the land had been owned by displaced people because of race, as was true of Mozambique and, rapidly so, Zimbabwe. It really made me sad when I visited the areas around Chimoio, Mozambique, which during Portuguese days had been Villa Pery. The empty homesteads still stood, albeit in ruin, a record of the days when a vibrant farming community thrived there. Further, the dilapidated orange groves and banana plantations reminded me that the Greek vegetable and fruit traders who were successfully operating in Zimbabwe had come from there some twenty-five years ago. I wondered if it would be that long before Zimbabwe started looking for commercial farmers again, as Mozambique was then doing? 

Rozanne and Jane enjoyed a fish lunch in Burgau, in the Algarve, last week. Luckily, some places in the Algarve remain unspoiled.

“Wherever I have travelled in Africa, those countries that abandoned or even neglected commercial agriculture to cater for populist demand, even envy or misplaced political conviction all became net importers of food. In other words, it cost them dearly and continues to do so.” - Peter McSporran

Far too long for me in my early fifties, so keep looking, do not look back. Anyway, banking was a problem, and land belonged in the hands of the state. The argument that the buildings belonged to the farmer would not ease the banks' reticence in taking them for security, so funding would be a problem. I thought Malawi had a shortage of land and its tobacco industry was built on smallholders, and as usual, they were being exploited on price, so I decided to give it a miss, which left Tanzania and Zambia. Tanzania was huge, but reasonably sized blocks of land would be difficult to find, and although we continued to keep it in mind, we thought the challenges would be too great. That left Zambia, which was desperate to get its commercial agriculture back on its feet and become self-sufficient in food crops. It had the soil, available land, a banking system, albeit somewhat limited lending for farmers, water, and an already established small commercial farming community, which ensured the existence of critical service industries. Zambia it was then, and our focus was now zoomed to that country.

Pstscript: Operation went well, and I am home again, with a very painful backside. Did it work? I will find out next week when I return to remove the catheter and assess its functioning. Any improvement will justify the effort, so fingers crossed.

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