Old Friends, New Friends, Too Many Distant Friends. The Land Invasions Commence.

The vineyards of Mangualde

My self-musings this week included the question: When do new friends become old friends, and why are some people good friends and others just acquaintances? I decided that, for once, the answer is totally subjective, not objective, on your part. Nowadays, people even become friends with someone they have only seen or heard of on a screen, or even with someone they have never seen, only exchanged texts with. Friends on the internet, by text, video or some form of online communication. Not someone you have spoken to personally, touched, felt or even smelled. In my day, we had pen pals, not pen friends. Pen pals were much more informal than friends. Friends were people you had physically met and interacted with through voice, vision, touch, smell, and words, and who were mutually attracted to each other. Not just a face on the screen proclaiming who they are and requesting your friendship, often sight unseen. 

“A cyber acquaintance might be a better description for an internet friend. Friends are normally someone you are willing to vouch for. You know their nature, not just by voice or features on a screen.” - Peter McSporran

Unfortunately, the events that occurred in Zimbabwe in the early 2000s have led to the loss of many close friends, making them distant friends, but I still consider them good friends nonetheless.

"Unlike distant relatives you stay in touch with distant friends, or at least yearn to."- Peter McSporran

The tiled entrance to the Palace Dos Condes De Aladia in Mangualde

Last week, we visited Jane and Austin O’Malley in Viseu. They are now old friends who live in a city located one and a half hours north of us, but still in central Portugal. I first met Austin at our Tuesday drinks club, which ironically meets on a Thursday, shortly after arriving in Portugal. He and his good wife resided close to us here in the Penela area, and we became friends. So, when we arrived in Portugal, they were among our new friends, and yet, being suddenly geographically separated has made them feel like old friends. So, when Erik Wiersma, an old friend and work colleague, visited this week, I told him we had been visiting old friends last week. The O’Malleys had moved to Viseu over a year ago, mainly, I think, to be nearer a golf course. So by moving, it seems that they had become old friends as opposed to new friends when they lived just down the road, so to speak. It then sort of dawned on me that friends can change from old to new not only over time but also through logistical separation. Most friends become old friends with age, but I have found that any friend I have to visit or have visited from the past, no matter how long the separation, becomes an old friend. Just some trivia from my mind. Needless to say, old or new, we had an enjoyable visit with Jane and Austin. Jane is an excellent cook, and Austin is a gracious host and we enjoyed reminiscing about our no longer new friendship and common friends. The weather has remained hot, but their modern house was relatively cool. It was our first visit to Viseu, yet again another university city full of history, as is the surrounding, mainly grape-growing area. We included a visit to the Palace Dos Condes De Aladia in Mangualde, which was set amidst the grape vineyards. Following that trip, we enjoyed Erik’s visit. Despite my surgeon's warning about alcohol and smoking, we enjoyed a few Laphroaigs and cigars together, both of which he kindly brought me. Now that is a friend.

Erik in the schist village of Talasnal which we visited during his stay

“Friends come in many forms: close friends, best friends, good friends, and just friends. The main thing is that they are your friend and recognised as such in others' eyes. Unfortunately others generally recognise a bad friend before you do, always giving a friend the benefit of any doubt.”- Peter McSporran

I make no apology in recounting some of the more personal parts of my life, as these, one way or another, are all contributors to my life’s decisions and where they led me, for better or for worse. Last week, I mentioned to you how often I get confused about dates. However, on the contrary, two events stick in my mind towards the end of 1999. The precise date of the first is unclear to me, but I started dating Sharna Farquhar late in 1999, much to the consternation of my female friends, whether married or single. When they wanted to be, Zimbabwean farmers’ wives could be rather conservative, if not even cruel in their behaviour towards other women. Sharna’s husband had left her and taken up with a new partner, as he had previously done with Sharna to his first wife. There was little sympathy for Sharna’s treatment by Keith among the women in the district. Although from Darwendale, they farmed on the other side of the Dyke as did my future in-laws, the Cary’s. My friendship lasted beyond our courting, which was fairly short-lived. We actually worked together for a while, although when she went to work for John Bredenkamp, it threatened even our friendship. It was not long before she dumped me, which, in a way, I think was lucky. My relationships with women following my divorce in 1996 could best be described as naive, or maybe over ambitious, with me trying to ‘box well above my weight category’, so to speak. One thing about Sharna was that she was driven by ambition, and she actively pushed me in my endeavours with Ernest & Young on the consultancy. She also tried to improve my fitness and made me exercise and cycle, which I did until an untimely fall, with me breaking my shoulder. 

In December that year, 1999, I attended a Christmas braai and dinner at Alistair and Fiona Smith’s farm, Umzururu. It was held in the house built by Alistair’s parents, Hamish and Jean, and was my residence for the first few months after I moved to Rhodesia to start working for them. This was to prove to be my last visit there, and where I renewed my friendship with Beth Bedford, who also attended. Six months later, following my rather complicated relationship with Sharna, Beth and I began seeing each other. Unfortunately, by then, I was spending as much time out of the country as in it, adding to the distance barrier that existed between our farms, mine in Darwendale and hers in Wedza. Her husband, as I have previously written, was killed by poachers, but she bravely carried on farming on her own despite the dangers of the time.

Talasnal Schist village, where the peasants took refuge when the wealthy took the low-lying fertile land

lAs for Zimbabwe, the country was losing skilled people and professionals by the end of 1999. They were leaving a fast-sinking ship. The economy was crashing, inflation was raging, and political violence was once again raising its ugly head, with the ‘Green Bombers,’ paramilitary indoctrinated youth, beating all and sundry in the townships and especially in the rural areas. They were, at that time, trying to discourage the populace from joining the new party on the block, the Movement for Democratic Change (MDC). 

I was interested to note on a visit to the Australian High Commission at that time to learn that many more black professionals and artisans, especially nurses, were applying for Australian work visas, despite, to me, the huge number of white Zimbabweans also applying to move to that country. 

Manufacturing was dropping, with some estimates suggesting a decline of nearly 50%, and unemployment was on the rise. There was, therefore, considerable discontent, and to alleviate this, a commission was established to review and advise on the constitution. A referendum would follow this. One more piece of worthless political window dressing. This was not meant to ascertain what the people wanted, especially in terms of the President's term of office, but rather it was hoped to be a means for Mugabe to entrench himself further. Beatings and abductions of the opposition and journalists were increasing. Despite this, in early February 2000, the proposed changes to the constitution, which would have made Mugabe life President, were rejected in a referendum. Furthermore, in its rejection, it also included the state's right under the Constitution to confiscate white-owned farms without compensation. Mugabe was incensed; he was going to make someone pay for this, and why not the white farmers? After all, the war vets were clamouring for land; so let them take it, despite it being illegal. There has been no such thing close to law and order in Zimbabwe since that day.

“They say, 'hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’. Well, that is not quite true, a scorned despot’s fury puts a woman’s scorn to shame.” - Peter McSporran

Later that month, on a Sunday afternoon, in February 2000, when Sharna was visiting the farm, the telephone rang just after lunch. It was my good friend Joe Whaley informing me that Liz Hind had called her neighbours, saying that their farm on the Saffron Walden Road, between Joe’s farm and Harare, was being invaded by armed men. She had been pre-warned they were on the way, seen by other neighbours who had passed, there were some two hundred armed people, machetes and axes being the weapons of choice, heading in her farm's direction. Her husband, Ross, was absent from the farm that day, so she hid in the maize field. Joe asked me to contact the Commercial Farmers Union (CFU) and ask for help while he and his neighbours went to her rescue. I warned Joe to ensure they did not carry weapons, firearms that is, as that could lead to awful repercussions if used. As it was a Sunday, I telephoned David Husluck at home, who immediately said he would investigate what was happening with his contacts in the security organisations, especially the Central Intelligence Organisation (CIO). I was dismayed by his response after he referred to his connections. I immediately grasped from the tone of his voice and what he said to me that this was not spontaneous, although it was meant to be at the instigation of the war veterans. Yes, they were the actors on the ground, war veterans or those who claimed to be war veterans, but there was no doubt that, at the very least, their actions were being condoned, if not promoted, by the president and his henchmen. In my mind, I felt that Hasluck was aware that this was about to happen, and there was nothing in his or the CFU’s power to stop it. Calls to the police were met with the same answer for then and in future regarding the farm invasions. “There is nothing we can do; it is political.” After spending time on the phone and phoning a few of my personal contacts, time had passed, and Liz was safe, although some of the invaders had remained on the farm. I did not join Joe and the Hind’s neighbours that day, partly due to distance, but have always felt I should have shown my face for some reason. Run-ins with the war vets would become almost a daily occurrence.

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