Congo Kinshasa: Worms

We spent our evenings playing Canasta – it’s a card game, played in pairs, and we were four.

Fr. Kees de Lange, Fr. Ben Jorna, Brother Gerritt Gerrittson, and myself. The year was 1993, and I was working with Mill Hill Missionaries in Zaire (now called the Democratic Republic of Congo).

After a day’s work and our evening meal, we would sit for a couple of hours, until around a quarter past 9 in the evening playing cards, chatting and enjoying a glass of beer.

Drinking coffee at the table where we played cards. [(l - r) Gerritt, Kees, me- Ben is taking the photo] 

We played cards Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings, as well as Tuesdays and Thursdays – oh, and at the weekend, too! In fact, every evening.

We sat outside on our veranda at a stout octagonal table, each player sitting opposite his partner. I played with Ben; Kees played with Gerritt – every night. Fr. Kees kept the score and measured out the beer – one bottle for three people, twice during the evening. Ben didn’t drink.

With the sound of crickets chirping from the dark, moon-lit cow-pastures in front of our house, sprinkled with the star-like flashes of fireflies settled on the grass, and the occasional deep “Rivvit!” from a few frogs, warning us of rain, we each took our turn. The days events would be commented on, then the next person would play their hand, a little sip of coolish beer, and the next person would lay down another ‘trick’ … and so on. 

The weekend games were special. Two or three times each year, Fr. Kees received a several metal oil-drums, welded shut to protect their contents. They were from a Dutch couple known as Oma and Opa – Grandma and Grandpa. Oma and Opa filled the barrels with clothes; the clothes could then be sold to add a little cash to the parish’s coffers – and had the added advantage of bringing good quality clothes for the local population in the village of Baringa. Kees also oversaw the maintenance of our three cow-pastures , which tended to get overgrown by a creeping weed. The teenage girls he invited to tease out the weeds were paid with a smart new outfit – a nice top, a skirt and a belt, or whatever the choice was each time.

Inside each barrel, hidden within the clothes we would also find some hidden treasure. Packet soup was a little taste of Europe, but the real gem would be a bottle of whiskey! It varied each time: Johnny Walker, Balantyne’s, Clarke’s, or Jack Daniels. Occasionally, it rendered only Dutch gin – but seeing as the other three were all Dutch, I had to accept it.

So, one Saturday evening, we sat there – each taking our turn, each making a comment or two, and each taking a sip of our beer and then a sip of our whiskey. A peaceful evening after a tiring day.

I started to drift into a dream. I didn’t feel as though I was really there. I felt heavy, nauseous. The cards were laid, each taking his turn. “Surely, at least one of them can see that I’m ill,” I thought. I made an effort and took my turn. Then I sipped my whiskey. I started to take deeper breaths. I felt like I would faint. 

Suddenly, I jumped up from my seat – I was going to be sick! My room, which was right next to us, didn’t have a toilet, so I had to run from the front of the house and around the side of it, to a separate building behind, which housed two toilets and a shower. 

As I made the final approach, I realised I was too late. With a slide tackle on the grass, I tried to yank down my trousers – but a little too late as I exploded at both ends. I lay in a pool of diarrhoea and vomit as a fresh evening breeze wafted over me. Rivvit – said the frog. Stangely enough, I felt a lot better. 

I hurried myself into the bare concrete shower room and washed away the evidence, as gheckos scrurried up the wall. In the pitch black of the African night, I timidly walked, naked, back to my room, holding my clothes in front of me, for modesty. I emerged as quickly as I could, now wearing clean clothes, and resumed my place at the card table.

Nobody seemed concerned. Nobody said anything. The game continued. 

Eventually, Fr. Kees, poker faced, said, “Ah, you weren’t here for your turn, so Brother Gerritt took it for you. But now it’s your turn again.” I took my turn, and then Kees took his. “but we noticed that perhaps the whiskey didn’t agree with you, so I’ve moved your glass over to Brother Gerritt,” he continued. I noticed Gerritt had two whisky tumblers next to him. Gerritt raised his eye-brows briefly and gave a little smile.

My turn came round again and Kees said, “Perhaps tomorrow you should go down to the hospital with a sample and get checked out.” I agreed – there was certainly something wrong.

After the game, we each retired for the evening and the generator was turned off.

The next morning, after breakfast, I walked the 2 km into Baringa village, to the hospital, and gave them my precious sample. The hospital is a pretty basic building, but in the reception area was someone with a large microscope. After sitting for a while they half carried a young man in and propped him up facing the wall. They then proceeded to do a lumbar-puncture on him. As he writhed around in agony, the man with the microscope started to beckon people towards him. One by one, they took turns to look into the microscope and then to stare at me. “Oh, no,” I thought, “I’ve got some terrible tropical disease and I’ll going to die!” The man with the microscope knocked on an office door. Our recently arrived, Congolese doctor came out and they exchanged a few hushed words. The doctor turned to me and smiled. 

“Don’t worry, Francis,” he said, “it’s only worms. You’ll take some pills and it’ll soon be gone.”

“But why did everyone take such an interest?” I asked.

“They were amazed that the white man can suffer from something we get all the time,” he laughed. “But, actually, they only saw a very few eggs. Your infestation is very light, but because you’ve never had worms before, you had a strong reaction. That’s good, because when your body gets used to these parasites – and you don’t react anymore – that’s when it can kill you, through shock.”

The worms are called ascaris. Ascaris looks like spaghetti and can grow to 35 cm. If you have one worm in your intestines, it’ll lay 50,000 microscopic eggs each day. The eggs then move through your intestine wall and enter your blood supply. They whizz around your body through your veins and emerge in your lungs. Causing a slight irritation, your lungs produce some mucus, which causes you to cough a little, but persistently, until the mucus is in your throat. This contains thousands of eggs. Then you swallow them and they hatch into new, spaghetti-like worms. Your dinner becomes their dinner (it seems they don’t like whiskey!) Each day, each of the new worms will produce 50,000 eggs … and the process will repeat, until you are completely packed with worms. This causes a blockage in your intestines. You go into shock, resulting in death.

The treatment is very simple. A single dose treatment in a chewable, orange flavoured tablet will kill ascaris within minutes. It’s advisable to take the treatment over three days to include all the different types of worms that could cause such an infection. To make sure there are no active eggs left, it’s a good idea to take the pill again after a couple of weeks.

Ascaris in all its glory!
Photo: James Gathany/CDC

Congo Kinshasa: The Road to Bibwa

We were up, washed, dressed and breakfasted by 9 o’clock ready for our taxi at 9:30. I wanted to visit Fr. Marius, a Cameroonian and most recent addition to the Mill Hill Missionaries team in Congo. Judith had kindly offered to accompany me. Marius and Fr. Otto live quite a way out of Kinshasa – past the airport, on a notoriously congested road. I decided to call the taxi-driver to remind him. 

Judith Bondjembo and
Francis Hannaway 

After several attempts over the next hour and an extremely bad connection, he explained that he was fixing something on his car, but it wouldn’t take long. By 10:30 we lost all hope and sent someone to get us a taxi from the street. I always tell them to agree a price before bringing a taxi to the house – which, of course, they always neglect to do, and we’re always asked to pay a ridiculous price. The taxi arrived

A standard yellow Kinshasa taxi
(copyright: Rahul Tilak) 

- $50, he said. 

- I’m not paying $50! I said in a raised voice.

He agreed to $30. Judith still reckoned that was high. I agreed it could be high, but I knew that a taxi to the airport would be between $20 and $30 – and we were late. Off we went.

We soon hit heavy traffic. It’s been a problem on certain roads for many years and was being rectified by a series of flyovers being built all over Kinshasa. The result so far – as they’re being built – is absolute chaos, often grid-lock, on the roads. The midday sun beat down; sweat trickled down my back and into my waistband. Hoards of people pushed their way across the road, bangingtheir hands on the struggling cars, lorries and busses. Motorbikes – a lot of them taxis - wove their way like a swarm of wasps through any gap they could find, even mounting the crowded pavements to get past the traffic-jam.

Judith wasn’t happy. “They could have come to us!” she said.

“Who could?”

“Otto and Marius – they have a car. They could’ve come to Procure St. Anne to meet us. Why do we have to suffer this? It’s impossible!”

“Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “I knew the road would be like this, but look …” I showed her the journey on Google Maps. The slow moving traffic would end in a few miles.” That seemed to calm her a little and she chatted with the driver – who told her that the only way to travel nicely on this road was to go at 4 in the morning. We came to a halt again. A succession of hawkers passed the window, selling banana chips, clothes, soft-drinks and water. We bought a small bottle of cold water each and continued slowly on our way. It was 12 noon.

Congested road in Kinshasa

Eventually, the road cleared; there was a little diversion through the middle of a large market and, after that, a clear run to the airport and beyond.

It turned out that the driver didn’t know the exact place we were going – and, come to that, neither did Google. We decided to ask at the side of the road. The crowds along the roadside had gone down in size, but there were still plenty of people about. The driver tried asking one or two – but they ignored him. It was around 12:45 as we crept along to a petrol station, which was just ahead, and the driver asked again. 

Suddenly, the front passenger door of the taxi flew open! A burly, policeman with flack-jacket and automatic rifle threw himself into the seat and grabbed hold of the driver. We realised the car was surrounded by police – all with rifles of varying kinds – and other police were in the back of a pickup. Our door was opened and we were asked to get out. The driver also got out and they started shouting at him. We started to walk into the crowd – after all, it was nothing to do with us! 

We were called back and told to report to the front of the pickup. A young officer – perhaps a colonel – ordered us to approach. He started to explain that, unfortunately, we’d been imprudent in stopping within 10 metres of a petrol station. I felt we were being accused of terrorism or some such thing. “I’m very sorry,” I said. “But, we’re just passengers.” He paused for a second and said, “That’s fine. You can go.” 

Judith gave our fair to the police who’d taken the taxi. People in the crowd started shouting that the two policemen in the car would steal it. However, a bit later, Judith said she’d already seen them hand it over to the driver.

“I feel sorry for the driver,” she said. “They’ll beat him up because he wasn’t apologetic enough. Then they’ll let him go”

A few motorbike-taxis buzzed about at the side of the petrol station. I explained that we needed to go to CENCO, and that it’s a Catholic place. “I know exactly where it is,” replied on driver, and within seconds, we’d set off again. Judith sat behind the driver, with me hanging on behind. “Yes,” the driver told her as he skilfully skidded through muddy ruts on the sand road, “it’s just a little way from here.” 

Bibwa is one of Kinshasa’s new suburbs. In the past, we would have considered the airport to be outside Kinshasa – Bibwa is further, and the inhabitants think of it as a part of Kinshasa. We passed lots of partly built houses, and little businesses with freshly painted signs. The roads were pure sand – but we noticed that mains electricity was connected to each house. In just under 15 minutes, we arrived at a new church, in a big enclosure. It was very neat and tidy and there was a man sweeping up leaves a little way into the grounds of the church. Our motorbike left us outside and then went back the way he’d come. I approached the man. It was 10 past 1.

“We’re looking for Fr. Marius,” I said. 

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t know him,” came the reply. At that moment I got a call on Messenger; it was Marius. 

“We’ve arrived!” I declared. “Where are you?” I expected to see him striding from one of the newly built buildings to greet us. 

“But where are you?” Marius answered. “We’ve got no power here and my phone is about to shut down.” I described the church. “Oh, no – we’re not there! That’s a long way from us. Just take a motorbike-taxi and you’ll be able to find us near the main road.”

We’d been quite close when we’d arrived at the petrol station. Compared to the crowds of people along much of the main roads, this newly built (and only partially built at that) suburb was so quiet, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see tumble-weed roll by.

A group of 3 youths sat in the shade of a tree, opposite the church. We asked directions and they quickly volunteered one of the group. “I’ll take you if you buy me a beer,” he said as we set off. He was a very pleasant young man and said he was only joking about the beer. We chatted along the way. Not so, Judith, who was about to explode! 

“What are we doing here, Francis? You know this is a dangerous area! Why couldn’t they send someone to get us? Where’s Fr. Otto and his car? This is ridiculous!”

“Look. It’s a pleasant place to be. We’re not in a hurry, you know. Fr. Otto’s probably out at a meeting, or something.” I tried to calm her down a bit. She lagged behind. Now and then we stopped to wait for her, struggling on the loose sand in her wedged sandals. The sun beat down harder and I could feel my skin starting to burn. I fished about in my bag and put on a wide brimmed hat. We turned around to wait for Judith again and saw that she’d bought a pair of pink flip-flops along the way.

Our guide knew all the little short-cuts, taking us through broken-down walls to cross empty plots of sandy land until eventually, after about 25 minutes, we could see traffic passing on the main arterial road, near the place we’d had the run-in with the police. It was 20 to 2.

And there was Marius, standing tall, in the shade. And with a big smile he greeted us in his warm baritone voice, “Francis, Judith, welcome!”

Fr Marius Tapang mhm

Congo Kinshasa: Little Justine's malnutrition battles

The letter was written on a page torn from an exercise book. The paper was folded in two and fastened with a single staple.

“Boboto Medical Centre, Basankusu Diocese.

Dear Monsieur Francis,

We have a child here in our care. She was sent from a medical centre in a nearby village, with severe malnutrition. We’ve treated her as best we can, but she really need to have good food if she’s to continue to improve. Please send the following: Special milk powder F-75 (5 tins), rice, corn, sugar, vegetable oil, peanuts, beans, and dried fish.”

It’s not that we wanted to refuse them these essential foods, but our experience had taught us to be cautious. If we’d sent the things they’d requested, it would be the start of a slippery slope. A few of the staff at the medical centre would take a few cups of each thing, to use at home. We can sympathise with these little “borrowings” – perhaps their own children could do with a bit more nutritious food. What we suspect is that next time – and there would be a next time – they would ask for more foodstuffs, and take even more of it home. A slippery slope – and it would leave our children short. I wrote a reply.

“I was very pleased with your letter describing your patient and the care you are providing for her. Unfortunately, it’s against our policy to sent food to other institutions. We would, however, be very happy for you to transfer the child to our care.”

The little girl was Justine, a pale, frail looking 6-year-old. She’d arrived from a village, somewhere on the road to Bokakata, 20 km away. She was painfully thin. A lot of her initial swelling had gone down because of her treatment at Boboto Medical Centre, but she was very pale – and her skin was peeling as if she’d been burnt.

 Justine just after arriving at my house

Judith smiled. “She just needs the right food – in a couple of weeks we see a big change in her,” she said.

A couple of weeks went by. Justine was usually lying down next to her mother on a raffia mat, which was on top of her bamboo bed. Judith called me across to where they were so that I could give my opinion. We couldn’t see any change. She just lay there, listless. She started to develop pressure sores where her bony knees, and her hips, lay against her bed.8

“You need to change her position frequently,” I told her mother. “Change the position she lies in every half an hour. Raise her knees and where ever else she has a pressure sore from the bed, by making a cushion from clothes on either side of the wound. Dress the wounds with palm oil – we’ll give you some chloramphenicol to mix with it to avoid any infection.”

Justine’s mother and grandmother did a really good job. They made little cushioning pads to raise the affected parts of her body away from the bed, they changed her position frequently and they painted her wounds with shop-bought palm oil mixed with chloramphenicol powder. (We crushed tablets to make the powder.)

Another week passed, and we still couldn’t see any improvement. Her skin got worse and she couldn’t resist scratching. She scratched her face and removed a lot of skin. She was a mess. Her shoulder blade stuck out like an axe.

Justine's condition deteriorated 

“What more can we do, Francis?” implored Judith. Justine had had all the usual tests and treatments. She’d taken tablets for worms; she’d been checked for malaria. Perhaps we’d assumed too much about her treatment at the Boboto Centre. “Let’s take him to our hospital, next-door,” I said. 

“But she’s already been to Boboto – what more can they do?” said Judith, obviously worried. 

“The doctor knows his job,” I said. “It’s very easily something we’ve missed.” It crossed my mind that Justine could have an underlying condition – leukaemia for example – and not all of such conditions could be diagnosed here. If they could be, perhaps they couldn’t be treated.

I went with Judith to take Justine and her mother the short distance to the hospital. It didn’t take Dr. Eric very long to decide that her blood iron was low, and that a transfusion would help. 

I’m always reluctant when severely malnourished children are sent for injections, and transfusions. We had a little boy who had several intramuscular injections, at Basankusu’s general hospital. He developed huge wounds at the site of each injection and died, that night, of shock. So it’s easy to understand my apprehension. 

“Don’t worry,” Dr. Eric reassured me. “That’s only a problem with injections into the muscle. We’re not doing that. The blood transfusion will give her some appetite! She’ll start to eat with gusto! You’ll soon see a change in her.”

My experience of blood transfusions in Basankusu, has also left me wary of the eventual outcome. In the past we’ve had both adults and children who’ve improved tremendously after a transfusion, but then gone downhill again after two weeks. 

Justine’s mother agreed to the transfusion. She wouldn’t have been able to afford any treatment at all. The nurse sent someone to call one of his trusted donors. Even when they trust the donors, there’s still a risk that the blood could be harbouring some disease or other – but here in the Congo, everything is a risk.

Justine stayed in hospital for 5 days after her transfusion. They wanted to keep an eye on her. Her mother, who was pregnant and had another small child in tow, went home to their village. When Justine came back to us, she told us how nice it was to sleep on a foam mattress. She decided that the mattress had helped heal her pressure sores, which could be true, but it could also be the result of the transfusion. It’s true that she won’t return to one in her home village, but we decided to buy foam mattresses for all our in-patients.

Justine with her mother at the hospital

Justine’s grandmother was becoming more impatient with her stay at my house. She wanted to return to their village. Around this time, we were arranging to travel to Kinshasa. There’d been a national lockdown on all domestic travel, because of Coronavirus, and so this would be my first chance to travel since my arrival, this year, in February. Justine’s grandmother decided, without foundation, that they wouldn’t be fed properly if Judith went to Kinshasa, and so she’d rather return to their village. 

I discussed the situation with Judith.

“Yes,” she agreed, “we could send them with food for a few weeks, but I doubt that they’d give it to Justine alone. They’d feed the whole extended family with it – and perhaps sell some of it. Justine wouldn’t make much more progress.” 

Justine after leaving hospital.
Her shoulder-blade still as sharp as an axe. 

I shared my worries about how the good effects of a blood transfusion might wear off after a couple of weeks, and that they should stay with us for another couple of weeks. “If not another month!” added Judith. 

A photo of Justine taken a few days
before she was taken home
to her village

After some discussion the grandmother reluctantly agreed to stay a few more weeks. We flew to Kinshasa and Justine was transferred to our main centre, on the other side of town. A week later, unable to settle at the main centre, they moved back to the accommodation at my house. We were happy that the spent a further 3 weeks to help Justine put on more weight. All her bedsores had healed, her colour had returned and she looked altogether better.

Send a donation to Francis by PayPal 

So here we are in Kinshasa – still working hard, buying up provisions and equipment for the centre in Basankusu.

One day, Judith’s phone rang. It was Justine. Even though her village is 20 km from Basankusu, they have a clear view of our phone mast, and can make phone calls. Judith was over the moon to hear how well she sounded.

What's the difference: Francis Hannaway’s Centre for Malnutrition, Mary’s Meals and Aid Organisations?

Some people say, “Francis, why don’t you contact Mary’s Meals? They’re probably in Congo by now and they do the same as you.”

Francis Hannaway at his Malnutrition Centre
in Basankusu, Congo

Six years ago, when I was about to set off for my old stomping ground of the Congo, one of my past students, Jean René Lingofe, told me about his life as a teenager at secondary school. He lived in a village 80 km from Basankusu, with his younger brothers, so they stayed with an uncle near the school, returning on foot to their village at the weekend. His uncle often had little to give them and so they often went hungry. Studying was difficult on an empty stomach.

The logo for Mary's Meals - they give

One of the staple foods in the Congo is called fufu. It’s basically, flour of some sort, usually cassava flour mixed with cornflour, boiled up like ground rice, or semolina, without the milk and sugar. It accompanies whatever else you have and is usually dipped into sauce, or gravy, for flavour.

“If you want to help the local population, Francis,” Jean René implored, “please, just set up a kitchen to give school kids some fufu every day. We suffered so much, trying to study and then having to walk home hungry each weekend.”

Fufu - a filling and starchy favourite
in the Congo

I seriously considered it. There would be a huge group of hungry teenagers. Then there would be the people who cooked the food – perhaps they would take some home. People who already sold doughnut balls, peanuts, fried sweet potato and so on would see their businesses go down. The people cooking it would take half of it to send to their families at home – I would be feeding half of Basankusu.

Mary’s Meals is a fantastic organisation. They aim to give children one substantial meal a day at their school. They train local people to cook the meals, and build, or adapt an existing building, to serve as a kitchen. Children learn better when they’ve been fed. Simple.

Are they in the Congo? No.

Will they be in the future? They tend to be in English speaking countries, Congo prefers French. Perhaps I should talk to them.

However – that’s not what my centre for malnutrition does. 

Up to 75 children are treated at
Francis Hannaway's Centre
at any one time

The children we help are severely malnourished, and many in danger of death. Indeed, since we began, around 100 children have come to us too late, or had serious underlying conditions, and died. There is a difference with the children benefiting from Mary’s Meals. Our children are not hungry schoolchildren needing to eat before studying. They are usually from families who don’t have the means to send their children even for free primary education. Other children with moderate malnutrition are already on the slippery slope to severe disability and possible death – our job is to prevent further decline and to educate their parents to vary their diet and to make feeding their children a priority. Malnutrition can be seen in several ways; it isn’t just about not having enough to eat. Children can eat until they are full and still be malnourished. Malnutrition happens when they eat energy-poor and protein-poor foods. The child doesn’t thrive without protein, vitamins, minerals and energy giving foods like fats and carbohydrates. 

Some children have suffered neglect in some form or another. Family breakup is common. A child is left in the care of others – others who actually don’t care. Sadly, some very small children are left at home, without a thing to eat, from early morning until the evening while their parents go to their forest garden, or go hunting. That’s neglect.

Little Mboyo was so thin,
we named him "Skeleton" 

However, the classic case of malnutrition, in our experience, is of a child who has lived a fairly poor existence and then become ill. Perhaps his mother has become pregnant again, or given birth to a second child. Whatever the situation, the child loses weight drastically and struggles to put it back on with the poor diet that is available. Often the supplement of breast milk is no longer available.

Illnesses can include, malaria, intestinal parasites (worms), low blood iron due to poor diet, childhood immunisable illnesses such as measles, mumps, rubella, TB and general infections. Measles for example begins with a fever, small sores appear in the mouth, the child feels lousy and to top it all gets chronic diarrhoea. All these things prevent the child from eating.

A child with severe acute malnutrition (SAM) will start to use the protein of his muscles for energy. Fluids will build up because of the imbalance of proteins and salts. The classic big belly, thin arms and legs image is created. Feet swell until they are so painful they look like they could burst. Damaged skin is stretched and starts to peel – it looks like the child’s been scalded. Even though this is not a burn, the effects are the same – blood fluid (plasma) is lost through the damaged skin and pressure sore develop easily because of tissue damage. Internal organs, such as kidneys, can be damaged. 

Little Mboyo - before and after

Treatment is a delicate process. It’s a combination of medical intervention and an easily absorbable diet, high in energy and high in protein. Education of the caregivers comes later – the first thing is to save the child’s life. That’s what we do.

“But, Francis,” you might ask, “isn’t that what Doctors Without Borders, the Red Cross, Cafod, Save the Children, Unicef and all the rest do?”

Yes, they do. The difference is that they respond to a specific crisis, spend several weeks and then move on to somewhere else. Our work is long-term. 

Doctors Without Borders recently came to Basankusu in response to the measles epidemic, which killed about 7,000 nationally. The materials that were left behind were never used after the aid organisation left. Instead, it was sold by local health professionals to the only organisation in Basankusu that treats malnourished children – and I know this, because it was my organisation that bought the special milk powder which had been denied to us earlier.

Children become irritable and often bad-tempered when they're severely malnourished. When the start to laugh and play, we know they're on the mend 

“But, Francis,” others might say, “surely you would make a change in society by holding training sessions for the general population. They would pass on the knowledge and malnutrition would come to an end.”

If only this were true.

My experience is that the people who would attend training sessions are the people who already know how to look after children’s wellbeing. It would be like preaching to the converted. I set up a community vegetable garden in a village upriver from Basankusu, with the help of the Catholic Mothers League. They did a great job planting beans to help poor families. Unfortunately, most of the money I sent for the project was spent on so called training – in which each attendee receives transport costs (it’s a village, they all walked), and their dinner. The danger is that people attend for the free meal and then don’t do anything with the training. It’s a national problem. The people who would benefit from any training don’t ever turn up.

Similarly, I’m often criticised for feeding the children with food that they wouldn’t normally eat. “They’ll go back to their villages and won’t be able to find these things,” they say. We use milk with sugar and vegetable oil in the initial stages of treatment. However, our porridge made from soya, peanuts and maize would be easy to make in the village. The traditional foods (actually introduced from Central America) are the things that made them malnourished in the first place. In the 28 years I’ve been associated with the Congo, I’ve seen changes in people’s diets. Bread is a much bigger part of the diet than it ever was, and beans are so easy to grow – and extremely nutritious!

Francis Hannaway's group is registered as the Association of Rural Women - Against Malnutrition

So, getting back to the original idea: Mary’s Meals is a fantastic organisation which helps children to stay in school.

Aid organisations do a great job in emergency situations.

Send a donation today to help Francis Hannaway with his work. 
Click/tap the link above

My malnutrition centre does an amazing job, using local volunteers and mostly local produce. We’ve successfully treated over 3,000 children. We save children’s lives and hope that later on they would benefit from a school feeding programme, like Mary’s Meals

In an ideal world, every neighbour would look over their fence and help the family next door. Because of general poverty, this rarely happens, especially if you’re not in the same family. 

Running a supplementary feeding programme is a very expensive enterprise – we can only do it with your help. Yes, your help. If we had more funds we would extend it further. Nobody takes a salary; we don’t even have a car. Send what you can today – save a child’s life. Thank you.

Congo Kinshasa: Covid-19 restrictions end - allowing a return to Kinshasa

As the leaves turn to reds and gold, and the sun starts to pass lower in the sky over Europe and North America, I find myself in hot and humid Kinshasa, Congo’s capital of 11 million people.

Since I last wrote, a lot of things have happened in Basankusu, where I run a centre for malnutrition. Basankusu is a small town of about 24,000 people, and sits on the Equator, in the rainforest.

Severely malourished children arrived
almost every day 

The Doctors Without Borders (MSF) team did indeed leave, as expected – and children with malnutrition started to return to us. The effect of their work, and perhaps the slightly earlier arrival of edible caterpillars, did seem to reduce the number of children arriving this year. Perhaps – this being the 6th year of my project, it has been the long term effect of my own project on the population generally. Yes, perhaps it’s time to congratulate ourselves for our ongoing successes.

The children that did arrive – mostly from outlying villages – were in a very poor state. They arrived with grandparents, parents and younger brothers and sisters. We accommodated them at my house. We built a single roomed house for them and a thatched shelter next to it as a kitchen. Three died during the first night after their arrival. A month later, 2 more children died – a week apart. They’d all arrived too late to be helped. 

From the end of May until the end of May, we treated around 30 children at my house (Centre 2). At the main centre food was provided for between 20 and 40 children 3 days each week, by the volunteers. Overall, around 150 children have received treatment since I arrived back in February. Mama Solange arrived with her baby and toddler, herself suffering from severe malnutrition. Everyone at the main centre got better and was eventually able to go home.

We’d applied for special milk (F-75 and F-100) from the Doctors Without Borders group and been refused. After their departure, we found that the health services hadn’t distributed or used the milk, they were waiting for their chance to sell it to the only effective treatment facility for malnutrition for hundreds of miles – namely to my centre. We bought it for the same price we would pay for ordinary milk powder. It has extra vitamins and minerals, and so on, to help children with swollen bellies (oedema). They should have given it to us for free – but they took the opportunity to make a couple of hundred dollars and share it out amongst their colleagues.

F-75 milk

And so our work continued – with the help of the good people of Hull, York, Middlesbrough and the whole diocese.

Because of Covid-19, my return flight of 8 July was cancelled. I’d intended to fly back to Kinshasa at the end of May, but all internal and international flights were forbidden. The government announced that all visas would still be valid, until restrictions were lifted. The local immigration police had other ideas and insisted on hassling me, obliging me to pay them money for a useless document, 2 days after my visa had expired. 

The government lifted general restrictions 3 August – so we were all hopeful that I would get on a flight. Then we heard it was with the exception of churches, as well as domestic and international flights. Flights would start 15 August. The work at both of my centres would continue in the capable hands of our 12 volunteers, led by Judith’s younger sister, Laetitia.

The promise of a commercial flight fell through after I’d bought my ticket (I got a refund!), but eventually I got a seat on the little plane that brings the teachers’ wages each month for the diocesan Caritas association.

It was a circuitous route – dropping bales of cash at several rainforest locations. A flight which would normally take just over 2 hours, lasted 7 hours; nevertheless, I eventually arrived at Kinshasa’s tiny city centre aérogare, of N’dolo.

Francis onboard the small Caritas plane

A plate of chips was the first thing on my mind! In fact, potatoes of any description would be welcome after 7 months without them.

Finally a plate of chips! 

After that, I would have to consider renewing my visa. They’ve made it easy for foreigners to renew their visas for a further 3 months – at a price, of course. Then I should make arrangements for a long-term visa. Should I travel back to England? Lockdown doesn’t seem to be completely over yet – so perhaps I should take a breather in bustling Kinshasa and decide what to do later.

Francis Hannaway in Kinshasa

Sunday Mass at St Pius X Church, Kinshasa. This is the Gloria (Kembo!)

Basankusu: the vanishing cat!

 

So, last night I coaxed my cat, Panda, outside. Too much moving around at night, jumping on the table and knocking things over. A cat should be on the prowl at night, looking for mice - and not peeing where she shouldn't.  

It's not the first time she's been outside for the night - but the frequency of her nights outside has certainly reduced lately.

This morning, no Panda.

We didn't think much about it. She's normally my lunchtime alarm clock - but today she didn't arrive.

Panda - my black and white cat

"Why did you put her outside?" asked Judith. "They kill cats at night - and eat them!"

We each went about our business as torrential rain fell.

A bit later, Judith said, "We'll get a new cat when we return from Kinshasa." We were both preoccupied with the situation.

I went through all the scenarios in my head - she's always here at midday, so, it doesn't bode well. Perhaps she's ill, perhaps she's found food elsewhere... she was just next to me yesterday, purring and wrapping her tail around my leg. What a shame if she's dead.

At the house, which is our 2nd centre, we're getting a new fence. Stout posts with thin sticks horizontally packed together will give us more privacy. We've also moved the gate across to the other side. The old fence had verical sticks and the dogs and cat knew where they could get in and out. Perhaps she'd got out through an unfinished bit and, when she'd returned, got confused by the new fence - and so wandered off to meet a stranger's machete. 

At around 3:30 pm, through the clattering noise of the rain on the roof, we heard the noise of cheering - 

"Francis, come quick! Francis come quick! Panda is here!"

They'd found her outside, near the next house. 

She was a bit bedraggled from the rain - but glad to be home. I gave her a small piece of fish, left over from lunch. She seemed suspicious of it and hesitated before taking a nibble. She didn't seem particulary hungry - so perhaps there's more to the story.

In the meantime, we're very glad to have Panda back.