Congo Kinshasa: Happy New Year 2020 from Francis Hannaway!

Five years ago, I started my adventure in the Congolese rainforest. I remember sitting uneasily in a flimsy canoe with outboard engine, on the River Congo. Greeted by familiar faces in Basankusu, I was soon rudely awakened to the realities of forest poverty: untimely death from childbirth, from malaria and from poor diet. I enthusiastically started my work teaching candidates to Mill Hill Missionaries and looking after the accounts.

Early in 2015, a group of Belgian eye-doctors arrived for a 2-week mission, performing cataract operations for next to nothing. Despite insecurity, they visited every year after that to do the same.
I set up a malnutrition centre. It’s the only malnutrition centre in a diocese half the size of England. I started making wheelchairs for people whose only way of getting around was by crawling on the ground. I’ve now given 24 wheelchair bicycles for those disabled by polio.

From the start, I’ve been harassed by corrupt officials, mostly immigration police who see me as a soft target.

Francis Hannaway with the malnutrition centre volunteers

I started teaching at the local minor-seminary, which involved an exciting solo ride on a dirt-track motorbike, through the forest, each week. It was difficult at first, but I eventually got the hang of it.
In April 2016, our house burnt down. The paraffin fridge had caught fire and there was no way the control the flames. After the fire, I took a trip to Kinshasa with Fr. John Kirwan mhm while he got an emergency travel-document to replace his incinerated passport. It was a welcome break for me, too.
In Kinshasa, I welcomed a little boy and his mother for medical treatment. Judith, who helps me run the malnutrition centre, came to help guide them through the process. Tensions were high as people waited for a presidential election. We were robbed by, probably fake, officials in the street, on our way to give the sick boy’s mother some money for food. Soon afterwards, Kinshasa turned into a bloodbath, with demonstrations being brutally put down by the police. The next 2 years would see many such incidents, and many people, including people at mass, inside their church, were mercilessly shot down, before elections finally took place at the end of 2018.

After the election, I left my work at Mill Hill (we’d cut the teaching program after the fire) and concentrated solely on malnutrition. Sadly, the poverty caused by bad governance has made my centre even more necessary.

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Since I arrived in the Congo, we’ve treated over 3,500 malnourished children. We’ve been menaced by Ebola and are now struggling with a rise in numbers caused by the current measles epidemic. I’m still struggling to renew my visa, but I’m really looking forward to 2020 to see what more, with your help, we can achieve.

Congo Kinshasa: £50 million for jewellery is obscene

Bernie Ecclestone is worth £2,600,000,000 - that's two point six billion pounds, more than the economy of a small country. His daughter Tamara has about £300,000,000 three hundred million pounds.

Tamara Ecclestone
Wikipedia

When Tamara had £50 million worth of jewellery stolen this week, I suggested that to have that amount of money to spend on 'sparkly things' was obscene.

As you know, I work in the Democratic Republic of Congo on a project I set up 5 years ago for treating malnutrition. Malnutrition has several causes - but the underlying one is poverty.

I wrote on facebook and Twitter:

Some of Tamara's jewellery
Daily Mail

How can sparkly things be worth £50 million! If I had even a fraction of that I wouldn't need to raise funds for my malnutrition centre. I could probably run the whole province for several years - hospitals, schools and road building - with that amount. First world problems.

... several people disagreed with me, "What belongs to someone else is none of your business!" was the gist of the response. On Twitter my thoughts were accepted more.

Bangles and watches

So, I had a think about how long it would take to get just the price of Tamara's jewellery by working for it. I wrote:

To give an idea of £50 million, imagine a really high salary - imagine taking home £100,000 a year after tax. Imagine if you saved it and didn't spend any of it. After 500 years you'd have £50 million. And that was sparkling on her fingers and around Tamara Ecclestone's neck.
Just to add, I've never had a salary anywhere near £100,000! But just to imagine someone who had a really highly paid job.

Necklaces and chains

If we imagine that people have a right to be rich, we have to consider people in England whose ancestors came from France - the Normans - and killed our ancestors and stole their land. The Duke of Westminster is worth £13 billion! How did he become rich? His great-great-great granddaddy killed my great-great-great granddaddy and stole his land. His land happens to be half of central London. He inherited it and never worked for it. Should he give it back? Should he help the poor?
I'll explain further.

In the Congo, at the time called Zaire, I taught candidates to Mill Hill Missionaries. I taught them English and about the wider world – the world outside the forest.
The president was a dictator who’d developed a personality cult around himself. It was difficult, in fact, illegal to criticise what he did.

He started off as an army officer who eventually staged a coup to become president. He would do things to become richer. For example, people would mine diamonds locally and Mobutu would send a plane full of money. The plane would fly back to him, leaving money with the people. Mobutu controlled the production of money, so when he needed more, he just printed it. It’s what we would call today Quantitative Easing. It caused inflation of 3,000%! This meant that the money that the people received was soon worthless!

When I arrived in the Congo in 1992, 1,000,000 Zaires was worth £1. Yes, just £1! But it 1985 £1 was equivalent to 10 Zaires. Quantitative Easing had allowed the president to buy up quite a lot of ‘things’.

I set up a lesson with my students. I told them to bring their worldly possessions – 20 things that they had (they didn’t have much). A textbook, an exercise book, a bar of soap, a bedsheet, a cassette, a pen, … just the things they had.

I took some airmail paper and made some pretend banknotes – I called the money "pounds sterling". There were only seven students, and I gave each of the students £200 in this play-money. They were in two groups. For the first hour one group played the part of sellers, the others buyers. Then they switched roles and sellers became buyers. They could set their own price and were encouraged to haggle. The object of the game wasn’t to accumulate money, but to accumulate ‘things’. The diamond sellers ended up with worthless paper money, whereas the president had diamonds which couldn’t lose their value. A bedsheet can keep you warm at night, and a bar of soap can be used to wash yourself, a cassette can give you music … but money by itself can’t do anything for you!

I left them to play shops and returned in the evening. I’d made some more money to solve any disputes they might have. Yes – we do have problems! I asked for £20 for my book and he just threw £10 at me and took it! … and so on. I showed them that I had more money and their eyes lit up. The aggrieved and aggressor were both given money and their problems disappeared with the lust of money. I topped up each student’s money with a further £200 and all was well. Of course, the number of things available remained the same. They were unaware that the money in their pockets had now lost half of its value.

We continued the game the following morning, but this time I showed them that I had even more money and asked if I could join in the buying game. Their eyes lit up again with the thought that they could also get my money by inflating their prices.

A basic wooden blackboard stood in the corner of the classroom on an easel. I told them that I would buy things and put them underneath the blackboard because it symbolised my village. I called my village Gbadolite (that was the name of the president’s village). Each time someone tried to buy an item for £5 I bought it for £10; if it was £30, I gave £60. I soon bought around two-thirds of everything.

And so, they started to see how the president was able to manipulate their lives. The people did the work and produced goods, but the president took the wealth in the form of goods, land, properties and so on. I stripped their world of assets by buying their goods; I left them with worthless money. This is how the rich remain rich and how the poor become poorer.

Those people in the developed world have a moral obligation to help those without anything, the poor, the sick, the landless, because the rich have created that poverty by their actions. Creating wealth is good … but to have the equivalence of an executive’s salary for 500 years work just in your jewellery box must be immoral.

I’ve helped over 3,500 malnourished children with donations from people who live ordinary lives. I run the whole project on about £1,000 a month and don't get a salary. Imagine if I had as much as only £1 million to do my work!

Perhaps Robin Hood was right.

Congo Kinshasa: Giving birth in Basankusu

A new baby is born - Giving birth in the Congo - by Annaïg Louboutin.

As every morning, Mamá Julie leaves her home in search of the daily food for her family. But there is a difference: she is heavily pregnant. Mamá Julie is 34 years old and expects her fifth child. She goes on foot, a basket on her back, walking 13 km looking for fish. On the way back she gets contractions and her waters break. Instead of stopping at Bonkita, the nearest parish, and giving birth there, she decides to continue her walk right to Basankusu, praying to the Lord that nothing serious will happen. In her mind she can‟t give birth elsewhere but at home. She does not like to be surrounded by unknown people and on top of that, it would be too expensive for her husband. No, without a doubt, God will help her to reach home. God does not sleep and Mamá Julie finally reaches her house at sunset, with her basket filled with food on her back, and with the onset of labour well advanced.

Children collecting firewood with their granddmother
(Ngombe tribe)

She has hardly arrived when she lies down on the muddy ground which is barely covered by a home-made woven mat. With the help of her husband, who pushes on her belly (he‟s getting quite experienced; it is the fifth child his wife has brought into the world in these elementary conditions) she tries to give birth.

Within a few hours‟ time, in the rain and in the almost total obscurity of the African night,

Mamá Julie and her husband manage to deliver a big baby of 5 kg without a caesarean section. The baby seems to be fine; it cries aloud. It is about 11 o‟clock in the evening. But the afterbirth does not want to appear. The husband continues to press on his wife‟s belly for a long time; but the placenta is too high up.

Women retourning from their vegetable gardens in the forest,
carrying vegetables including cassava root and cassava leaves, and firewood

Powerless as he is, he decides to appeal to his neighbour‟s wife to rid her of the afterbirth. This after having asked the help of the nearest nurse, who, a few hours previously, had answered that the husband should bring his pregnant wife along to his house, on the back of a bike, if he wanted any help at the delivery. In an effort to get rid of the placenta Mamá Julie, just having had her baby, has the bright idea of blowing into a horn. The neighbour‟s wife rubs her belly continuously whilst imploring God to come and assist them. After half an hour or so, their fervent prayer is answered: the afterbirth comes out. In the traditional African context it is very important to recuperate the placenta. It‟s buried in the house next to the afterbirths of the previous babies. It is a way of perpetuating the eternal cycle of life and death by returning to mother earth and the ancestors the envelope that contained the embryo.

After this digression, let us return to the delivery. Now they need to cut the umbilical cord that still connects the naked baby to its mother, though more than two hours have passed.

A woman selling locally pressed palm oil in a beer-bottle

Mamá Julie asks her husband to get the razor blade she has hidden under the mattress. „You know that‟s the blade I used to cut Félicité‟s hair and Gidéon‟s nails.‟ When the neighbour‟s wife hears this, she proposes to get a clean blade and so avoid infections. The umbilical cord is cut and everybody goes home after a night full of tensions and emotions. The following day, like any day, Mamá Julie goes to the spring to fetch water, before she prepares cassava leaves. That‟s life!

You just followed, nearly live, the nocturnal, natural and nearly solitary birth of Mamá Julie's fifth child. The baby is now two weeks old and is fine, like its mother, who has not suffered any serious tearing and whose bruises on her belly have already disappeared.

I do not know whether God exists, but could I even doubt it in a case like this? Do you think that.

Mamá Julie is an exception? You are right to say that unfortunately many women give birth in the old way, on the ground, without any medical assistance, the difference in Mamá Julie‟s case was that she had fallen out with her mother and her siblings, and that, normally, women in a similar situation are surrounded by other women who advise and encourage them throughout their delivery.

Since the departures of the Doctors without Borders, our situation has deteriorated considerably. From 70 FC for the complete medical care of the mother and child at the hospital, the costs of a delivery have risen to 15,000 FC without any warranty of success. Just for the last few months it seems seven women and their babies did not survive a caesarean operation at our hospital.

I leave you wondering about the wonderful adventure of giving life, wonderful only for a relatively small number of women on our planet in 2011. It‟s often their faith that pulls them through.

Annaïg Louboutin - author of this article

Annaïg Louboutin.

Congo Kinshasa: there won't be snow in Africa this Christmas

I love the Russian story of Babushka. A woman is visited by the Three Wise Men who tell her that baby Jesus will soon be born, and they are on their journey to Bethlehem, and “why don’t you come along?” Babushka tells them that she will join them soon just as soon as she’s got the house ready. … and, when she’s finally ready, she’s too late. We all prepare, but we shouldn’t leave things too late.
I’m doing my own preparing right now. Before leaving the Congo in September, to go to a family funeral in Middlesbrough, the bishop of Basankusu instructed the diocesan Caritas group to write an invitation letter for me, which he would sign, and which would get me a new visa. My current five-year-visa runs out December 14. There should have been plenty of time.

I arrived in Congo’s capital, Kinshasa, 23 October, to powerful tropical thunderstorms! Still no sign of a letter. “No, don’t worry,” I was advised, “there’s still plenty of time. The bishop has gone for a week of meetings and will be back Sunday evening, 3 November.”

Babushka and the Three Kings

Soon, central Kinshasa, hot and muggy, was completely flooded. We managed to manoeuvre down less popular roads through about a foot of water, while others saw their parked cars completely submerged.

I met up with Huang, our Chinese friend. He’s also trying to renew his visa. He took me to a Chinese restaurant – what a treat in the middle of Kinshasa! … and then on to a really modern bar/nightclub (don’t worry – I was back home by 9pm). Kinshasa has made some improvements recently.

I realised that I was seriously running out of time for my visa. Like Babushka, my deadline was coming up, but the preparations continued. I was eventually able to get in touch with Brother Paul from Caritas, who works with children accused of witchcraft.

Huang Haiwen of Basankusu

“Don’t worry,” he assured, “the bishop will discuss your invitation letter, Tuesday morning at 8:15.”
“That’s great!” I replied. “Will they send it to me the same day by e-mail?”

“No, then it will have to go to the territorial administrator to be certified – and then it will be sent to you, and then you can submit it with your passport in Kinshasa.”

I pondered the situation. If my visa expires while it’s being processed in Kinshasa, I’ll be stuck. If I have to return to England without a visa, I’ll have to begin again from scratch – a process that could take several months.

Francis with Judith in Kinshasa ... waiting for his visa

While I’m sure that there won’t be snow in Africa this Christmas, I’m not sure if I’ll be successful with my visa. Perhaps I’ll be like Babushka, still in a never-ending circle of preparation.

Have a great Advent!

Congo Kinshasa: Going home for a funeral

Before little Fidèle arrived, there had been some plotting going on in Basankusu and further afield. I’d had a problem with the immigration police, in January. For some reason they’d heard that my time with Mill Hill Missionaries had finished. They told me that my current visa, of five years, was no longer valid. This, they explained, was because I was no longer under the protection of the missionary society – even though my original invitation was from the Basankusu Diocese. The January problem was resolved, and not without expense, so I was able to continue with my work.

This time, the problem didn’t come from the immigration office in Basankusu, but from Mbandaka, the provincial capital, 500 km down the river. They wanted me to go there and explain what I was doing in Basankusu. There are only three foreigners in Basankusu: a Nigerian priest, a Chinese shopkeeper, and me.

The airstrip building - they wanted to stop me entering

I went to visit the bishop. He was very welcoming but reminded me about what he’d told me in January. The diocesan Caritas group would need to write a new invitation letter for me, and the bishop would sign it. Nothing had happened on this, so far, so now was the time to do something about it.

Then, as you heard, my father died. I took the opportunity of a direct flight from Basankusu to Kinshasa; a weekly service with a twenty-eight-seater plane had started recently, and although there were sometimes gaps of several weeks in its service, it was the best option.

Our nutrition centre volunteers descended to give their condolences – closely followed by Judith’s choir (she has her own choir!). The idea is that everyone who knows you comes along for a wake. They sit and chat; they dance around a fire, eat and drink. They beat on improvised drums and continued chanting into the night. It was really nice for people to come. Most sat for half an hour and then went home. The choir continued beating out a rhythm. By 11 o’clock I’d had enough and went to bed.

Judith came to check on me at 2 in the morning. “Tell them – thanks for coming, but it’s time to go home.”

“Oh, no,” she laughed, “they’ll be here all night, every night for five nights. It’s our tradition to keep you company.”

“But I want them to go home!” I pleaded.

“I’ll ask them to be quiet,” she smiled and went back outside.

At 5 am I heard her coming in again. I followed her to where she was intending to sleep and watched her crash out … worn out after a night without sleep. I gave her a gentle pat on the back. “What do you want!” … another pat. “Go away!” I continued until I’d got her attention.

“Oh,” I said, “now you want to sleep? Judith, please tell them not to come back.” After a lot of pleading – and even though it was unheard of in the local tradition – she agreed to ask them not to come back. I left her to her slumber.

Some of our volunteers continued for the five days but slept quietly outside on the veranda. Little by little, I arranged my suitcase and got ready for my journey.

Then I got a message: the police had been instructed to bar my entry into the airstrip compound. I wouldn’t be allowed to fly until I’d visited the immigration police’s office in Mbandaka. Judith sorted it all out in the end - more money changed hands. She wouldn’t tell me how much, but the situation was resolved, and I was allowed to travel.

View from a plane landing at
Basankusu airstrip

What upset us the most was that people who we thought were our friends were also involved in the plot, and also took their percentage. I still believe that most people in Basankusu are supportive and respectful of what we do in Basankusu, such as treating malnourished children, building wheelchairs, supporting projects across the diocese with our expertise, but there is still a small group who have other ideas. They are usually officials of some sort – yes, it’s true that they’re mostly poorly paid – but they just see foreigner as naïve cash-cows, fair game to take advantage of. The consequences are very demoralising.

Because I’m the only European in Basankusu, my every action is watched. The work I do is tiring, especially in this tropical heat, but I do so much as go for a quiet drink in one of the local beer gardens, I’m seen as living an outrageous life. Jealously sets in.

At my dad's funeral

Fortunately, Judith and the volunteers are very supportive. I wouldn’t be able to do it without them – certainly I wouldn’t be able to do it without Judith.

While I was in England, Judith had her appendix removed. She’d ignored my advice to have it done in Kinshasa and had confidence that her chosen doctors in Basankusu would do a great job. Well, the infected wound that she ended up with afterwards could have happened even in an English hospital, I suppose.

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That's how we keep going!

I arrived back in Kinshasa 23 October. Judith will be coming down to recuperate and to accompany me while I submit my new invitation letter and, with a bit of luck, get a new visa.

The malnutrition centre goes from strength to strength. Even when Judith and I are not there, the work continues – and these days the volunteers are only as far away as a telephone call. So, no problems there …

We really need more funds, though. Your individual kindness has got us this far. Please do your best to send a donation via PayPal to keep this work going. God bless you!

Congo Kinshasa: Selling toys to help malnourished children

They arrived from a village, 30 miles away, on foot.

Francis Hannaway at the malnutrition centre, Basankusu, DR Congo

They had carried their son, Fidèle, aged 11, and who’d just had measles, to our second centre. I took them to our nearby Catholic hospital, and we started to do the paperwork to get him admitted. His dad held him on his lap, wrapped in a faded printed cloth, his skin was pale and his body cool.

As they put a thermometer under his arm, I put my hand under his nose to see if he was still breathing – it was hard to tell. Consultation with a nurse followed and then tests on his blood, etc. They decided to admit him and give a blood transfusion. 

I started to walk back to our centre to get the money for the blood donor, but they called me back before I’d left the compound. 

“He’s already dead,” said Nurse Germain. My heart sank. They’d walked such a distance in search of help – but too late. “Perhaps he was already dead when he arrived,” added Germain. 

The morning sun beat down on me as I collected some money to help them get home. When I got back to the hospital they’d already set off. Germain took me on his motorbike a little way along the rough dirt track to catch them up and I was able to give them the money which would help get them back to their village.

“Is it worth it,” I thought, “to give people hope like that? They’ve come all this way and little Fidèle has died.” I tried to think instead of the countless children who had recovered and then I felt a bit better.

Then came news that my own dad had died. I went back to England.

This little girl's hair has grown white
because of long-term malnutrition

Before the day of my dad’s funeral, I was at Sunday mass at St Gabriel’s parish. One of the parishioners told me about an 11-year-old girl who’d sold her toys to raise money for my malnutrition centres. What a lovely thing to do! Here’s part of what I wrote to her in a thank-you card.

“By selling your toys to raise money for this work, you have not only helped these children to survive, but you've also shown everybody a fantastic example of social responsibility. I know that everyone is very proud of your actions - you thought about others instead of yourself. Well done - and thank you from all the team at my centres.”

It raised my spirits, tremendously. A child of 11 had died, but another 11-year-old was ready with an act of love towards children she’d never met. I wonder if other people would follow her example! For me, it makes it all worthwhile. 

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Malnourished children on the mend
at Francis Hannaway's centre for malnutrion

Congo Kinshasa: New glasses for Veronique

This is "Jean Lunettes" - he's part of the Eye-Doctors' team.

Here he is helping Mama Veronique get her glasses during their February visit. She needed glasses to see the distance better ... she'd never learned to read so the eye test couldn't use a text.

Mama Veronique tries on her new glasses

Judith is interpreting from Lingala to French for her. Mama Veronique got a wheelchair from us earlier in the year.

When we arrived, I went around to the main entrance to the hospital compound to get it unlocked. There were crowds of people and a lot of them wanted me to help them to be seen by the doctors. A woman crawling on the ground was trying to get my attentions and I kept shrugging her off - I had to find someone with the key to the gate to let Mama Veronique in. I was getting more distraught because I couldn't see her outside. More people were calling out to me for help in being seen ... at the same time this disabled woman persisted in grabbing my leg as I passed.

I told her, "I don't have time ... I have to find Mama Veronique."

Then I realised - IT WAS Mama Veronique.

Doh!

Congo Kinshasa: Measles causes complications at Basankusu malnutrition centre

A dark spectre has cast its long shadow over the country: first in other parts, so we thought we’d be safe, then the shadow fell over the town of Basankusu, where I work. The spectre is measles. Eight thousand children have died in the Congo in the last year from the current epidemic – by comparison, Ebola virus has killed two thousand in the past two years.

Children at the centre with energy/protein deficiency
Basankusu, DR Congo

Vaccinations take place throughout Congo in a massive internationally funded programme - and it’s free. Even so, a lot of children miss out for various reasons, especially in the outlying villages where they’re beyond healthcare. A growing concern is the number of pseudo-Christian sects, do-it-yourself churches that discourage modern medicine. Measles is a high-risk illness to begin with, but for children who are already underweight it can be deadly. The illness itself usually causes diarrhoea, which then causes rapid weight loss and the loss of a lot of essential nutrients; the body becomes dehydrated.

Send a donation to Francis' centre for malnutrition. (click/tap the link)

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Our main fear is, of course, that a child might introduce measles into my malnutrition centre where it would spread quickly with devastating consequences. We work closely with our local Catholic hospital who have so far arranged separate rooms for any of our children suspected of having measles. Eventually, they’ll run out of space!

We presently have seventy children registered at our centre, at least ten in that group have recently had measles.

Malnourished children at our centre in Basankusu waiting to be fed

“Don’t worry, Francis,” reassured Germain, one of the nurses at the hospital, “once measles has finished in someone, they can’t pass it on to anyone else.” I was relieved to hear it.

“Actually,” he continued, “it would be good if you could open more centres for malnutrition in the villages outside Basankusu where the need is great. I notice that a lot of the children at your centre have been carried great distances on their parents’ backs. It would be good if they had somewhere near to where they live.”

Nurse Germain at the hospital

Of course, I agreed with him. “The only problem is paying for it all. People in Middlesbrough Diocese have been very kind so far, but we are still battling against the tide. If donations don’t increase soon, even the work we are doing in Basankusu will have to be reduced.”

Germain looked puzzled for a moment. As he looked around the bare concrete floor of the hospital ward, with four rusty metal-framed beds in it, he was probably thinking that people from England could never run out of money.

“Tell them that I sent you,” he smiled.

“I will indeed,” I smiled back.

Congo Kinshasa: Fish supper ends busy day at the centre in Basankusu

“Who will buy this wonderful morning? Such a sky you never did see!” go the words of the song from Oliver. A succession of people passes by my house each morning, in Basankusu, deep in the Congolese rainforest. They call out their wares, just like in the song. “Vegetables, green leafy vegetables!” “Sweeping brushes, brushes, brushes!” “Soap is passing, soap is passing!” “Oranges!” “Bread! Freshly baked bread!”

The massive sky, with its powerfully sculpted clouds reflects the early rays of the sun, cutting through the morning’s sticky cool, giving a hint at how hot it will become as the day progresses. School children, clutching their exercise-books, walk purposefully in one direction, their heads down, still half asleep. Today is la rentrée scolaire – the return to school!

Children at the centre waiting to be fed

A lot of children at the malnutrition centre are too young to go to school. In the Congo, you have to pay to go to school. Some school-age children at the centre can’t afford to go. We convince parents that getting their children back on the road to health is more important for the moment. They’ll stay with us for a couple of months.

Francis Hannaway at the Basankusu centre for malnutrition

After breakfast, Judith arrives, and we start to look for two passing bicycle-taxis – you sit on a cushioned luggage rack behind the rider. Then we’re off across town on the bumpy dirt-tracks to our main centre.

Library photo of a "Toleka" taxi-bicycle
(c) 2014 Congoleselady.blogspot.com

The taxi-bike drivers race against each other – one minute I’m in front and the next Judith’s driver has overtaken me. (It’s quite rare to see a car in Basankusu). We arrive at the centre to see around sixty children eating their special porridge. Mama José, our nurse, welcomes us. “The mothers have been collecting edible caterpillars from the trees,” she enthused. “They’re full of protein, so we’ll soon see the numbers going down!”

Judith Bondjembo talking to volunteers and parents

Once the volunteers had served the main meal, we were able to call all the volunteers for our monthly meeting. Around one o’clock Judith and I leave. We have more people to see. Some of the children are in hospital and we need to follow their progress. Not far from the centre there’s a man who became disabled after suffering from meningitis – we’ll visit to make a video appeal to find funds for a wheelchair for him. It will be the twenty-fifth wheelchair we’ve had made.

Young girl selling "Kwanga" or cassava bread in Basankusu

After our visits, we headed back across town on foot. We instinctively opened our umbrellas as the midday sun started to bite. School children laughed and jostled each other along the road – the school day was over, and they were now in high spirits. Another street-seller came into sight.

“Fresh fish is here! Straight from the river! Fresh fish!”

“I think we can buy your supper,” smiled Judith. And that is what we did.

Fresh fish for my supper - Francis Hannaway, Basankusu

Congo Kinshasa: donations, not "likes", cure sick children

Summer holidays are a great time of year, whether you enjoy local days out, or you’re able to travel further afield. Here in the Congo, the concept of a holiday is not really familiar to people. Firewood stocks still need to be maintained; the routines of cooking, and washing clothes by hand, continue whether you have a holiday from work, or school, or not.

Francis Hannaway

The idea of leisure time, however, is growing. If you can afford it, families will go out for a soft-drink or something stronger. The couple of established beer gardens, in Basankusu, are not usually too busy. Running fridges from diesel generators, they make a fair living from families that have a little money to enjoy themselves with.

Facebook is the other new attraction. Battered old mobile phones started to arrive in Basankusu in 2006, at the end of the civil war. It was a real revolution! Nobody had any credit, but they soon developed a system of “beeping” their relatives in Kinshasa, the capital. They phone – then hang up … in the hope that their relatives will return the call. It didn’t take long before social media started to interest people, despite our poor connection.

Mgr. Jean Calvin, the most unusually named priest in the diocese, often visits the Mill Hill house to use the internet. “I’m very impressed with your Facebook page, Francis,” he said one day. “You have so many “likes” for the videos about your centre for malnutrition!”

July and August are always hectic! Mother’s and children come from far away villages. As I write we have fifty-two children, so, when you read this there will be at least seventy children at our centres. The centres rely solely on donations – the vast majority of them from people in Middlesbrough Diocese.

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People get to know about my work through two main routes: one is through the Catholic Voice … I was so happy to meet people earlier this year, in Lourdes, who knew me because of my monthly articles; and Facebook posts (you’re all welcome to add me!). I am, in effect, a professional facebooker – the videos, photos and commentaries about the work of my malnutrition centres generate the most donations. Without donations the centre would close, and countless unfortunate children would die.

I replied to Mgr. Jean Calvin. “It’s vey nice that people like my videos,” I said. “but unfortunately, malnutrition isn’t cured with Facebook “likes”; it’s cured with milk, beans and rice. Unless people make a commitment to give some money – perhaps the price of a round of drinks, or the price of a meal in a restaurant - the “likes” will count for nothing. Without funds the children could die.”

“Yes, you are right,” gasped Monsignor as he packed away his computer, ready to gvo home. “I hope people remember to send you something before they all go off on their summer holidays!”

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Congo Kinshasa: donations, not 'likes', saved this little boy's life

Donations, not 'likes', saved this little boy's life. Send something before you go on holiday and save another child's life.

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Congo Kinshasa: Marie checks on the malnutrition centre from Lourdes

“Who will look after your clinic while you’re away, Francis?” 

I was getting off Mgr. Morgan’s coach in Lourdes for the Middlesbrough Diocesan Pilgrimage. I looked up to see who was asking me and saw that it was Marie Potter, a friend of mine of many years. We would both there as helpers, me as a brancardier and Marie as a handmaid. To answer her question, my mind ran through the way I’d set things up to keep the two centres running while I took a break. “Don’t worry, Marie,” I said, “I have twelve very capable volunteers cooking the food each day, and Judith will be in charge of them.” 

Lourdes Handmaid Marie Potter

Judith and I had originally set up the malnutrition treatment centres in Basankusu together.

Marie seemed satisfied with my answer, but the subject played on my mind. I’d decided to take a holiday during May and June, when the number of malnourished children rises noticeably. I would be back for the busiest period, the “Hungry Months” of July and August … and perhaps be able to raise some more money from the good people of Middlesbrough Diocese to pay for sacks of beans, rice, sugar, milk and so on, in the meantime.

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Children can suffer from malnutrition for various reasons. Often it follows illness: the child loses weight when they’re sick and, with the local diet, just can’t seem to put it back on again. Others come from poorly organised families or are casualties of family problems. Poverty features in all cases.

We see a rise in malnutrition every year around the same time. The mothers often rely on small fish which they can easily catch in the forest streams. These fish swim further afield when the rains come, leaving very little protein in the children’s diet. Protein-rich, edible caterpillars appear at the end of July and malnutrition subsides again.

Catfish are a protein rich food which are 

easy to catch until the rains come

Towards the end of my week in Lourdes, I met Marie again. “I’ve been thinking about your question,” I said. “Let’s phone Judith at the centre in the Congo and ask her how things are going.” I tapped out Judith’s number and she answered straight away. I told her that there was someone who wanted to say hello and passed the phone to Marie.

Francis Hannaway at the Lourdes Grotto

“Hello, Judith,” Marie started, a big smile lighting up her face as she spoke. “I’m here with Francis, who’s been telling me about your lovely work. I want you to know that we’re all very proud of you and think you’re doing a fantastic job out there. Please keep up the good work!” Then she asked how many children were at the centre now. “Quarante,” came the reply … there are forty children presently being treated at the centre.

I’ve now arrived back in Kinshasa. I’ll spend a few weeks here, buying supplies, and then make the journey into the interior, to Basankusu, where I will expect to see seventy children by that time.

Congo Kinshasa: My kitten's death prepared me for children's deaths

Just before I started my centre for malnutrition, in Basankusu, we decided to keep one of our cat’s three kittens. He followed me about and eventually became my kitten. Unfortunately, he suddenly refused to eat. Try as I might, he clamped his mouth shut whenever I tried to feed him. Day by day, he became thinner. His brothers, whom we’d given away, were already feasting on mice and rats. Each day he’d come into my room, looking for somewhere to rest his bony frame … and after two weeks of not eating he simply went to sleep and didn’t wake up. It made me sad.

The little kitten on the left refused to eat.

“This is what I’m going to see when I start feeding malnourished children,” I told Fr. John. “If I’m upset about a cat dying, what am I going to do when it’s a child who dies?”

“Focus on the positives,” he replied. “You’ll have some setbacks, but there will be even more successes in your work,”

And so it was. Over the years, around forty children attending my centres have died. They’d either been brought along too late, or their parents refused to follow the programme. On the positive side, we’ve saved the lives of over two thousand children!

In the course of this work, we recently had a visit from a new doctor called Patrick (it’s a popular name in the Congo!). He reminded us that play, and a positive attitude, can have a great effect on getting children better.

In the early days we’d received several children as companions of the sick children, usually relatives. They enjoyed singing, dancing and playing … and their actions could be infectious. Unfortunately, those children have since gone, and others go to school. We see the parents of the malnourished children as desperate, worried, often depressed. The children themselves sit, listless, staring into space … waiting for their food.

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So, even though it’s not easy, we’ve been re-motivated by Doctor Patrick’s words. We’ve introduced some games and singing and encourage brothers and sisters to play during our feeding sessions - even if the poorly children can only watch.

June and July are our busiest months, with up to seventy children expected. It would be great if, as well as giving them nutritious food and medical attention, we could also raise their spirits a bit through singing and play.

My new kitten - Panda

As for my cat, I eventually got over it. A few weeks ago, centre manager, Judith, came along with a present for me. It was a new kitten.

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Congo Kinshasa: Farewell to Fr John Kirwan in Basankusu

Father John Kirwan was granted a month's visit back to Basankusu ahead of his retirement. "I've lived and worked here for many years," he said, "and, with these few weeks, I can make my farewells to people I've got to know."

Fr. John with Sr. Boudouine

My malnutrition centre had just stocked up on milk powder, beans and so on, and all the volunteers had attended our latest training sessions. Numbers were thankfully down during April. 

"Perhaps I could take a holiday," I thought. "Perhaps I could travel to England with Fr. John before the malnutrition centre fills up again in June, July and August!"

Group photo with Fr. John

Our team of visiting eye doctors was due to arrive soon, from Belgium. Their 16-seater plane would be travelling to Kinshasa empty, so it would be great to take advantage of it.

John spent his time visiting in the villages where he'd worked. With plenty of goodbye meals at various places, his celebrations culminated in the Sunday before his departure, in Basankusu's cathedral.

The eye doctors said hello as we passed at the airstrip. "They're expecting us to treat over 3,000 patients in two weeks, this year," explained Yann, the doctors' organiser. "I'm sure you'll do your best!" I replied ... and with that Fr. John and I climbed the steps of the plane and were on our way to Kinshasa.

We took three hours to pass over the hundreds of miles of tropical forest, eventually landing on the decaying tarmac of Kinshasa's city airport, at Ndolo.

From there we passed the marine engineers, Chanimetal, on the River Congo, and ran into a huge traffic jam. The traffic was at a complete standstill. 

"What do you think the problem could be?" I asked Fr. John. I could see that he'd already spotted it as people were already getting out of their cars and holding up their phones to photograph something. The marine engineers' compound has a lot of land going down to the river's edge. "Look down there," said Fr. John, "something's splashing around the water!"
 

The two hippos
that were seen on the riverbank

And there they were ... two hippos splashing around the water, running up onto the riverbank, and then racing back into the water. They disappeared underwater and then suddenly reappeared, snorting and splashing about in the water, and generally having a good time! It's an unusual sight in Kinshasa ... the passing motorists had certainly never seen such a thing before and neither had we!

"Perhaps they'd heard that you're leaving," I said, "and they've come to say goodbye."