Congo Kinshasa : A day in the life...

I’d slept well. I came back from Kinshasa two weeks ago, Judith is still trying to get from Mbandaka, back to Basankusu, but her boat still hasn’t set off. Meanwhile I’m holding the fort in Basankusu at the House (Centre2) and hospital end, while Laeticia continues to do sterling work at the main centre.

I reluctantly woke up at 5:30. It was light, and people were already moving. We had a lightning strike on the main phone provider two months ago and it still hasn’t been resolved. I bought a SIM for ORANGE but the connection is painfully slow and works best; it works best at night. Unfortunately, I seemed to have missed that clear window. It seems that 5:30 is too late!

Today is Friday. Our centre runs a supplementary feeding programme. That means we don’t cook every day. We cook for our moderately malnourished children Monday, Wednesday and Saturday. For more severe cases, and of course those in hospital, we give money for the other days, advise and supervise what the parents cook themselves for their children. However, we still have lots to do on non-cooking days.

At 6:00 I switched off my phone and drifted once again into dreams. I woke again at 6:30 and started to think of children in hospital. These are the children we’ve agreed to treat at our feeding centre, but need medical treatment to get rid of underlying conditions first. The doctors decide which children need to be hospitalised. The hospital gives each child a bed, and the mother, or even both parents and a couple of younger children might stay with them. The nurses and doctors do their rounds, seeing to injections and drips, until the day they’re ready to transfer back to our centre. Nothing’s free, of course, and we get a bill from the hospital at the end of each month. The bill for September is £750!

We had 5 children in hospital until two days ago, until one sadly died. Now there were 4. I started to think of each one in turn. One had made good progress; she’d go to our centre soon. Our frequent visitor, Brigitte, who has Sickle Cell Disease, was doing great after a crippling bout of malaria – she’ll certainly go home today! Then another child … new skin had emerged where the old skin had sloughed off … probably needs longer in hospital. Finally, Glodi – he’d developed bacterial meningitis whilst in hospital and had lost the use of on arm. The nurses have assured me it’ll come back. We’ll see. I was mostly worried about him. Mama Angel was getting ready to take them each their bread and warm milk – I’d go there after breakfast to see how they were, and to give them money to buy food with. The children’s parents would cook it outside on firewood, at the hospital.

At 6:30, two buckets of water arrived, one hot, one cold, for my morning wash. As I started to get washed, I heard two women crying! Then it became a passionate wailing. I knew someone had died. Was it one of the four children? Was it someone else? It sounded very close – it was coming from our yard.

I was still washing when Mama Angele came to the bathroom door. She told me about a family that had arrived from Waka, 50 miles away, at 5:30. They came on foot, sleeping along the way. The little boy was extremely malnourished and the parents were peeling off his skin, (Now, we’re all used to seeing skin sloughing off because of acute malnutrition, but we always leave it to fall off itself!) It left him with sores all over. The boy asked for a drink. Mama Angele said she gave him a cup of water, which he drank very quickly. She asked them to sit for a while in our yard until I could come out to see them. A few minutes later he breathed his last and Mama Angele came to tell me. 

I quickly rinsed away the shampoo and got dressed. I decided it would be better if they didn’t see me. They’d wrapped the little boy in a cloth and I sent Angele to give them some money. My heart was beating fast as I handed her £15 for the taxi motorbike back home.

Our niece, Stage, came to sit with me for breakfast, which helped to calm things down a little. We have bread from a micro-bakery next-door. I bought jam in Kinshasa and carried my Tetley teabags all the way from England. Mama Angele told me there was a mother and baby waiting for me outside. We often get mothers coming along, hoping to get looked after when they’re no longer able to breast feed. One had arrived yesterday. Her milk had dried up and she’d been feeding the baby on black tea with sugar in it. She reached into her bag and produced a filthy baby’s bottle, full of tea! It was a good opportunity to give her advice on hygiene, preparing the bottle and so on. I gave her something for milk and told her she should carry two made up bottles everywhere she went, and so on! Sadly, we don’t have the funds to take charge of each case that comes in like this.

I went out into the yard and found today’s young mother with a beautiful little girl. I was already smitten! Yes, mum’s milk had stopped, but very recently, and the baby was already 4½ months old. Normally, babies should only start solid foods like baby cereal at 6 months – but when we have no other choice we start them at 4 months. I asked her if she knew how to make gruel from cornmeal. She said she didn’t. I said, well, did she know how to make fufu? Fufu is a staple on Congolese plates. It’s like semolina but without sugar. Again she said she didn’t. Mama Angele was listening. “What! Come on! Of course you do!” I told her to make fufu, but just add more water so that it’s runny, add some sugar and vegetable oil if you have it. We talked about caring for her baby, including treating her nappy rash. It was a pleasant change to see a baby in such good health. I gave her some money to start her off, and off she went.

I went across to the hospital to check on our hospitalised children and to dole out their daily allowance. While the children are in hospital, it’s the parents’ responsibility to cook their food in the hospital grounds, on firewood. Three children are in one room. Each child’s mother, or sometimes both parents and a couple of younger siblings share the bed with the sick child. The children are there to have their drips and injection, with doctors and nurses doing their rounds around the clock.

The one dad that’s there complained that the nurses hadn’t come around this morning. I told them that the staff did their best. The hospital is a small affair, having started its life as a medical centre setup by Mill Hill Missionary, Fr Harry Reusen. I was now the secondary hospital of Basankusu! However, the nurses have very low wages and the three doctors are all in their first two years, so don’t receive a salary yet, only bonuses. So, perhaps the nurses sometimes have problems at home and they’re delayed. This seemed to satisfy him, and the other nodded their heads to show agreement. In actual fact, all three children had finished all of their treatments. It looked promising that at least one child could be transferred to our feeding centre soon. For the second child, it was touch and go. He’d certainly need more time in hospital; he was so thin and sickly. The third child had had bacterial meningitis and was sleeping on his back showing a very swollen belly. One arm had become paralysed, but the nurses were confident he’d be able to use it again soon. He’s a great worry. A fourth child had been in the room, until a few days ago; he’d sadly died from meningitis and the bed was now empty.

I bid them farewell and moved on to see young Brigitte, in the next room. Brigitte is the little girl we took to Kinshasa and got diagnosed with a hereditary condition called Sickle Cell Disease. She was admitted five days ago, crippled with pain. Malaria was diagnosed and her treatment is now complete. She’ll be going home and back to school.

I came out of Brigitte’s room and met Madeleine’s dad. Madeleine, 9½, had arrived with her parents on Sunday evening, so we gave them a room at the malnutrition centre. She had been examined by the doctor on Monday and had her lab tests on Tuesday. All that was left was an early morning sample of wee. Dad had come along to tell the laboratory that his little girl hadn’t done a wee since waking up. For me that was worrying … but then again, perhaps they just forgot to take the sample! Her dad also wanted to know how to prepare the Oral Rehydration Treatment he’d been given for her. Oral Rehydration Treatment (ORT) is a powder that, when mixed with a litre of recently boiled water, helps to defeat diarrhoea, by helping the body to retain fluids, and is used in conjunction with dissolvable zinc tablets. I explained how to use the medicine and he was content to return to the centre.

I got back to our house again, to be greeted by lovely Plamedie. Plamedie is a 16 year old girl that we’re helping, via sponsors, through her final year of school. She’d come along with 2 classmates. Although, they’re all 16 or 17, they’re all quite thin and small – they look more like 12 year olds! Plamedie first came to us with her younger brother, Simeon. Simeon was malnourished – but so was Plamedie. She came to tell us about initial fees for the term and I said she could take the money after the weekend. I gave her money to buy fried sweet potato and the way to school!

As Plamedie and her friends left, a young couple with a four year old boy came into our yard. The dad, a fisherman, was quite articulate, while mum sat quietly. Their child, about 3 years old, was in a distressed and distressing condition! He was arching his back with pain; below his bottom lip was a fairly big wound where he’d bitten it to bear the pain! The whites of his eyes were yellow. I had no idea what was wrong with him. What I did know was that he wasn’t suffering from malnutrition, and, that being the case, we wouldn’t accept him as a patient.

Ma Poso, comedic extra in several of my videos, came through the gate. “What do you think this is?” I asked her. She saw the colour of the boy’s eyes and immediately diagnosed Yellow Fever. Now, Yellow Fever is a serious and often deadly tropical disease. Everyone in the Congo is encouraged to be vaccinated against it. For foreigners, like me, it’s an obligation to enter the country.

I decided to give him some money to go to the Basankusu General Hospital. They’ve got better labs and it would keep him apart from our children, and out of our account. 

Ma Poso took them across as she was going that way anyway. He was immediately given a blood transfusion. A few days later, they came back. Although he still needed to have quite a few injections, and have another drip to increase fluids, he was a different child! Clear eyes, no more pain – he sat calmly and looked around in a relaxed manner. They asked for money to finish the treatment, and it wasn’t a lot, so I gave it. The dad asked for money for their own food and I said, - you’ll have to find that yourself.

Ma Claude, Poso’s mother and Judith’s aunt, visited next. She’s a locally trained nurse. We just wish she’d look after herself as much as she does her patients – but that’s another story! It was her first visit since I’d come back from Kinshasa. She brought me a gift of cooking bananas (these gifts always have strings attached.)

Ennis was at our house. They’d left the hospital but her mum was just waiting for some medicines for her. I started thinking about Madeleine and how she hadn’t had a we since waking up, and was still suffering from diarrhoea … a fizzy drink might help. I sent Ennis to buy one on the corner, and one for herself. Ma Claude went along to help her. 

The heat was stifling today, but, nevertheless, I walked to our malnutrition centre; it’s only ten minutes away. I gave Madeleine her soft drink and Laeticia said she’d follow up on the ORT drink. Laeticia is Judith’s sister. She lives at the centre with her husband and Marie. She looks after the daily running of the centre. I chatted with her for a while and then heard music from inside the house. Marie was dancing in front of a loud speaker. She was wearing a pair of pale blue football shorts and a black crop top. Proud of her very dark skin, the light reflected on her cleavage as she sweated away with a big smile on her face! The song was something about TikTok and she was making a video of it all! Later she told me that she wouldn’t publish it because local people would call her names. But really, she has a great physique for it. TikTok angst comes to Basankusu!

 I walked back home and had lunch. Our broken phone system has disrupted my night-time sleep. The best time to send messages is between 2 and 3 am, so I was obliged to have a nap before heading out again.

When children stay in hospital we have to pay for all costs. The bill for las month is due. I came to a total of 2,553,000 Congolese francs – or £750! That’s treatment for 21 sick children!

We send our money via our Chinese friend, Huang. As he sells things in his shop, he’s able to release the cash. I felt refreshed after my nap and walked the mile and a half into town. Incidentally, it was also Huang’s birthday. He invited me to come round for the evening. My rucksack was soon heavy with banknotes. I took no chances on the return journey, and took a motorbike-taxi with the cash!

I arrived home and counted out the money for the hospital bill. Our niece, Stage was on her way out, but promised to be back well before 5pm. At 6 o’clock I’d go back across to see Huang for his birthday celebration. He’d already told me he didn’t want a lot of people, but he’d cook some fish and open a nice bottle of wine.

I got ready and waited in the yard for Stage. There was no-one else at home. 5 o’clock came and went. The sun went down and the crickets started chirping. Six o’clock! No sign of Stage.

Papy arrived with little Malimba – he also needed to leave soon, as the nightwatchman at our centre. He agreed to hold the fort and I set off.

I’d like to say I had a great time, but ‘low key’ would have been an understatement. No fish, no wine. I was served spaghetti with a fried egg on top. Well, if that’s what he wanted. After a couple of hours, I returned home.

Stage was waiting for me and wanted to drink hot milk before bed. She’d met some people and so had been delayed. She was very chatty and wanted me to tell her more fairy stories that all European children know. It’s strange to think that Hansel and Gretel, Little Red Riding Hood and the Pied Piper are unknown here.

And so to bed at about 11:30.

Congo Kinshasa : Francis' Speedboat adventure

 “Go with them! Go on ahead … all being well we’ll arrive the same day!” Judith was adamant she knew what she was talking about.

We’d been celebrating the ordination of three new priests for Mill Hill Missionaries. Masses had been said and celebrations celebrated. The Superior General of Mill Hill Missionaries, Irishman, Fr Michael Corcoran had come along with Fr. Patrick and Fr. Joseph. There was also our good friend Fr. Daniel, and Jean-Remy, aka Latro, who helps us get through Mbandaka. A recent innovation in Basankusu – well as far as I knew – was the canoe rapide, or speedboat. No more the slow chug of the 25 horsepower outboard engine pushing a 7 metre dugout, but a real speedboat with seating inside a cabin! The boat had a wonderful 200 horsepower engine! We'd be practically flying!

Francis and Judith at Mill Hill Missionaries in Basankusu 

Now, Judith had also asked for a place, but unfortunately I took the last one. I had to go to Kinshasa soon, to be able to get to England before my visa expired at the start of September. Judith would instead fly on a direct flight from Basankusu with Malu Aviation. Malu had started to extend flights to include Basankusu, to accommodate schoolchildren going on holiday, and university students coming home for the mid-year break. Neither Judith nor myself had much confidence in their reliability, having had problems with short-notice cancelations in the past. It was for this reason that Judith insisted that I go on ahead!

We walked up to the Mill Hill house. It’s about half a mile from our house, at the other end of the airstrip. I helped myself to a cup of coffee, and after Judith had greeted everybody, she did the same. It took a while, but eventually our bags were loaded into the Toyota Landcruiser, which then returned to collect us and take us to the riverside.

The boat was ready for the off! We climbed aboard, some sitting inside and others taking the breeze. Judith waved from the shore, accompanied by her old college friend, Fr Guylain. There were six of us, and, of course, there was a pilot and his assistant, too! A short manoeuvre, and the large outboard engine went full throttle! The estimated journey time would be 5 hours – instead of the usual one or two days. 

The speedboat: we'll be in Mbandaka in 5 hours! 

Wow! What a way to travel! White spay was left in our wake as we travelled at speed for just over an hour.

The water in the river was low, and a couple of times we came onto sandbanks. Then we hit one at speed! Bang! It hit the bottom of the boat. We were aground, but, after a bit of manoeuvring, were soon on our way again. And then it happened …

The powerful engine spluttered to a halt. We drifted. The gentle flow of the river lapped against the side of the boat. Forest to both sides and silence. The pilot and his colleague set to work sorting it out. I was sure we’d soon be on our way again. They must know what they’re doing! 

After twenty minutes, they decided that they couldn’t fix it. They had a second motor, but it was only 25 horsepower. We’d passed Bokakata parish. The 25 hp engine would take us back there and if we could get to a place with wi-fi, (there’s no telephone connection outside of towns) we could call for another speedboat. Fortunately, the speedboat company had three such boats. One was at our destination, Mbandaka, the other was in Basankusu.

Now the problem remaining was to find wi-fi. The place we came ashore was 3km from the parish church at Bokakata. Bokakata is a spread out settlement – more an area than a village. Fr Patrick and Latro stayed with the boat until it reached the parish. The parish priest was still away in Basankusu – he’d been to the ordination, of course. Patrick pushed on to another place, on a borrowed motorbike, and sent his message.

In the meantime, we were greeted by curious people who came to see this unusual craft – and to gape a little bit at the foreigners, but they were a friendly group, I threw the little Lomongo I know at them: Ntsoluta! We’re passing by!

Mondele! How on earth do you know Lomongo! It was an older man, who had become suspicious. I laughed, Don’t you know me? A young man approached. It’s Francis, he said, he’s our brother-in-law. It was Blandine, the son of our former watchman at the malnutrition centre. More people started to recognise me. Some had been at our wedding. Fr Daniel  - ever cheerful – smiled, Don’t you know Mr Francis? He’s your in-law! 

We decided to walk on to the parish. The path mostly followed the river and we could be there in 40 minutes. As we walked along, Daniel met more and more people that he knew. It was a very pleasant walk and a nice distraction from our problem. Michael even did a “piece to camera”, reminding everyone that Mill Hill Missionaries had started in Bokakata, adding that by doing this trek we could catch up on our daily 10,000 steps!

Sure enough, after 40 minutes we got to the parish house and were given seats on the veranda. Fr Silence had just arrived from Basankusu and made us welcome. He told us that having been away for the ordination, he hadn’t renewed his subscription for wi-fi. Not to worry, we decided to open one of the beers from the boat – which had arrived some time before us. All was calm.

While we were there, Michael became curious about Bokakata. He knew very well that it was the very first parish established by Mill Hill Missionaries, way back in 1905. Some of the first missionaries, priests and brothers lasted a very short time. The church was also worth a visit.

Patrick had returned; having been able to talk to Fr. Frederick in Basankusu, he assured us they were putting fuel in the other speedboat and it would be with us in no time at all!

We walked together, past the convent and on to a small cemetery. There were five or six graves; they were from the early 20th century. One missionary had died from a fever, and another, surprisingly, had been eaten by a crocodile! We said some prayers for those laid to rest and in celebration of their legacy in building the Basankusu Diocese.

Arriving back at the priest’s house, Fr Joseph and I ventured into the church. It wasn’t the original church from 1905, but probably built in the 1940s. a lot of roofing tiles were missing. Although in was fairly clean inside, it was in a poor state of repair. A couple of statues were still intact, and there was a pleasant coolness within the church. After our visit, Fr Silence asked me to ask Michael for help from Mill Hill Missionaries to repair it. The argument was that as this was the first parish in the diocese, and having been built by Mill Hill Missionaries, surely Mill Hill Missionaries would be eager to repair it. I smiled and said, well I can ask him, but I know what he’ll say. I noticed that the church was no longer in the place where people lived. Rather, the population had moved away. As I mentioned, Bokakata is quite a spread out settlement. I said that although the parish was the child of Mill Hill, it was now grown up and independent. The parishioners should raise the money and provide the materials if they want it repairing. In my opinion, they could build another church closer to where most people live. I passed on the question to Fr Michael. He smiled back, I’m sure whatever you told him is the right answer - local problems with local solutions. We let it go.

I walked down the steep bank to the river. It had been well over two hours since our promise of another boat. The river is wide, and, at that point, there’s a long island in the middle. One of the parishioners , Papa Mboyo, had come down with me. We chatted for a while and after twenty minutes he spotted the new speedboat in the distance. It was right on the other side of the river, and fast heading along a route that would take it behind the island. The island was covered in tall tropical trees; they wouldn’t see us at all if they passed behind it. Papa Mboyo said we’d have to signal to them. I started waving my arms above my head. No, not like that, he said, and he showed me. Both hands to the side of the head, twice – both hands down to the sides of the knees, twice – repeat! We did it in unison, with a little bend of the knees each time. It worked! Just before disappearing behind the island, the boat made a sharp turn and was very soon alongside the first boat.

The others carefully made their way down the steep path and we were soon onboard and on our way! This boat, with its own pilot and assistant, was a bit smaller. This time I sat with Patrick, Michael and Joseph in the open air, at the stern. A great trail of white water was left in our wake, once again! 

We went on for another hour. We stopped to untangle some weeds from the propeller , hit some small sandbanks a couple of times and the … came to a halt again. Silence … well almost. We could hear children laughing and singing in a nearby, riverside village. There was a problem with the fuel-line; fuel wasn’t getting through. The pilots mate was standing waist deep in the water trying to sort it out. Patrick leant over the back of the boat to help. As the work went on, we drifted closer to the people on the shore. A woman sat in a canoe, on the shoreline. She was leaning over to wash sweet potatoes in the river. Being quite amused at the sight of such a powerful boat left with only the power of a traditional canoe! Can I give you a paddle, she teased. Patrick an I went along with her joke. Yes, bring it!

Not to worry. The engine started once again. I suppose we’d wasted half an hour – perhaps it was even a whole hour. We pushed on at speed. The sun was now low in the sky as 6 pm approached. High above the river, the parish house and church at Mampoko came into view. Patrick was uneasy. Can’t we push on till Lolanga, he asked. Lolanga is where the Lulanga River meets the mighty Congo River. The pilot didn’t agree. It’s already dark, he said. We’re forbidden to travel at night.

At the parish house in Mampoko, there was a seminarian on placement. He hadn’t gone to the ordination in Basankusu and was at his post, in command of the parish! He welcomed us. We sat on the veranda and sent out for beer (which we didn’t think would be available!). Three young women had followed us up the steep bank from the river, with basins of fish. As we sat and chatted, Fr Daniel haggled over the price of the fish. Some would be for us, and others he’d take to Kinshasa. The haggling went on for at least an hour and a half. In such isolated places along the river, fish is always plentiful, and always a lot cheaper than fish in Basankusu, and certainly cheaper than river fish in Kinshasa. 

It didn’t seem long after the fish had been bought, that we found ourselves being seated in the dining room at a large table. People from the parish had cooked the fish and added a starchy Congolese staple, called cassava bread. We settled down to eat a hearty meal together. Rooms were allocated, and we slept the sleep of the just.

The next morning, Michael and I were up at 5 am, as arranged. The others, a little later. My room was next to the dining room, but I found the doors, back and front, were locked. There was no one else around, but I saw that a large window was fastened with a simple latch. I climbed out of the window. I’m certainly not as flexible as I used to be and had to lift my foot up and through with my free hand! A little later, the seminarian arrived and showed me that the doors weren’t really locked – there was just a short piece of wood swivelled on a nail across the top corner. Embarrassed really.

So, we set off again – Frs. Patrick, Michael, Joseph and Daniel, with myself and Latro! After another hour or so we reached the Congo River. The merging of the rivers is hardly noticeable, but the Congo is much wider and has a strong current. In parts, it’s 20 miles across, but it’s difficult to see that because it has a network of branches, leaving long islands in the middle. I appears to have a modest width, but the apparent riverbanks are, in fact, islands. 

Sleep seized each of us in turn, I’m sure. I certainly drifted off for most of the time. When I opened my eyes, Patrick was very alert. I noticed a lot of river traffic: heavily laden river boats and series of barges, full of good and people sitting precariously on the deck, as well as small canoes taking people to their gardens and favourite fishing spots. Japanese hyacinth floated by, leaves horizontal and with the occasional flower, this invasive species clogs propellers as well as blocking light for marine life.

Suddenly, building came into sight and we pushed up alongside some long dugouts. To get ashore, we had to precariously shuffle along in several already docked canoes, once the water had been shovelled out of them with a paddle.

I wasn’t long before an immigration official arrived. Patrick dealt with him, and he was nice enough. I had a photocopy of my passport and visa, but what he wanted to see was the date-of-entry stamp. Patrick had everything for Michael, but I was lacking the photocopy of the stamp. He’d have to photocopy it. He strode off across the sand with my passport in hand – something I’d wanted to avoid.

Now, Fr Joseph is from Uganda. He’s also a foreigner – but we were obviously targeted for our complexion!

The passport returned after about 15 minutes, by which time our bags had been loaded onto the pick-up from Caritas. We were soon being driven through the streets of Mbandaka.

We stayed at the Caritas office, where they have rooms for people passing through. Sr Victorine, a doctor from Basankusu, is now the boss of Caritas for the whole province. She made us welcome. 

On the second day, we were treated to an outing which Fr Patrick had arranged. It was at a new hotel/bar, overlooking the river. It was quite something to see the baleinières and masua, loading up and setting off for Basankusu and other places. A baleinière is literally a whaler, but, in reality, they are boats which carry goods and passengers. A masua is a series of several barges pushed by a tugboat. Usually, they are all overladen and there are frequent accidents with them. However, people don’t have much choice. There are no real roads between Basankusu and Mbandaka, and they can carry sacks of dry goods, motorbikes and even cars. As we sat with our meal, we watched two boats slowly filling up with passengers and finally setting off. I’d left my phone on charge, but Patrick was able to film some of the activity for me.

The next day, Patrick advised me that having a ticket was no guarantee of a place on the plane to Kinshasa. They often oversell tickets. When Judith got her friend to buy my ticket, we were advised that there were no more places in Economy; there was, however just one remaining seat in Business class. Now, considering that a business class ticket was the same price as an Economy ticket from Basankusu, we didn’t feel so bad about it. Patrick, Joseph and Michael were obliged to find another flight, which went a couple of hours earlier than mine. Daniel and I travelled together (although he sat in the cheap seats!). Latro lives in Mbandaka, so we left him behind.

It all worked out well. Meghan and Christenvie came to meet us at the airport in Kinshasa, and after sharing a taxi with Daniel and his fish, we soon arrived home!

Congo Kinshasa : Judith's amazing journey!

They told her to be sure to be on the riverbank at 4 am, Friday morning. Judith went to bed early. Waking at 3 o’clock she washed quickly and collected her things. Then the message came – oh, no, we’ll be going at 8!

Judith and Francis Hannaway 

Judith was going to Kinshasa, but why had she chosen the perilous route of the river? The original plan was to fly. Basankusu has always been poorly served by direct flights to Kinshasa, but a few weeks ago, Norbert, the local agent for Malu Aviation, brought us the news that the Kinshasa – Boende flight would add Basankusu into the loop, before returning to Kinshasa! It’s for the school holidays he told us. Kids going to Kinshasa for the break, and students at university coming home. It’ll be every week until September!

His assurances were met by Judith and myself with scepticism. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d taken money for tickets and then, when the flight was dropped at short notice, refused to give us all our money back. Just last year, we’d been dropped from a flight in Kinshasa, in favour of one-off travellers, then lied to every day for a week with the promise of another flight. To put it bluntly, they were not reliable.

I, myself, had travelled the week before. Judith was already predicting that the Wednesday flight would be cancelled. I had been lucky enough to get a ride in a speedboat. Judith was not so fortunate. Sure enough, when Wednesday came, and the flight was cancelled, she was promised that the flight would arrive on Thursday. When it became apparent that the flight might possibly arrive a whole week later, Judith grabbed the money and secured a place on a riverboat for the following morning, Friday.

It’s easy to imagine an old paddle-steamer, with uniformed crew bringing a sun-downer at dusk, with the sunset reflected in the tree-lined river. In fact, these riverboats are over laden hulks, known as baleinières, or whalers! People sit on the deck, clutching their meagre possessions. No toilets or washing facilities! Judith and her friend, Pitsuna, climbed the up the side of the boat and took their place amongst the throng.

One of the crew members smirked. What are you rich people doing, travelling like this? Why don’t you fly? he mocked. 

It was true. Just by their clothes, the quality of their bags and the fact the both Pitsuna and Judith were both messaging friends on their Smartphones, made them stand out, in comparison to other passengers. Judith smiled back. She explained that they had no other choice.

Onboard a baleinière! 
(photo: Patrick Lonkoy mhm) 

Just before their departure, a group of three soldiers climbed aboard.  One was a prisoner, the other two his guards. They were given a place below decks and Judith and her friend thought no more about it.

They set off at 12:30. The ancient diesel marine engine started its ear-splitting chuga-chuga-chuga. There’d be no break from that for a few days. 

They estimated, taking into account that they were travelling downstream, that they’d arrive the following evening. But a commotion suddenly broke out. From down below, they could hear someone shouting! It was the soldier who was a prisoner!

His crime was that, a few weeks ago, he’d used his automatic rifle in anger and killed someone. He’d been arrested and condemned to 20 years in the military prison, in Mbandaka. The two others were escorting him. Whilst onboard, and, no doubt, beginning before that, he’d drunk copious amounts of the local moonshine gin. He was ridiculously drunk! The fact that, just as his gaolers were, he was carrying an automatic rifle, and that he was also  drunk, was, to say the very least – alarming!

I can’t go to prison! I won’t go! They’ll beat me! I can’t do it! He screamed.

Despite the fact that his hands were tied behind his back, he stood up and writhed about. The other two soldiers tried to calm him down. They removed his weapon. They took off his boots and stripped him of his uniform, leaving him only in his underwear! The agitation didn’t end. He continued shouting. He was so distraught, so upset, so … drunk!

The boat had travelled swiftly. Only an hour after setting off, it came within sight of Bonkita. Bonkita is 18 km from Basankusu and is where the Catholic Diocese of Basankusu has its Minor Seminary. It’s a formidable building, quite high up, overlooking the river. Judith and her friend could see it, in the distance, peering down on them amid the chuga-chuga-chuga of the boat.

The soldiers were below deck, but the sides of the boat were open. The prisoner shouted: Call Michaela, call Caleb. Tell them I’m going to kill myself! Call them! They can take my body!

Judith and Pitsuna were up above, the story he was giving circulated. Everybody knew that he was extremely drunk.  They thought he was just playing with them. Suddenly he jumped into the river! Chuga-chuga-chuga, just as they came to the Minor Seminary, at Bonkita. 

From their place on deck, Judith and Pitsuna heard the bidoush! Despite the chuga-chuga-chuga of the engine, they knew that something had happened!

The baleinière pulled in at Bonkita beach.

The soldier had disappeared in broad daylight, into the fast flowing stream of the river, into his destiny. He was dead. Never to be seen again.

It all happened so quickly, his guards were taken aback! What could they do now? They called their colleagues.

Normally, if there’s an incident like that, the boat should stay put, until a local enquiry has taken place. Judith and Pitsuna waited.

After a few hours, six or seven soldiers came aboard to find out what had happened to their colleague. They started a wake. They poured out a bucket of soil onto the deck and built a fire. A large pot of coffee was soon bubbling away, which they sold by the cup to the other passengers. With the money they gained they were able to buy moonshine and something to eat. Darkness fell and the crickets sang, a cool breeze from the river caused the soldiers to sit closer to their little fire. They sat in a circle around the fire and reminisced throughout the night about their friend. Some even cried real tears. It was a very sad scene.

These enquiries can take days. The newly arrived soldiers were intent on finding the body – although that now seemed unlikely. Judith’s plane wasn’t until Wednesday, so she still had plenty of time. She sat with her friend the next morning. They decided to leave the boat for a while, and walk up to the Minor Seminary. The Minor Seminary, after all, is where our son, Christenvie, wants to study for his secondary school education, and, despite its proximity to Basankusu, Judith had never visited. It’s a steep climb from the river but they soon arrived. They talked to the head-teacher and even met the Bishop Emeritus, Joseph Mokobe, who, to Judith’s surprise, was sweeping his own yard! The seminary and boarding house, and another part, which includes a convent and guest rooms for retreats and  church conferences, was built by Mill Hill Missionaries and is a very well set out and tranquil place. It was a welcome distraction for Judith. After they’d stretched their legs enough and said hello to all the right people they made their way back down to the boat. 

When they got there, they found that another baleinière had tied up alongside theirs. This was run by the army as a money-making project and carried passengers like all the other boats on the river. 

As time went on, Judith heard that the army boat would continue its journey, whereas their own boat would have to stay put until everything was settled. She looked at Pitsuna and Pitsuna understood. They paid for a place on the army baleinière and were on their way again.

Now it’s true to say that travelling along the river, in the heart of the Congolese rainforest is a wonderful experience – passing the solid mass of trees on both sides of the river, seeing people fishing with nets, paddling into inlets to get to their forest gardens, passing fishing villages with huts built on stilts to hold them above the level of the water, and groups of happy, laughing children playing in the water – but after ten hours, or so, it becomes boring.

Fast forward past anoth evening docked at another village and on to Sunday evening. Our good friend Latro, an accountant who works for the Mbandaka Diocese, phoned me. He is invaluable in helping Basankusu people get through Mbandaka. He has contacts everywhere. He buys our tickets, arranges transport, and everything we need. 

Has Judith arrived in Mbandaka yet? he asked.

I had to tell him I had no idea. Up until this point, I’d only heard the story of the unfortunate soldier. I only heard about that by phoning her friends. Perhaps she didn’t want to worry me. But when the whole of Saturday and Sunday had passed by without a word, I was understandably anxious.

I assumed that her phone was beyond any signal and almost certainly with a flat battery.

It’s just that her plane is tomorrow, Monday, at 8 am.

What! She could possibly make it … but it didn’t look good! I had no idea where she was.

Meanwhile, Judith arrived in Lolanga. Lolanga is the last place on the River Lulanga before it merges with the mighty Congo River. Even then, to get to Mbandaka, it’s still quite a distance! The army boat would sit out the night and refuel in the morning! 

Along came a big wooden canoe with an outboard engine! They took their place and were soon on their way.

At 6 am, Monday morning, after spending yet another night resting at a riverside village, they caught sight of Mbandaka. Lots of fishing boats and other baleinières were plying their trade. There were also several enormous Masua. A Masua is a series of barges, all hooked together in a line and pushed by a tugboat. They can have up to seven barges, all heavily laden with goods and people!

I let Latro know. He said that if they could get off the boat by 6:30 he could get them straight to the airport. We’re used to this sort of thing. If she misses the plane, she misses the plane. She’ll stay a few days and buy another ticket. It’s not the end of the world. My only hope was that, as with many things in the Congo, the plane could be half an hour, or even an hour late. Ten minutes later, Latro phoned back to say that the plane had been rescheduled to 1 pm!

Judith relaxed. She was able to wash and dress on the boat and arrive at the airport with dignity. Latro got them onto a couple of taxi-motorbikes and sat them in the VIP lounge.

Arriving at Kinshasa Airport. Meghan collecting Judith. 

The flight actually left at 12 noon. Fifty minutes later they were in Kinshasa. By 3 pm, Judith was drinking wine with me in our little flat.

Congo Kinshasa : Without love, there is no life.

Without love, there is no life.

Mama Karine came to the centre with her 3 month old nephew. A happy, healthy little chap. Sadly they'd buried his mother the previous day.

Francis Hannaway 

Karine said that she'd tried to breastfeed the baby herself, but it hadn't worked. We sat Aunty Karine down with a baby's bottle and some milk. We sweetened the milk a little to make it more like mother's milk. They lived a good distance from us and she had her own children to look after. We gave her some money and a tin of milk, explaining how to make the milk, to always be ready to feed on demand, and to feed throughout the day, even eight or nine times. We explained how to make milk from soya, or peanuts, and to return to us if she had any problems. At four months, we could start adding a little of our cornflour, peanut and soyamilk porridge.

Karine spoke very confidently that she understood and she'd do everything for her sister's baby.

Aunty Karine with healthy 

3 month old orphan baby boy

A week later, one of the sisters from the convent came along on her motorbike. Let's call her Sr. Lisa. She asked me if I could help an orphan. I explained that it wasn't our policy to help orphans; we would only give advice. I agreed to give her a tin of milk-powder, and instructions on how to make soyamilk. Sr. Lisa was very knowledgeable and said she'd manage the situation. The child's carer then arrived and it was none other than Aunty Karine. Although she'd come along without him, it was the baby we were already helping. I asked if she was following our instructions, and she confidently replied that she was. Sr. Lisa and I were both satisfied that they were looking after the beautiful baby boy properly. Sr Lisa told me that she'd decided on a name for the baby, she called him Joseph. 

The sun went down and the crickets started chirping, and Aunty Karine set off for home. The palm trees in the little path next to our house swayed, as a warm breeze chased away the day's heat. One or two frogs croaked hesitantly. There was a sense of calm. Sr. Lisa started up her bike and off she went. I went back inside knowing that everything was alright.

Two days later, Sr. Lisa returned with Karine on her motorbike. Karine was holding a small bundle. She unwrapped it to reveal  baby Joseph's face: pale, lethargic, eyes sunken into his face like a skull! I literally gasped.

"What happened?" I asked, incredulously. "Did you feed him at least eight times a day?" She said that she had, but looked embarrassed.

An adult can go for several days without sustenance - but a baby needs a constant flow of the fluids and nutrients contained in his milk. I shook my head; this didn't look good at all! 

It was already evening. We hurried across to the Catholic hospital, next door. Dr. Gibril set up an infusion to replace lost fluids. He didn't think it was too serious. My own thoughts were that they often try to rush things. This can lead to shock. The doctor's argument is that they needed to act before it was too late.

I asked Karine if she'd brought the two baby's bottles we'd given her. She hadn't.

Sr. Lisa set off to their house to collect them. I went back to my house to wait. Judith's nephew, Justin, a young man whom we'd been nursing, sat in our yard. I told him to let me know when the bottles arrived. In the meantime, could he boil some water on the fire and fill a thermos flask - which he did. 

Darkness fell, once again. I waited impatiently, turning over in my mind what could have happened. If the child doesn't finish the first bottle, you wait half an hour and try again. Surely, she must know that. She has five children of her own, she must know what she's doing. Then again, they were most likely breastfed. It's her first time with a baby's bottle.

An hour went by, a strong breeze blew, carrying a little light rain, which soon passed. Karine's house is 10 km and the dirt paths are difficult.

After another hour, I stepped outside. No sign of Sr. Lisa. I phoned her. Where are the bottles?

She told me she'd sent them ages ago and that someone at our house had already received them.

I walked across to Justin. He smiled and said he didn't want to bother me so he'd taken them over to the hospital. I couldn't believe it. There's no logic here with anyone. I said, "Are you crazy? What will they do with empty bottles?"

I marched back to the hospital. Fortunately, the transfusion hadn't quite finished, but I still felt that he needed his milk.

I quickly took the bottles back to prepare the milk. I gave the made up bottles to Karine and her husband, who'd just arrived, to feed baby Joseph throughout the night.

It was as much as I could do. It was already 11pm. I returned home and went to sleep.

The next morning I hoped to have good news. We often see remakable change after a fluid infusion, but that wasn't to be the case.

I turned on my phone and found a voice message from Sr. Lisa. The little baby boy had died, at 2am, and they'd already gone with his body.

I felt numb.

I questioned myself about what I couuld have done differently. Certainly, we could have taken the baby fully into our charge. Unfortunately, we don't have the capacity to receive orphans. Sadly, Basankusu is overwhelmed with them, and we just wouldn't cope with the expense. We'd be inundated - and a good number would be permanently abandoned to us.

Sr. Lisa sent me photos of a tiny coffin being made. I'm very sceptical of funerals here. No help when someone's sick, but a beautiful coffin and a huge meal when they die. Perhaps I was a little hasty this time because it was the convent workers who made the coffin. They made a good job of it. But I didn't attend the funeral. 

While she was at the funeral, Sr Lisa asked about the circumstances for Joseph's demise. It seems that Karine and her husband went each day to their vegetable garden in the forest. They left the baby with their other children, with instructions on how to feed them. From what we can gather, it didn't happen. What is certain is that there was no love towards baby Joseph. Without love negligence happens. Without love, life cannot be.

Rest in Peace. 

Congo Kinshasa: An everyday tragedy in the Congo!

I don't even want to share this story.

I'm in Kinshasa, Congo's capital. 

We have a tiny flat here, for the times when we're passing through, or taking a break. 

Kinshasa is a dirty, chaotic, dangerous megacity of more than 17 million people. The roads are in poor condition and the overuse of cars and taxis means lots of traffic congestion. There are some small buses and shared taxis, but most people pack themselves into minibuses, 4 rows of 4 to a seat, plus two with the driver. The very few traffic-lights there are are usually ignored. Accidents are frequent; emergency services, non-existent. 

When we first moved in here, on the 2nd floor of what will become a medical centre, Judith's cousin, Gracia, and her two teenage children lived next door, in a larger flat. We share a common balcony area which overlooks the yard below. Gracia moved out when the rent went up and Jenny and her husband moved in. Jenny also had a teenage daughter from her husband's previous relationship. We got on fairly well with them and their friends, who often spent time at the flat. 

Jenny

This morning, Jenny was sorting out some clothes to dry on the balcony railing. Papa Charles, the watchman, asked us to go downstairs to chat with Mama Jumo, the building's owner, about the rent. 

It wasn't long afterwards that Meghan, leaving the flat to go to university, passed Jenny in the yard with a bucket of clothes ready to hang on the line. 

At 9:30, Meghan said goodbye to Jenny and set off. 

At 2 pm I went to collect our laundry from the washing line downstairs, because it had started to rain. I passed the bucket of laundry that Jenny had left under the clothes line. I thought no more about it and carried our dry laundry back upstairs. Not long afterwards, Meghan sent me a messsge, telling me to collect our laundry from the line because the rain was torrential where she was. I told her not to worry, because it had already stopped raining here. 

At 4pm I heard a commotion on the shared area. It was shouting! it was crying! It was wailing! AfterJenny had left her bucket of washing, she climbed onboard a packed minibus, which had carried her and her brother-in-law towards the suburbs near the airport. They were on their way to a prayer group. Suddenly, they were involved in an awful accident! The minibus rolled over. Both she and her brother-in-law were cut to pieces and were killed instantly along with a lot of other people! 

We didn't know at the time, but it had happened not long after we'd seen her at 9:30am, around 10 o'clock.

At the scene of the accident, people gathered around. The market thieves and pickpockets descended. Jenny had died instantly, her head and legs ripped from her body in the carnage. Nevertheless, one thief stole her phone. He didn't stop there. He found Jenny's step-daughter's number and called her, describing in detail what had happened.

Others who died couldn't be identified and so family members still don't know. 

Jenny braiding Stage's hair earlier this year

Eventually, the story spread, and by 4 pm friends and family had returned to Jenny's flat. 

The tradition here is to let it all out. To shout out in anger. Why did this happen to me! Who sent this evil to me! And to cry in grief! To wail! To let everything out! 

When 30 women come together like that, right outside my door, it's frightening. Thankfully, Meghan is representiing me. She'll sleep on the veranda with the other women. Tragic!

Congo Kinshasa: an uncomfortable night reveals a tropical danger

I couldn't sleep. 

I felt bloated. Nothing seemed to resolve the problem. I imagined having an indigestion disguised heart attack, cancer, or the need for a surgical intervention. I laid on on side, on my back, on the other side. I made several visits to out Turkish style toilet. The pain was across my lower ribs - across my spleen, stomach and liver. A dull, tight ache.

Francis and Judith Hannaway 

Judith brought me a glass of water the first night, and 2 paracetamol. I slept. The following day, I consumed the maximum amount of paracetamol, as well as drinking multiple cups of sweet, milky coffee. The bloating didn't go away. Pain across the lower ribs! For two days I hardly ate. 

The next morning I took my first of three de-worming tablets. The change was SO remarkable that I've eaten loads today, and even had a beer.

Worms are picked up as eggs from contaminated food. Perhaps, someone carrying them didn't wash their hands before touching food.

The eggs enter the stomach and intestines. As they progress they develop into spaghetti-like worms that produce thousands of microscopic eggs, each day! The eggs pass from the intestines to the blood supply, eventually emerging in the lungs. They cause irritation and emerge in phlegm as the patient starts to cough. The eggs emerge in the throat and are then swallowed, only to develop into thousands more egg-laying worms! The cycle repeats. Eventually, the intestines fill with worms, get blocked and the body goes into shock. Death often follows.

I obviously had this parasitic infestation. I could sense it, report it, get treatment for it. I didn't go into shock and die like Fr Patrick CCIM did, 30 years before. I took the pills and survived!

Tragically, for our malnourished children, the story's different. They're too young to speak. The parents are often ignorant of the low price if treatment (20 pence!). The days of bloating, lack of appetite, abdominal pain, go unnoticed. At least 75% of our malnourished children need treatment for worms. The parents are oblivious.

That's why we desperately need your donation to combat these infections in a country where we're the only option!

Make a donation to Francis and Judith's Malnutrition Centre (click) 

Congo Kinshasa : Ex-soldier, Papy, dumped at our house in a critical state!

 ==£300 needed urgently!==

We sat down to breakfast. Judith is still a little worn out from her river journey. "I've still got a headache," she said. "There's a new child waiting outside, but I've already sent someone to take them for a checkup at the hospital." The hospital is a small affair and just next door. Judith sat with me at the table and I filled our cups with hot water from the thermos flask. Breakfast had become more enjoyable since Judith's two weeks away. As well as sacks of beans, rice, milk-powder and all the things we need for the malnutrition centre, she'd also managed to source some breakfast goodies! Orange marmalade for my bread is a rare treat, and hot-chocolate makes a real difference! "Don't take too long," she added. "You promised to take that parcel across to the convent for Sister Marie." I nodded to acknowledge what she'd said. "Oh, and Papy's come to see us."

"Papy? Papy?" I thought for a while before asking which Papy it was.

"You know, he was our watchman before."

Yes, I remembered him now. His girlfriend had come to stay with him. He'd been fine. An ex-soldier; very quiet, but serious in his work. She'd caused all the trouble and then they both suddenly left.

I finished my breakfast and picked up the parcel. I walked past Papy on my way out of the yard. He was sitting, slouched on a plastic chair near the gate. I said hello, but, true to his manner, didn't really notice a reply. I continued on my way.

Francis Hannaway with Papy

It was already 8:30 and starting to warm up. I arrived at the convent and, after a nice chat with two of the sisters, made my way back.

The sun was now too hot and my shirt was absolutely soaked with sweat! I called in to see Fr Christiantus. After half an hour cooling down in front of an electric fan, he took me in to town to see his new shop.

We sat for an hour with a bottle of beer each, while he showed me all the motorbike parts in his boutique. We finally got back to my house at 1 pm where Judith was waiting.

Fr Christiantus with Francis Hannaway 

"Papy came because he's ill." she told me as we walked in. "I had him sent to the hospital and the doctors have just sent this note." The writing wasn't too clear but very noticeable in the middle was "appendicitis".

I asked how he'd got here if he was so ill. I thought back to my morning greeting - the reason he hadn't replied was because he was only half-conscious. "His neighbours carried him here," sighed Judith. "He doesn't have any family, his girlfriend left him... and it doesn't look like he has any friends. So, his neighbours dumped him with us."

Fr. Christiantus joined us for lunch. "If you've had trouble with him in the past," he said, "and if he dies during the operation, you'll be accused later."

"No," said Judith. "We didn't have any problems with him at all. He left because of his girlfriend."

"What do you want to do?" I asked her. "He needs an operation, and he needs it now. What shall we do?"

Judith wasn't happy. "This hospital's expensive. Maybe we can do it cheaper with Dr David."

Fr Chris went home while Judith went across to the hospital. She soon came back, saying, "They want 250,000 Francs upfront." (That's £80!)

Normally, we pay our hospital bill at the end of each month, but I remembered that operations need a "kit". A "kit" includes all the scalpels, syringes, swabs and whatever, they need for a particular operation. We decided to go ahead.

The total costs will be around £300.

Papy doesn't have a fixed place to live. He drifts around looking for work. After his operation, some of his brothers (well, brothers-in-arms!) arrived from Djombo, a sizeable village, 8 hours upriver. They'd all been soldiers together during Bemba's war and settled where they were, when it ended. Thinking they'd come for his funeral, they were happy to see he was still alive. They stayed three nights, sleeping on a mat next to his bed in the hospital.

Urgent donations are still needed to cover his costs. 😊 Details on my page.

Judith donated a towel and some soap and persuaded me to part with some clothes (although most of mine would swamp him!)

He'll be in hospital for a couple of weeks - that's why we need to raise funds. 

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