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.