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 They told me that my current visa, of five years, was no longer valid.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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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!
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