tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10433329643185708252024-03-05T08:44:38.212+00:00Francis Hannaway: Hunger Games in the CongoFrancis Hannaway, from Middlesbrough, England, is working in Basankusu, in the Democratic Republic of Congo. In 2014, he started working for the treatment of malnourished children. He then set up a treatment centre with a team of 12 local volunteers.
Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.comBlogger119125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-42762737275771170382024-01-11T12:01:00.001+00:002024-01-11T12:19:10.332+00:00Congo Kinshasa : Without love, there is no life.<p><b>Without love, there is no life.</b></p><p>Mama Karine came to the centre with her 3 month old nephew. A happy, healthy little chap. Sadly they'd buried his mother the previous day.</p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOwiH5ENxYWoz1HxdIzBu0i5kPnWbhaRmJa4wasxwXF9R4CKMYvlaumAsNrv8Fgzopgz6U8qkD7hv04OoIuYMwtaFM1qseWQ9D2URDzqeI7EbS9hrHIjkWo7cFIi5JhEJz5pYFpWe3CjMmC3JcTZS3saKrM4SQAsRQ4d-mk6SAjri2x9QSYOKXogS_QN3J/s950/photo-F-Hannaway-e47d72897e7d9e58a10fad9101c32cd0-01.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="950" data-original-width="803" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOwiH5ENxYWoz1HxdIzBu0i5kPnWbhaRmJa4wasxwXF9R4CKMYvlaumAsNrv8Fgzopgz6U8qkD7hv04OoIuYMwtaFM1qseWQ9D2URDzqeI7EbS9hrHIjkWo7cFIi5JhEJz5pYFpWe3CjMmC3JcTZS3saKrM4SQAsRQ4d-mk6SAjri2x9QSYOKXogS_QN3J/w338-h400/photo-F-Hannaway-e47d72897e7d9e58a10fad9101c32cd0-01.jpeg" width="338" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Francis Hannaway </td></tr></tbody></table><p>Karine said that she'd tried to breastfeed the baby herself, but it hadn't worked. We sat Aunty Karine down with a baby's bottle and some milk. We sweetened the milk a little to make it more like mother's milk. They lived a good distance from us and she had her own children to look after. We gave her some money and a tin of milk, explaining how to make the milk, to always be ready to feed on demand, and to feed throughout the day, even eight or nine times. We explained how to make milk from soya, or peanuts, and to return to us if she had any problems. At four months, we could start adding a little of our cornflour, peanut and soyamilk porridge.</p><p>Karine spoke very confidently that she understood and she'd do everything for her sister's baby.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzR7QIcTjGu4pTZzd0kqwgkblSjhPlz_pPydPNjr2BkzXeXDCnta_vqnovtuiHIBy2rC6mwB0qgRRX63T4afA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;">Aunty Karine with healthy </div><div><div style="text-align: center;">3 month old orphan baby boy</div><p>A week later, one of the sisters from the convent came along on her motorbike. Let's call her Sr. Lisa. She asked me if I could help an orphan. I explained that it wasn't our policy to help orphans; we would only give advice. I agreed to give her a tin of milk-powder, and instructions on how to make soyamilk. Sr. Lisa was very knowledgeable and said she'd manage the situation. The child's carer then arrived and it was none other than Aunty Karine. Although she'd come along without him, it was the baby we were already helping. I asked if she was following our instructions, and she confidently replied that she was. Sr. Lisa and I were both satisfied that they were looking after the beautiful baby boy properly. Sr Lisa told me that she'd decided on a name for the baby, she called him Joseph. </p><p>The sun went down and the crickets started chirping, and Aunty Karine set off for home. The palm trees in the little path next to our house swayed, as a warm breeze chased away the day's heat. One or two frogs croaked hesitantly. There was a sense of calm. Sr. Lisa started up her bike and off she went. I went back inside knowing that everything was alright.</p><p>Two days later, Sr. Lisa returned with Karine on her motorbike. Karine was holding a small bundle. She unwrapped it to reveal baby Joseph's face: pale, lethargic, eyes sunken into his face like a skull! I literally gasped.</p><p>"What happened?" I asked, incredulously. "Did you feed him at least eight times a day?" She said that she had, but looked embarrassed.</p><p>An adult can go for several days without sustenance - but a baby needs a constant flow of the fluids and nutrients contained in his milk. I shook my head; this didn't look good at all! </p><p>It was already evening. We hurried across to the Catholic hospital, next door. Dr. Gibril set up an infusion to replace lost fluids. He didn't think it was too serious. My own thoughts were that they often try to rush things. This can lead to shock. The doctor's argument is that they needed to act before it was too late.</p><p>I asked Karine if she'd brought the two baby's bottles we'd given her. She hadn't.</p><p>Sr. Lisa set off to their house to collect them. I went back to my house to wait. Judith's nephew, Justin, a young man whom we'd been nursing, sat in our yard. I told him to let me know when the bottles arrived. In the meantime, could he boil some water on the fire and fill a thermos flask - which he did. </p><p>Darkness fell, once again. I waited impatiently, turning over in my mind what could have happened. If the child doesn't finish the first bottle, you wait half an hour and try again. Surely, she must know that. She has five children of her own, she must know what she's doing. Then again, they were most likely breastfed. It's her first time with a baby's bottle.</p><p>An hour went by, a strong breeze blew, carrying a little light rain, which soon passed. Karine's house is 10 km and the dirt paths are difficult.</p><p>After another hour, I stepped outside. No sign of Sr. Lisa. I phoned her. Where are the bottles?</p><p>She told me she'd sent them ages ago and that someone at our house had already received them.</p><p>I walked across to Justin. He smiled and said he didn't want to bother me so he'd taken them over to the hospital. I couldn't believe it. There's no logic here with anyone. I said, "Are you crazy? What will they do with empty bottles?"</p><p>I marched back to the hospital. Fortunately, the transfusion hadn't quite finished, but I still felt that he needed his milk.</p><p>I quickly took the bottles back to prepare the milk. I gave the made up bottles to Karine and her husband, who'd just arrived, to feed baby Joseph throughout the night.</p><p>It was as much as I could do. It was already 11pm. I returned home and went to sleep.</p><p>The next morning I hoped to have good news. We often see remakable change after a fluid infusion, but that wasn't to be the case.</p><p>I turned on my phone and found a voice message from Sr. Lisa. The little baby boy had died, at 2am, and they'd already gone with his body.</p><p>I felt numb.</p><p>I questioned myself about what I couuld have done differently. Certainly, we could have taken the baby fully into our charge. Unfortunately, we don't have the capacity to receive orphans. Sadly, Basankusu is overwhelmed with them, and we just wouldn't cope with the expense. We'd be inundated - and a good number would be permanently abandoned to us.</p><p>Sr. Lisa sent me photos of a tiny coffin being made. I'm very sceptical of funerals here. No help when someone's sick, but a beautiful coffin and a huge meal when they die. Perhaps I was a little hasty this time because it was the convent workers who made the coffin. They made a good job of it. But I didn't attend the funeral. </p><p>While she was at the funeral, Sr Lisa asked about the circumstances for Joseph's demise. It seems that Karine and her husband went each day to their vegetable garden in the forest. They left the baby with their other children, with instructions on how to feed them. From what we can gather, it didn't happen. What is certain is that there was no love towards baby Joseph. Without love negligence happens. Without love, life cannot be.</p><p>Rest in Peace. </p></div>Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-48824533651109544792023-12-22T10:10:00.003+00:002023-12-22T10:21:32.051+00:00Congo Kinshasa: An everyday tragedy in the Congo! <p>I don't even want to share this story.</p><p>I'm in Kinshasa, Congo's capital. </p><p>We have a tiny flat here, for the times when we're passing through, or taking a break. </p><p>Kinshasa is a dirty, chaotic, dangerous megacity of more than 17 million people. The roads are in poor condition and the overuse of cars and taxis means lots of traffic congestion. There are some small buses and shared taxis, but most people pack themselves into minibuses, 4 rows of 4 to a seat, plus two with the driver. The very few traffic-lights there are are usually ignored. Accidents are frequent; emergency services, non-existent. </p><p>When we first moved in here, on the 2nd floor of what will become a medical centre, Judith's cousin, Gracia, and her two teenage children lived next door, in a larger flat. We share a common balcony area which overlooks the yard below. Gracia moved out when the rent went up and Jenny and her husband moved in. Jenny also had a teenage daughter from her husband's previous relationship. We got on fairly well with them and their friends, who often spent time at the flat. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_XCnZxV6ZcYRkJGWGrJmI0ySCRI24nDb7IJa6qLiAqm4QihuvwDjS1_IECkeKJZi4mUnOPWotCbMAD3ydhDBnPjdSgb72NJivFdkeEpRkJFiVfH94rvG06rgc5IRXVEtDnqXqor_Z76WdzB3LT5Q3SPTigzvSKRXVjnIkYQ5yvmvJbMddW4tBe25_EzMD/s421/IMG-20230809-WA0002-02-01-01.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="234" data-original-width="421" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_XCnZxV6ZcYRkJGWGrJmI0ySCRI24nDb7IJa6qLiAqm4QihuvwDjS1_IECkeKJZi4mUnOPWotCbMAD3ydhDBnPjdSgb72NJivFdkeEpRkJFiVfH94rvG06rgc5IRXVEtDnqXqor_Z76WdzB3LT5Q3SPTigzvSKRXVjnIkYQ5yvmvJbMddW4tBe25_EzMD/w400-h223/IMG-20230809-WA0002-02-01-01.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jenny</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody></tbody></table><p>This morning, Jenny was sorting out some clothes to dry on the balcony railing. Papa Charles, the watchman, asked us to go downstairs to chat with Mama Jumo, the building's owner, about the rent. </p><p>It wasn't long afterwards that Meghan, leaving the flat to go to university, passed Jenny in the yard with a bucket of clothes ready to hang on the line. </p><p>At 9:30, Meghan said goodbye to Jenny and set off. </p><p>At 2 pm I went to collect our laundry from the washing line downstairs, because it had started to rain. I passed the bucket of laundry that Jenny had left under the clothes line. I thought no more about it and carried our dry laundry back upstairs. Not long afterwards, Meghan sent me a messsge, telling me to collect our laundry from the line because the rain was torrential where she was. I told her not to worry, because it had already stopped raining here. </p><p>At 4pm I heard a commotion on the shared area. It was shouting! it was crying! It was wailing! AfterJenny had left her bucket of washing, she climbed onboard a packed minibus, which had carried her and her brother-in-law towards the suburbs near the airport. They were on their way to a prayer group. Suddenly, they were involved in an awful accident! The minibus rolled over. Both she and her brother-in-law were cut to pieces and were killed instantly along with a lot of other people! </p><p>We didn't know at the time, but it had happened not long after we'd seen her at 9:30am, around 10 o'clock.</p><p>At the scene of the accident, people gathered around. The market thieves and pickpockets descended. Jenny had died instantly, her head and legs ripped from her body in the carnage. Nevertheless, one thief stole her phone. He didn't stop there. He found Jenny's step-daughter's number and called her, describing in detail what had happened.</p><p>Others who died couldn't be identified and so family members still don't know. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifxh1OClBzxAdKNTspkTFq9oRb0ukfV0gEmFI8QkvMM2xkn9MhP4abwvxyTkSlCsVTzhIo1uQY9AumkIglBHLkOR32S5ksWDQADNwRoDUUVpuZBA7FwLhk6e6ONeBhTLrFPzeiBw62oeZ6uGkjJSYJ1xdm4-JVi_3-nZjUJCVRV6bnKzxneRBpP47eF63k/s662/IMG-20230809-WA0002-02-01.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="662" data-original-width="421" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifxh1OClBzxAdKNTspkTFq9oRb0ukfV0gEmFI8QkvMM2xkn9MhP4abwvxyTkSlCsVTzhIo1uQY9AumkIglBHLkOR32S5ksWDQADNwRoDUUVpuZBA7FwLhk6e6ONeBhTLrFPzeiBw62oeZ6uGkjJSYJ1xdm4-JVi_3-nZjUJCVRV6bnKzxneRBpP47eF63k/w408-h640/IMG-20230809-WA0002-02-01.jpeg" width="408" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jenny braiding Stage's hair earlier this year<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p>Eventually, the story spread, and by 4 pm friends and family had returned to Jenny's flat. </p><p>The tradition here is to let it all out. To shout out in anger. Why did this happen to me! Who sent this evil to me! And to cry in grief! To wail! To let everything out! </p><p>When 30 women come together like that, right outside my door, it's frightening. Thankfully, Meghan is representiing me. She'll sleep on the veranda with the other women. Tragic!</p>Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-67226450789621393822023-11-23T14:37:00.004+00:002023-11-23T14:56:47.622+00:00Congo Kinshasa: an uncomfortable night reveals a tropical danger<p>I couldn't sleep. </p><p><br /></p><p>I felt bloated. Nothing seemed to resolve the problem. I imagined having an indigestion disguised heart attack, cancer, or the need for a surgical intervention. I laid on on side, on my back, on the other side. I made several visits to out Turkish style toilet. The pain was across my lower ribs - across my spleen, stomach and liver. A dull, tight ache.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLyJkRPreYJxgBoBulbanDnZX80XEdOJiMYt9xfsnTMsqs1qBJo8_I0TEDdHRAgy8lCLcbpyMY_16sbPZod4tTV8UxZBLaIaW9y8ag8i7cuIsV1eI-UibAIVSgIeGKCygZx0RS6jfAw60-sJPJKwxaheipIvhxnKSSS7wyFauXADRsGSvuKInSd31lXoh7/s1917/IMG-20231116-WA0001-02.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1917" data-original-width="1728" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLyJkRPreYJxgBoBulbanDnZX80XEdOJiMYt9xfsnTMsqs1qBJo8_I0TEDdHRAgy8lCLcbpyMY_16sbPZod4tTV8UxZBLaIaW9y8ag8i7cuIsV1eI-UibAIVSgIeGKCygZx0RS6jfAw60-sJPJKwxaheipIvhxnKSSS7wyFauXADRsGSvuKInSd31lXoh7/w576-h640/IMG-20231116-WA0001-02.jpeg" width="576" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Francis and Judith Hannaway </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p>Judith brought me a glass of water the first night, and 2 paracetamol. I slept. The following day, I consumed the maximum amount of paracetamol, as well as drinking multiple cups of sweet, milky coffee. The bloating didn't go away. Pain across the lower ribs! For two days I hardly ate. </p><p><br /></p><p>The next morning I took my first of three de-worming tablets. The change was SO remarkable that I've eaten loads today, and even had a beer.</p><p><br /></p><p>Worms are picked up as eggs from contaminated food. Perhaps, someone carrying them didn't wash their hands before touching food.</p><p><br /></p><p>The eggs enter the stomach and intestines. As they progress they develop into spaghetti-like worms that produce thousands of microscopic eggs, each day! The eggs pass from the intestines to the blood supply, eventually emerging in the lungs. They cause irritation and emerge in phlegm as the patient starts to cough. The eggs emerge in the throat and are then swallowed, only to develop into thousands more egg-laying worms! The cycle repeats. Eventually, the intestines fill with worms, get blocked and the body goes into shock. Death often follows.</p><p><br /></p><p>I obviously had this parasitic infestation. I could sense it, report it, get treatment for it. I didn't go into shock and die like Fr Patrick CCIM did, 30 years before. I took the pills and survived!</p><p><br /></p><p>Tragically, for our malnourished children, the story's different. They're too young to speak. The parents are often ignorant of the low price if treatment (20 pence!). The days of bloating, lack of appetite, abdominal pain, go unnoticed. At least 75% of our malnourished children need treatment for worms. The parents are oblivious.</p><p><br /></p><p>That's why we desperately need your donation to combat these infections in a country where we're the only option!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://PayPal.me/FHannaway"><img border="0" data-original-height="1100" data-original-width="1100" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYPrC2Duut9G47yvCIzksz1I5A40WW50Br7NvbSyXmwztxfox47yg88uXBHFSXXyuAAhTLDE8OONkMUdvQp7CZPa9yTnAyZKtU2u8U9YgFfIiEinMwmSn-Xxpt7FlAbEszsAt2epK4WCvq0gR0FwTneAjTaxTLTHw1k346ZUB87iDB3XeyawPbxTkXl2mV/w200-h200/Paypal_logo_PNG2.png" width="200" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://PayPal.me/FHannaway">Make a donation to Francis and Judith's Malnutrition Centre (click) </a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-84017862018049542812023-11-21T12:41:00.001+00:002023-11-21T12:53:03.278+00:00Congo Kinshasa : Ex-soldier, Papy, dumped at our house in a critical state! <p> ==£300 needed urgently!==</p><p>We sat down to breakfast. Judith is still a little worn out from her river journey. "I've still got a headache," she said. "There's a new child waiting outside, but I've already sent someone to take them for a checkup at the hospital." The hospital is a small affair and just next door. Judith sat with me at the table and I filled our cups with hot water from the thermos flask. Breakfast had become more enjoyable since Judith's two weeks away. As well as sacks of beans, rice, milk-powder and all the things we need for the malnutrition centre, she'd also managed to source some breakfast goodies! Orange marmalade for my bread is a rare treat, and hot-chocolate makes a real difference! "Don't take too long," she added. "You promised to take that parcel across to the convent for Sister Marie." I nodded to acknowledge what she'd said. "Oh, and Papy's come to see us."</p><p>"Papy? Papy?" I thought for a while before asking which Papy it was.</p><p>"You know, he was our watchman before."</p><p>Yes, I remembered him now. His girlfriend had come to stay with him. He'd been fine. An ex-soldier; very quiet, but serious in his work. She'd caused all the trouble and then they both suddenly left.</p><p>I finished my breakfast and picked up the parcel. I walked past Papy on my way out of the yard. He was sitting, slouched on a plastic chair near the gate. I said hello, but, true to his manner, didn't really notice a reply. I continued on my way.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPsWs8Jzh431N1_LHgPzbPuTLz2nq6Dqla0X47nYyPKCnV6G9FxVLkzctekQ8QpYcrv7SbjPji0RhvaO479Ad8ye_pW6bam-O2K_IsSNF9gCgt-VXAgnF3EDcu9KbEU-JT54aLbd_uwebC-z3VsRo77or1eFuDjqP6Y0HAvHy5u6CUsrQksaY3P_c8Mr2t/s3264/IMG_20231111_091352-01.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPsWs8Jzh431N1_LHgPzbPuTLz2nq6Dqla0X47nYyPKCnV6G9FxVLkzctekQ8QpYcrv7SbjPji0RhvaO479Ad8ye_pW6bam-O2K_IsSNF9gCgt-VXAgnF3EDcu9KbEU-JT54aLbd_uwebC-z3VsRo77or1eFuDjqP6Y0HAvHy5u6CUsrQksaY3P_c8Mr2t/w480-h640/IMG_20231111_091352-01.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Francis Hannaway with Papy</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>It was already 8:30 and starting to warm up. I arrived at the convent and, after a nice chat with two of the sisters, made my way back.</p><p>The sun was now too hot and my shirt was absolutely soaked with sweat! I called in to see Fr Christiantus. After half an hour cooling down in front of an electric fan, he took me in to town to see his new shop.</p><p>We sat for an hour with a bottle of beer each, while he showed me all the motorbike parts in his boutique. We finally got back to my house at 1 pm where Judith was waiting.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjILZtZLyyb2RwPZkLkn3o-gtaQ-Hd_-H7uwKa0h3Pg2oLhtG9pkA6UGytBHHFW-eVosxcrTImkNSGAl9f0vdwlzg7OyEeZm7bYqfAUwMk33JjQPCry5oHLFWFBmbm3DbDgP2Y31ugzViylSvJPuCzwC6vBHCmed2fA42ITdGttPVbr-go7WX4I-Jjy8oa9/s2016/IMG-20231109-WA0002-01.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1672" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjILZtZLyyb2RwPZkLkn3o-gtaQ-Hd_-H7uwKa0h3Pg2oLhtG9pkA6UGytBHHFW-eVosxcrTImkNSGAl9f0vdwlzg7OyEeZm7bYqfAUwMk33JjQPCry5oHLFWFBmbm3DbDgP2Y31ugzViylSvJPuCzwC6vBHCmed2fA42ITdGttPVbr-go7WX4I-Jjy8oa9/w530-h640/IMG-20231109-WA0002-01.jpeg" width="530" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fr Christiantus with Francis Hannaway </td></tr></tbody></table><p>"Papy came because he's ill." she told me as we walked in. "I had him sent to the hospital and the doctors have just sent this note." The writing wasn't too clear but very noticeable in the middle was "appendicitis".</p><p>I asked how he'd got here if he was so ill. I thought back to my morning greeting - the reason he hadn't replied was because he was only half-conscious. "His neighbours carried him here," sighed Judith. "He doesn't have any family, his girlfriend left him... and it doesn't look like he has any friends. So, his neighbours dumped him with us."</p><p>Fr. Christiantus joined us for lunch. "If you've had trouble with him in the past," he said, "and if he dies during the operation, you'll be accused later."</p><p>"No," said Judith. "We didn't have any problems with him at all. He left because of his girlfriend."</p><p>"What do you want to do?" I asked her. "He needs an operation, and he needs it now. What shall we do?"</p><p>Judith wasn't happy. "This hospital's expensive. Maybe we can do it cheaper with Dr David."</p><p>Fr Chris went home while Judith went across to the hospital. She soon came back, saying, "They want 250,000 Francs upfront." (That's £80!)</p><p>Normally, we pay our hospital bill at the end of each month, but I remembered that operations need a "kit". A "kit" includes all the scalpels, syringes, swabs and whatever, they need for a particular operation. We decided to go ahead.</p><p>The total costs will be around £300.</p><p>Papy doesn't have a fixed place to live. He drifts around looking for work. After his operation, some of his brothers (well, brothers-in-arms!) arrived from Djombo, a sizeable village, 8 hours upriver. They'd all been soldiers together during Bemba's war and settled where they were, when it ended. Thinking they'd come for his funeral, they were happy to see he was still alive. They stayed three nights, sleeping on a mat next to his bed in the hospital.</p><p>Urgent donations are still needed to cover his costs. 😊 Details on my page.</p><p>Judith donated a towel and some soap and persuaded me to part with some clothes (although most of mine would swamp him!)</p><p>He'll be in hospital for a couple of weeks - that's why we need to raise funds. </p><p>- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -</p>Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-80235790199336297012023-05-07T10:42:00.010+01:002023-11-21T12:38:54.161+00:00Congo Kinshasa: missing children return to the fold<p>We moved our malnutrition centre to a new house; it’s quite close to our home. The parents turned up with their children with the notable absence of little Ruth, 5, and Julie, 8. Ruth had been missing for several days but her parents did finally return with her. It was the fourth time they’d absconded. When she arrived, she’d lost even more weight; she was in quite a state, needing to get checked again at the hospital. But at least they’d turned up!</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxedC_jbit68wbT56wsNk5jbsuBlZKSJZu2G0jSGwwD41JbRQC29Nhv4LsU8MfMTY2MSMMKGIWY5Y7gwDCxcq7bNr8XvaW6HugXC5O3g0UuIvjRBzTLjTx1SSBOXZ24i5BYSH8sW6gSqpqGz2Px2pBJKUM5_bJOUmiPqQ5A0u-Ue68UTiYjncSBQtJNg/s2078/IMG_20230315_113251-01-01.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2078" data-original-width="1671" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxedC_jbit68wbT56wsNk5jbsuBlZKSJZu2G0jSGwwD41JbRQC29Nhv4LsU8MfMTY2MSMMKGIWY5Y7gwDCxcq7bNr8XvaW6HugXC5O3g0UuIvjRBzTLjTx1SSBOXZ24i5BYSH8sW6gSqpqGz2Px2pBJKUM5_bJOUmiPqQ5A0u-Ue68UTiYjncSBQtJNg/w514-h640/IMG_20230315_113251-01-01.jpeg" width="514" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Judith Hannaway at the centre <br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRQE99l5hyuiM6biShprgAR6gqoA_B6oNWmL47uqjcywUqkExnhm6ePEVJSR4sf4LzLJ5p1BKV4fYfN51W1YQ1JYY8DIRJisIqS8sjUzymW6oBYgqdpJflZtNM5EVZU94CI8bE0tf9vbqrEdg0r3Uo6pFPYEDzQWAmEHwh_OnkxQzlzl4D1M6xXlktRg/s2910/IMG_20230315_113232-01.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2910" data-original-width="2228" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRQE99l5hyuiM6biShprgAR6gqoA_B6oNWmL47uqjcywUqkExnhm6ePEVJSR4sf4LzLJ5p1BKV4fYfN51W1YQ1JYY8DIRJisIqS8sjUzymW6oBYgqdpJflZtNM5EVZU94CI8bE0tf9vbqrEdg0r3Uo6pFPYEDzQWAmEHwh_OnkxQzlzl4D1M6xXlktRg/w490-h640/IMG_20230315_113232-01.jpeg" width="490" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Judith chatting with a neighbour <br />at the new centre </td></tr></tbody></table><p>The one who remained missing, was little Julie. We knew that she lived close to the new centre, so I set off with Judith, to find her. We asked the stallholders in the street and they’d send us this way. We’d arrive at a house thinking she was there, and they’d send us another way. The sun was hot, no breeze. Eventually, we gave up. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMrXVEBJ79GXsiwGQDKY5kNtFpsaeI6j6UmBaQfblThBZifQcyw-1_N3qCqMs2Cqdc_WZKLLS1SI0neXajRZXowZOdmN_RQCusbIpckD5I-sEtKJ_rZYjzXoYE9ttsQ5W2RdG7Y5-pbXLrjwnzib6eH4ps-RldadU-ci_VWK0ZXA9X_KUCR2AbYQa6KA/s3060/IMG_20230315_103936-02.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="2886" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMrXVEBJ79GXsiwGQDKY5kNtFpsaeI6j6UmBaQfblThBZifQcyw-1_N3qCqMs2Cqdc_WZKLLS1SI0neXajRZXowZOdmN_RQCusbIpckD5I-sEtKJ_rZYjzXoYE9ttsQ5W2RdG7Y5-pbXLrjwnzib6eH4ps-RldadU-ci_VWK0ZXA9X_KUCR2AbYQa6KA/w605-h640/IMG_20230315_103936-02.jpeg" width="605" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Poor Ruth had lost even more weight <br />and was in quite a state</td></tr></tbody></table><p>On the way back, a young woman waved to me from her front garden. </p><p>“Hello! Have you just returned from Kinshasa?” </p><p>She said she hadn’t seen me for a while, so assumed I’d been away. I asked her if she knew Mama Chantal and her daughter, Julie. She did. They lived opposite!</p><p>She left me to mind the house and the wares she was selling: twists of sugar, salt, cakes of locally made soap. Judith went with her, but when they returned they told me that Julie had suffered a crisis and been admitted to the sisters’ medical centre about a mile away. The sun was even hotter now, but I was determined to see her.</p><p>I marched to the medical centre, but they were not there. Despite my hat and bottle of water, the walk back became a challenge in the sweltering heat. I was doing too much in the tropical midday sun. The rest of the day I stayed indoors drinking water.</p><p>Two days later, Julie turned up! They’d been to visit family in another village. Julie, happy to be back, held out her hand for me to shake. She was soon wolfing down everything we gave her.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEzBQMzk0QFlh7fICj1p1gbLgA_Y1V-mYgise-2cthwfkeZMMalI2FqcN0DulUiqg5dnofosbNDqSQle6mtU59qJeWoWcUvb4nR1j9Rj7MiDRwfXSV2WRLh92N45xr83gVm290x2ssw_49KFcTlYcfPI701QCY3jiBhV98_TAk6x_a26lyk5-9AnLCAQ/s2559/IMG_20230315_104034-01.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1972" data-original-width="2559" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEzBQMzk0QFlh7fICj1p1gbLgA_Y1V-mYgise-2cthwfkeZMMalI2FqcN0DulUiqg5dnofosbNDqSQle6mtU59qJeWoWcUvb4nR1j9Rj7MiDRwfXSV2WRLh92N45xr83gVm290x2ssw_49KFcTlYcfPI701QCY3jiBhV98_TAk6x_a26lyk5-9AnLCAQ/w400-h309/IMG_20230315_104034-01.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Julie was soon wolfing down everything <br />we set before her! </td></tr></tbody></table><p>I checked on Ruth, who has her own room, with her mum. </p><p>“She doesn’t like the food,” pleaded Mama Chantal. </p><p>“I can see that,” I replied. “And she doesn’t like me, and she doesn’t like our centre. But, don’t forget, Ruth’s not your boss, you’re her boss! You have to make her eat. We’ll give her warm milk with a little sugar, every hour.”</p><p>Mama Chantal told me that she likes omelette as well. I made sure she had it, as well as her other food.</p><p>I was very pleased that both little girls had returned to the programme.</p><div><br /></div>Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-82700851999268520892023-05-06T13:18:00.008+01:002024-01-19T09:17:42.950+00:00Congo Kinshasa: trolled for a light-hearted post! <p>Judith and I are in our 9th year of treating malnourished children, here in the rainforest town of Basankusu. It's tough going: extreme heat, having to watch some children decline and die. Even though we've saved the lives of over 5,000 children, we've seen over 100 deaths. Donations are extremely hard to come by and so we live a frugal life. No car, I walk most places. My nails, lashes, and eyebrows are my own, no tattoos. No designer this that and the other, we often wear the clothes you gave to the charity shop.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ1eRQAW7SqhTFqV_xja4gSYY43jpsbr_wOXdDd5ukKDfDpNH59LCNB-kCRwo5NEZSmlCbmmP9Fhw54KwYSnshsB1xtMGC5T5GFR648G2pm2S5VMDzdxyMULWTXQ1-F_-j4xMlJ-8mT1L_FNSWNZxVgDxc8qKoiR_p5T4bxJqOfxTJ7qYGlnsK723vUg/s3337/IMG_20230318_120209-01.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3337" data-original-width="2314" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ1eRQAW7SqhTFqV_xja4gSYY43jpsbr_wOXdDd5ukKDfDpNH59LCNB-kCRwo5NEZSmlCbmmP9Fhw54KwYSnshsB1xtMGC5T5GFR648G2pm2S5VMDzdxyMULWTXQ1-F_-j4xMlJ-8mT1L_FNSWNZxVgDxc8qKoiR_p5T4bxJqOfxTJ7qYGlnsK723vUg/w278-h400/IMG_20230318_120209-01.jpeg" width="278" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marie - interested in horizons new<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody></tbody></table><p>So, between the serious bits, like trying to get a blood transfusion at midnight, for a 3 year old, we try to have a bit of fun. Sometimes I post light-hearted things on here. It helps engage with potential donors. And it's fun. It lifts our spirits.</p><p>Yesterday, Marie, my niece through marriage, moved in with Letie at the new malnutrition centre. She's helping with general chores. She's 18 and very pleased when people compliment her looks. Like many girls with poor prospects, she dreams of marrying a rich man. (feminism is in its early days here!) She asked me to post her photo and to say she's looking for a rich "mondele". "Mondele" means any white person. The idea of countries is vague; the general term for developed countries is "mpoto".</p><p>It was fun, positive and a lovely distraction from our oft upsetting work. I felt happy and relaxed.</p><p>The first comments were from supportive friends. These friends have given moral and financial support over the years.</p><p>"Marie, 18, is Judith's niece. She'd like to marry a rich European." </p><p>"So would I!" replied one friend. </p><p>"Me too!" replied another. </p><p>Imagine how deflated I became when I started to get flack! </p><p>Trolls are online bullies. They've never commented on the work we do. They've never sent words of encouragement. They've never sent a fiver for our funds. But - after almost 9 years - they put a damper on the bit of fun Marie and I were having. </p><p>They're supposed to be friends! The moral police, telling me what I can and can't post. No donations in all these years of hard slog, nothing. The funny thing is, one of them only ever appears on facebook in bikinis or very skimpy clothes. If I criticised that I'd be attacked again. Who are they? Incels? </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzYKc6E90Bb83wgzY07KaJd8xw6h8Kj8u_kFP3Wl6dhckcfBAp3IPV6vANbYCdib4gYEFgE9lF8G9utkorCgQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;">Marie - levelling the path at </div><div><div style="text-align: center;">the malnutrition centre </div><p>We live in the real world full of social connections, friends, fun-times, sometimes we clown about. I can't help thinking it was an ageist thing. </p><p>I've just come from our great-aunt's wake. I called in at the centre on my way home. Marie was drawing water from a well. </p><p>She doesn't have a phone. She doesn't have Facebook. She doesn't speak English and struggles with French. It was a bit of fun. </p><p>"Put it back on," she implored. "I want everyone to see my beautiful photo - and try and get me a rich "mondele!"</p><div><br /></div></div>Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-58509099169157969562023-05-05T20:37:00.003+01:002023-05-07T10:36:31.561+01:00Congo Kinshasa: using a steps counter in Basankusu <p>I set my phone’s steps counter to start, and strode out towards the malnutrition centre; it’s about 3 km. I was soon joined by Jacques, a bricklayer who’s building a house for a friend. We chatted along the way, passing youths in smart white shirts on their way to school. I called in at the convent, where I normally say hello to Sr. Marie-Therese and her team of seamstresses. Today, she wasn’t there – so I bid farewell to Jacques and continued to the centre.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixYPFsQk2W70N6k8lk6fkcWP0Xof9sOMuNqhEkmZ6kPO02Ub4D6tU_B2v1elOqBkEF_CYzNaKa-mqErHzEyNGNE2Jq8U-gSqverywCDs8V3yMH3KEvtCHbOsJSUVxWqNJUncoI7x7H1zceuErsaXK9EC-GoUUP7dGUQfvOEnXtGyOpn8hYraJ3dGK32w/s773/Screenshot_2023-05-07-10-24-41-897-01.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="558" data-original-width="773" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixYPFsQk2W70N6k8lk6fkcWP0Xof9sOMuNqhEkmZ6kPO02Ub4D6tU_B2v1elOqBkEF_CYzNaKa-mqErHzEyNGNE2Jq8U-gSqverywCDs8V3yMH3KEvtCHbOsJSUVxWqNJUncoI7x7H1zceuErsaXK9EC-GoUUP7dGUQfvOEnXtGyOpn8hYraJ3dGK32w/s320/Screenshot_2023-05-07-10-24-41-897-01.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carrying firewood</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody></tbody></table><p>Things are getting busy again at the centre. Fifteen children, in various stages of malnutrition, sat down to eat. Most were at the end of their treatment and would soon leave the programme. Two little girls were notable exceptions.</p><p>When 8-year-old Julie first arrived, we thought she wouldn’t last the night. </p><p>Judith gasped. “Our funds are so low, we’d be better off helping another child with more chance of recovery.” </p><p>I agreed, but suggested we give it a go.</p><p>The other child was 5-year-old Ruth. Although she only showed moderate signs of malnutrition, she soon went downhill because her mother disappeared three times with her to faith healers.</p><p>Today, Julie was busy tucking into her beans and rice. The change in her was incredible.</p><p>Ruth was nowhere to be seen. </p><p>“They’ve disappeared again,” sighed Judith. “They’ve given an address, but no house number! We’ll send a search party this afternoon.”</p><p>Papa Simon kept me company for some of the return journey. He’s paralysed down one side and has made his living by cutting grass with a long jungle-knife. He told me how his bamboo bed had collapsed and he needed £5 for a new one. I’ve known him for years and try to help when I can.</p><p>Suddenly, I was surrounded by about 15 chirpy little schoolgirls on their way home from school. A girl in a blue frock smiled up and said, “You’re Papa Francis, aren’t you? And your wife is Mama Judith!” They were so full of beans, laughing and chatting as they accompanied me, that it lifted my spirits. I stopped worrying about little Julie and the absent Ruth,</p><p>“How old are you?” I asked. “I’m 4,” came the reply. I told her she couldn’t be 4 if she was already in school, - and then ensued a lively discussion amongst them all, like a flock of chickens who’d just been thrown some grain, about how old each one was! What a treat to see healthy children, going about their daily lives!</p><p>Now I was close to home. I saw a woman and her teenage daughter sitting at the side of the road. They’d been to their forest garden and were returning with a heavy load of firewood. The sun beat down and they were having a rest. The woman asked me to take a photo. Imagine having to carry such a load before you can start cooking!</p><p>Eventually I arrived home and checked my steps counter. It hadn’t worked!</p><div><br /></div>Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-82340264405177166652023-01-05T15:18:00.004+00:002023-01-24T14:41:02.674+00:00Congo Kinshasa: Happy New Shoes!<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">“What will 2023 bring us?” I asked Judith.
“Never mind that,” replied Judith, ”the
owner of the main centre wants his rent! Put your walking shoes on, withdraw
some money from Huang’s store and take it to the centre. After two days of
non-stop rain, the roads are extremely muddy.” In 2014, I invested in a pair of
shoes. After wearing flip-flops, prising my feet into good supportive shoes
felt uplifting, and would carry me across the bumps and crevices of the eroded
dirt tracks.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO7KXfhZ5eF1cbbGPpJf7eRqOXBhrAXK2EOvXmzkHxuY-m17gnMjDmTfad4HpMQ-GsH6rYDZT9YUF9FbtQMazhgW4Bt_RQE0Gmh_jMtU8F9zJxRMKOgd1XQwShdqv5X_haKYOVxS_K1Wf8Xs_DS3QfmGv886Ye4zzJxfW05t0zZF1D-GsP8QC_voe9sA/s716/shoe.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="431" data-original-width="716" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO7KXfhZ5eF1cbbGPpJf7eRqOXBhrAXK2EOvXmzkHxuY-m17gnMjDmTfad4HpMQ-GsH6rYDZT9YUF9FbtQMazhgW4Bt_RQE0Gmh_jMtU8F9zJxRMKOgd1XQwShdqv5X_haKYOVxS_K1Wf8Xs_DS3QfmGv886Ye4zzJxfW05t0zZF1D-GsP8QC_voe9sA/w400-h241/shoe.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My shoe when it was new!</td></tr></tbody></table>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Huang’s shop is about a mile away. The sun
was out now and it was getting hot. I took the money and set out to our feeding
centre. It was 2 miles uphill and the sun was now relentless. Sweat trickled
into my t-shirt, but my shoes held the muddy road well.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">At the centre, I chatted with parents of
the few resident children there. I gave Judith’s sister the rent, tightened my
shoelaces and strode out towards our house.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJEyfTd0H2YZauD5816mH-7xp65x53-0D5eGXYY_Pfu4MuTR-ChFHgNb85fjiv5VMk6Nj3H1ELa9igOtotEArkH3fjqWxhJDIYXD9lfPEyzRr73ELgwTcAHsTxZUCU26_b99n2Zrq4WulhGJzXUlzJUzsJ0o6Rao3KYSycKTeqFURNOUaHEvZDdIg5cw/s1080/WhatsApp%20Image%202023-01-05%20at%2015.14.42.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="518" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJEyfTd0H2YZauD5816mH-7xp65x53-0D5eGXYY_Pfu4MuTR-ChFHgNb85fjiv5VMk6Nj3H1ELa9igOtotEArkH3fjqWxhJDIYXD9lfPEyzRr73ELgwTcAHsTxZUCU26_b99n2Zrq4WulhGJzXUlzJUzsJ0o6Rao3KYSycKTeqFURNOUaHEvZDdIg5cw/w191-h400/WhatsApp%20Image%202023-01-05%20at%2015.14.42.jpg" width="191" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Francis Hannaway <br />with Judith's sister, Leticia</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The roads are always full of people: women
carrying huge baskets of firewood, school children in their smart uniforms, men
pushing handcarts full of bricks. People said hello, but I didn’t want to break
my step. A quick “Hello!” in reply and I kept going.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Perhaps Judith will have a cold drink for
me when I get in, I thought. I saw our house ahead and, curiously, heard my
steps being echoed. With every step I took, it was as if something was tapping
underneath one shoe. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Judith greeted me at the door, but there
was no cold drink.”Because of the 2 days rain, I’ve got no charge in my phone,
neither have you. Go to the Catholic Procure and get Fr. Christiantus to charge
them.” I showed her my shoe. Part of the heel was detached; it was only a bit,
I’ll buy some glue. Off I went – it’s only a 10 minute walk. Dark clouds
rapidly appeared in response to the baking heat, and large spots of warm rain
started to fall – and something else. This time like someone clapping in time
to my steps! I looked down at my other shoe – the whole of the underside of the
shoe was slapping the bottom of my foot! </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5IVTH-bB7FXMGaJSTGl6hQa5c87kt9zB__0zGeTTcu3tyBrmaI24UgSXedMj4QNReSEKQneuEzdeG3t5jl0uiodmZS4iOb3Q1p7AVtDhF7WRLbvWUGDIFfzVVXFYJq7qwnGfF1A-s7tTkA9VDbZuC3-tDock0D9IuGKyF4vsJUisz0E7w4IzxqPT_ew/s960/WhatsApp%20Image%202023-01-05%20at%2015.09.44.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5IVTH-bB7FXMGaJSTGl6hQa5c87kt9zB__0zGeTTcu3tyBrmaI24UgSXedMj4QNReSEKQneuEzdeG3t5jl0uiodmZS4iOb3Q1p7AVtDhF7WRLbvWUGDIFfzVVXFYJq7qwnGfF1A-s7tTkA9VDbZuC3-tDock0D9IuGKyF4vsJUisz0E7w4IzxqPT_ew/s320/WhatsApp%20Image%202023-01-05%20at%2015.09.44.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fr Christiantus Nna</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Fr. Christiantus laughed and gave me a pair
of house slippers and a lift home.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“During 2023, I’d like to buy some new
shoes!” I told Judith, on arriving.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“Never mind that,” she said, “ I’ve made a
list of what we need …” And with that she gave me a list of everything that’s
worn out over 8 years of running the centre: cooking pots, spoons , plates,
cups, buckets …</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">So, here’s hoping our New Year gets off to
a great renewal! Happy New Year to you all!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-29548128802866375422023-01-05T14:56:00.001+00:002023-01-05T14:56:28.731+00:00Congo Kinshasa: Tiny Tim at the malnutrition centre<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">It always amazes me how early advertising
for Christmas begins, and that’s long before Advent has even started. Advent is
when we take stock of how we live, in preparation for the Nativity of Christ. Even
so, we’re already buying presents and decorating our homes. We might start to
watch some classic films, like A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens … and
perhaps that helps us in our reflection.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI369Em6XwWYu2H4NYFRUHJOOdZIp_8rgL5cg2QkIeUGL4vA1j8JvItR4eVnn-ml4nedrD8v0gAADNHArQsZDCGRRN597O2PPJ9FJT-8Kwzz43nq8dFG7-uoMq4U1U-klTD8rzHEIaZwWIZYtfYDfRfIxUiOymb0kMRkF0Nfv4Cs3TTwlQZ19Fii4lWg/s1273/20190319_154339-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1273" data-original-width="1031" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI369Em6XwWYu2H4NYFRUHJOOdZIp_8rgL5cg2QkIeUGL4vA1j8JvItR4eVnn-ml4nedrD8v0gAADNHArQsZDCGRRN597O2PPJ9FJT-8Kwzz43nq8dFG7-uoMq4U1U-klTD8rzHEIaZwWIZYtfYDfRfIxUiOymb0kMRkF0Nfv4Cs3TTwlQZ19Fii4lWg/w324-h400/20190319_154339-1.jpg" width="324" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Judith and Francis Hannaway</td></tr></tbody></table>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">In the story, set in snowbound Victorian
England, Ebenezer Scrooge is a character we’d like not to be associated
with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But we might be left feeling uncomfortable
in recognising some aspects of our own selfishness. The Ghost of Christmas
Present shows Bob Cratchit and family trying to enjoy Christmas. Tiny Tim, a
very frail child, is with them. The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come shows a
different scene. Tiny Tim has passed away. Scrooge is urged to change his ways,
to improve his life by loving his neighbour, in this case, the family of his
underpaid worker, Bob Cratchit.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">As it happens, here in the Congo, at the
malnutrition centre, we accepted a little boy called Tim, Timothé in French, and
yes, he was tiny. All the children are frail, even the plump ones<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>because of the swelling. As we’re always
short of food stock, Judith asked me to make a special push for funds. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“I’ve heard that during Advent people in
Europe like to buy presents,” she smiled. “I’m sure people will support
Timothé’s treatment.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wiped her
hands on her apron after stirring a huge pan of beans, sweat from the midday
sun glistening on her forehead. The heat in the rainforest is relentless, even
in December.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Our “Tiny Tim” was very underweight. He
didn’t walk with a crutch like in the story, but had difficulty standing. His
swollen feet were painful and his left eye was almost closed because his face
was also swollen.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I took some photos of him with his family
to post on social media. Two months treatment on our feeding programme, including
medicines, would cost around £250, Not only that, we also have another 30 ‘Tiny
Tims’ at the centre. Sadly, the spectre of Christmas Yet to Come is only too
real here; we’ve lost 5 children since September. There have been certain times
when we’ve become dangerously close to running out of food to feed the children,
as well.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“Christmas shopping in Hull, York,
Bridlington and Middlesbrough is in full flow,” I told her. “It’ll be difficult
to distract them from that!”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“Like Ebenezer Scrooge,” she continued, “he
spent time in reflection. He bought Tiny Tim and his family a turkey. He got
his life in order.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Scrooge was left with a choice, his life
wouldn’t continue to be just about himself, but it would include some social
action. What better way to prepare ourselves for the coming of Christmas!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Wishing you all a peaceful and reflective
Advent – from Francis and Judith.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">In the words of Tiny Tim, “God Bless us
everyone!”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-38801036097721683842023-01-05T14:38:00.001+00:002023-01-05T14:39:20.192+00:00Congo Kinshasa: Judith's FlightI finally had a short break in Middlesbrough, and when I got back to Kinshasa, Judith was keen to get back to Basankusu, to buy more stock and survey the work at the centre. I had to stay in Kinshasa for a few weeks to get another 3-month stamp in my passport.
Judith called a few contacts and secured a place on the 16-seater plane going to Basankusu’s palm-oil plantation. Mentioning her headteacher father’s name was enough to secure a seat. The plane would go directly to Basankusu. <div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibIdmCGDGcjiYRRmJ9F8PKD-wEg6X8dtX0QklmfqziMPPqkSIfiuoe__SZ2N8gI_ijEcUtYDQADA5kpszNxjQdA49PGM876vkeIHx4ZQrXCcXIUcFrEBC8WaitKakFkYhd5Wkwloasuxo_l8cbaSSL5WTyzGtG3jCvuLTOl066L5kGHB41lGO33NOmaQ/s1080/WhatsApp%20Image%202023-01-05%20at%2014.27.47.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="734" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibIdmCGDGcjiYRRmJ9F8PKD-wEg6X8dtX0QklmfqziMPPqkSIfiuoe__SZ2N8gI_ijEcUtYDQADA5kpszNxjQdA49PGM876vkeIHx4ZQrXCcXIUcFrEBC8WaitKakFkYhd5Wkwloasuxo_l8cbaSSL5WTyzGtG3jCvuLTOl066L5kGHB41lGO33NOmaQ/w271-h400/WhatsApp%20Image%202023-01-05%20at%2014.27.47.jpg" width="271" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Judith Hannaway</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>Then she told me that she was giving away the seat. “Don’t worry,” she smiled, “I’m giving it to the General Councillor for Mill Hill Missionaries – he’s just arrived for a visit. They’re going to get me on another plane the following day!” </div><div><br /></div><div>Fr Philip Adede MHM, was pressed for time; he needed to get to Basankusu in a hurry. And so off he went.
Judith got a call the day Philip went – “your new flight has been cancelled”. Now, she was stuck.
Fr Patrick Lonkoy MHM had welcomed Fr Philip, but, having also been left behind, would now find another flight with Judith. </div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7wv3uYDh-YCHf3hfRzSDTibN8Vv5Up7Cx5f0wPtyKPENMM7sDuF7GNzQJagKpueM4VY_05VqjYU5ZxrROq99SBlrGudPFp7z811SYc0F2atSJJE_QX0FaKF6TB3jbWI5GWS9T0CKjFky93c5_hU7FlwJZIQ2wI11FOkGPDn5wG8f1kA_EGmHxaZexHA/s891/WhatsApp%20Image%202023-01-05%20at%2014.26.55.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="606" data-original-width="891" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7wv3uYDh-YCHf3hfRzSDTibN8Vv5Up7Cx5f0wPtyKPENMM7sDuF7GNzQJagKpueM4VY_05VqjYU5ZxrROq99SBlrGudPFp7z811SYc0F2atSJJE_QX0FaKF6TB3jbWI5GWS9T0CKjFky93c5_hU7FlwJZIQ2wI11FOkGPDn5wG8f1kA_EGmHxaZexHA/w400-h272/WhatsApp%20Image%202023-01-05%20at%2014.26.55.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eating in a Lebanese restaurant the evening before<br />Fr Philip's (2nd from left) flight to Basankusu</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><br /></div><div>They arranged a flight the following morning, Saturday, at 6 am. It would take them to Mbandaka. We often fly to Mbandaka; it’s at the point where the Equator crosses the Congo River. After that, to get to Basankusu, it’s necessary to travel by river for 36 hours
Still half asleep, they both arrived at Kinshasa Airport. At about 10 am the flight was cancelled – but not to worry, it would go the next day. Judith’s brother lived nearby, so she stayed there. </div><div><br /></div><div>The next morning they were told – “0h, we don’t fly on Sundays!”
While all this was going on, there was a national fuel shortage – not just for cars, but also aviation fuel. Perhaps that was the problem.
Monday’s flight was postponed to Tuesday. People were starting to get angry, not least of which was Judith. Tuesday’s flight was postponed till Wednesday. </div><div><br /></div><div>Fr Gregoire, a Basankusu priest, arrived to take a flight on Wednesday. That flight also didn’t go. Fr Patrick was starting to panic. “Fr Philip is returning via Mbandaka – I need to be there to help him.” He asked about another flight, and, after paying something extra, was on his way. </div><div><br /></div><div>Fr Gregoire and Judith reluctantly reclaimed their cases and went back to Kinshasa.
They were eventually offered a place on Saturday morning, a full week after the first attempt. There were to be 2 flights. Fr Gregoire was placed on the first. Judith was left again. The other passengers got very angry, and started banging on the counter. They pushed forward and there were scuffles with the airline staff. People tried to climb over the counter to see the manager. The police came in! It was chaos. The flight was cancelled. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY2dU3N--QmAc5HpL2YF1h2uTdhJZaO9f8HwGEWLpTBKulX5h_PF2ryCSRh9a3p_jO9xPJIKoairnkI1_s7thje3R-6siVg8RFP29Npxnbb9G1P0L9TVr2BnmHrWuwherjaiHYFkSB3zP-QUJyyT9Mk3icAxKak-p3SmLFFDW8hsReCO7yHFRJzjnMzg/s1500/Kin_Avia_Let_L-410UVP-E_9S-GRJ_2020.01.22.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="851" data-original-width="1500" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY2dU3N--QmAc5HpL2YF1h2uTdhJZaO9f8HwGEWLpTBKulX5h_PF2ryCSRh9a3p_jO9xPJIKoairnkI1_s7thje3R-6siVg8RFP29Npxnbb9G1P0L9TVr2BnmHrWuwherjaiHYFkSB3zP-QUJyyT9Mk3icAxKak-p3SmLFFDW8hsReCO7yHFRJzjnMzg/w400-h228/Kin_Avia_Let_L-410UVP-E_9S-GRJ_2020.01.22.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The 16-seter plane which took Fr Philip <br />directly to Basankusu</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>We don’t know if the fuel shortage was still a factor; there’d also been torrential rain in Mbandaka. But it was more likely to be the fact that the passengers had become a safety risk. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sunday morning, Judith finally flew to Mbandaka. Fr Philip and Fr Patrick were able to return on the same plane. Fr Gregoire was waiting for Judith – and on Monday morning they set off for Basankusu by river, arriving, exhausted, early Wednesday morning. </div></div>Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-19005403237463099752022-10-05T13:06:00.002+01:002022-10-05T13:06:20.988+01:00Congo Kinshasa: A second opinion saves Brigitte's leg! <p> <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">The doctors looked concerned. Mama Te-te had taken her 4 year old daughter, Brigitte, to hospital because she hadn’t been right for a long time. “She’s got severe circulation problems,” said Dr. Philippe. “To alleviate that, we’d like to amputate one leg.” Mama Te-te was speechless. Her lovely, chatty little girl? Cut off a leg? It can’t be true!</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We weren’t really happy with that and decided to send her to Kinshasa for a better diagnosis. A scan of her heart wasn’t available in Basankusu. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqSdpOPg6RI6vxSRNErZg3YvYmbiDCoJq8hwX-Hl5m4IPCkeg4XSomlZWVnukjihcxee7xbNyhk6MI9FsqMECYS5Mls35WwPECTP8W9HcdSctmnL5EiD1239sWD0EaRCjB8sT481f4skf6bgNLuoOc6M-jD3LBJpzxYNfO0_1OLE5RA0Iy-KMUOJ-WsA/s960/received_1134721700453165.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqSdpOPg6RI6vxSRNErZg3YvYmbiDCoJq8hwX-Hl5m4IPCkeg4XSomlZWVnukjihcxee7xbNyhk6MI9FsqMECYS5Mls35WwPECTP8W9HcdSctmnL5EiD1239sWD0EaRCjB8sT481f4skf6bgNLuoOc6M-jD3LBJpzxYNfO0_1OLE5RA0Iy-KMUOJ-WsA/s320/received_1134721700453165.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brigitte during her treatment</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Judith and I were already in distant Kinshasa. We arranged for a riverboat cabin, to go 300 miles to Mbandaka, where there are regular flights to Kinshasa, a further 370 miles. The boat would leave on Thursday. Well, perhaps Saturday. No, come back on Tuesday!</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Te-te and Brigitte found another boat - a 20 foot wooden canoe with an outboard motor, which was carrying goats. The river journey lasted 24 hours. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was the first time that Te-te had been to Mbandaka. It had tarmac roads, normal cars, instead of the handful of 4-wheel drives of Basankusu. She felt like she’d arrived in a big city – so what would Kinshasa be like?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Our friends put them up for a couple of days, and guided them through the small airport. The next thing they knew they were in Kinshasa. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Te-te was in awe! “How do people get down from those high-rise blocks of flats?” she asked. There was much to discover.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Judith went with them to the hospital. They did some blood tests and gave some antibiotics. They made an appointment for a scan and x-rays on the other side of Kinshasa, at the University Clinic. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On the morning of the appointment, Judith took a motor-bike taxi, just before sunrise, to collect Te-te and Brigitte from where they were staying. Suddenly, 2 machete wielding bandits sprang forth. They had no idea she was carrying £500 to pay for the hospital tests! The driver put his bike down and both he and Judith pelted the thieves with stones from the road – causing them to flee. They just managed to race away on the motorbike when a bigger group of bandits came rushing to help their friends! But Judith’s driver had already sped past them. The hospital fees were intact and the scan went ahead.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Over the next few weeks they had other appointments, more medicines were given, and a diagnosis was arrived at. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Brigitte was suffering from TB, which is completely treatable, and some other deep rooted infections. She has a genetic condition, which she’s had since birth. It’s called Sickle Cell Disease; blood cells get broken because they’re misshapen. It can cause pain and tiredness. She’ll need looking after all her life with frequent doctor’s visits for infections and even transfusions. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The good news is that Brigitte didn’t need to lose a leg! What I’m looking for now are sponsors to help Brigitte to supplement her diet and medical fees each month. </span></p>Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-28716512488493058572022-06-23T22:34:00.006+01:002022-06-23T22:49:47.733+01:00Congo Kinshasa: Polly's pain in the butt<p>I'll call her Polly. She lives over the lane from us in Kinshasa. The life and soul of any gathering, she'll stand on the table after a few drinks and recites all the old songs from the village. She's a lively character and, despite her being loud at times, we like her a lot. She works as a domestic in another part of Kinshasa. A few weeks previously, she had malaria and so came to take $50 of the money we mind for her, to pay for a course of injections at a local clinic. <br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNM-WjW5MlUzewT6DrelMLQAiqaiz7bPydgieR-x4kubyRywdo678c2SiqjdruP7X5bkikbXtc7CCp0qTG7lvtdEzk9XLSo3JCNeQ04PwZGUWq8oql70BnQs8HduzKFORsIGUIVAwEPjwH8peInKSjjZounF09ue0fKzWkqPsIyYlLlES8ok3Khn8y0Q/s779/Screenshot_20220623_223158.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="779" data-original-width="695" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNM-WjW5MlUzewT6DrelMLQAiqaiz7bPydgieR-x4kubyRywdo678c2SiqjdruP7X5bkikbXtc7CCp0qTG7lvtdEzk9XLSo3JCNeQ04PwZGUWq8oql70BnQs8HduzKFORsIGUIVAwEPjwH8peInKSjjZounF09ue0fKzWkqPsIyYlLlES8ok3Khn8y0Q/w356-h400/Screenshot_20220623_223158.jpg" title="Polly - after her ordeals" width="356" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Polly - after her ordeals</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Two weeks later, Judith rushed into our tiny sitting room, laughing. "Where's our tincture of iodine?" she blurted, still laughing as if she was up to mischief. We'd used it for appendicitice wounds. I got it down from the cupboard. "What's it for?" I asked.</p><p>"Polly's got a boil on her bum!" Judith giggled. "Well, it's a wound. She had an injection a couple of weeks ago and it's become infected. I'm going to dress it for her." She hesitated a bit and then said, "Well, it's quite big, could you do it?"</p><p>I'd dressed quite a few wound recently, including Judith's appendix wound. But the fact that it was on a woman's bottom was amusing Judith no end. </p><p>"Let's have a look," I said - a bit embarrassed really, but dressing a wound is dressing a wound. </p><p>The next thing, Polly's in the room, she's dropped her trousers and is showing me her bare bum! Around her waist was a long string of plastic pearls, which, Judith told me later, were some sort of charm). There, in the middle of one buttock was a hole, big enough for a finger to fit in. There was white puss inside.</p><p>The clinic that had given the injection was obviously a dirty, filthy place, with no concept of hygiene. The infection would definitely become worse, and possibly gangrenous as it progressed inwards. Our giggling stopped.</p><p>"No, Judith," I said, "this is serious. She's ignored it for too long. I want her to go to the lovely hospital that we use. They're proficient in cleaning wounds and they'll give specific anti-biotics for deep wounds. This is beyond us."</p><p>Polly and Judith looked at each other. It started to dawn on them the seriousness of the situation. They agreed - and off they went.</p><p>The hospital is a charity. It's not expensive at all - and only a 15 minute walk away. They specialise in all aspects of good childbirth practice, but treat all comers.</p><p>They made quite a fuss over Polly. </p><p>"Oh, là là ! How could you leave it so long? That's really deep! Who on earth did this to you? You must never go back there! We need to clean it inside."</p><p>They cleaned it inside by putting an antibiotic liquid onto gauze and pushing it inside and then removing it. They repeated this three times. They explained the gravity of the situation. "If you hadn't come to us today, it would have progressed further. Eventually, you would have become disabled - even lose your leg." They noticed that she had generalised swelling. Her face was puffy and her feet were also swollen. The infection had already spread. </p><p>Polly came to us with a prescription for lots of medicines that would be used - including those for cleaning the wound. She made 4 more visits to the hospital and when the wound started to heal, came back to show me. We could hear her a mile off - she's always loud and laughing about things around her. Judith saw her first. "Francis, I'm sure you don't want to see her bottom again!" We giggled again. She was out of danger now, and we could be light-hearted once again. Judith went to inspect and I didn't need to blush a second time.</p><p><br /></p>
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<p>This morning, about 6 weeks after it all started, Polly came to thank us. The normal loudness was turned down and she told us profoundly how much she appreciated our help. Judith winked at me, gathering up some bread and our thermos of hot water and took Polly to sit outside on the balcony area, to drink tea.</p>Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-25500990512357774112022-06-06T09:33:00.005+01:002022-06-13T20:28:56.525+01:00Congo Kinshasa: married three times to the same woman<p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I got married to Judith – three times! The first time was a traditional wedding. It took place at Judith’s uncle’s house. The women of the family hid Judith away. I went there with my friend Huang, Basankusu’s only Chinese shopkeeper. He acted as my “dad” and spoke in my place at the wedding. Similarly, someone spoke on behalf of Judith’s dad. Questions were asked: “What have you come here for?” Huang gave the answer as if it was him: “Marriage!” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Well,” continued the father’s spokesman, “I have a lot of daughters. Which one do you want?”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> <script src="https://storage.ko-fi.com/cdn/widget/Widget_2.js" type="text/javascript"></script><script type="text/javascript">kofiwidget2.init('Support Me on Ko-fi', '#29abe0', 'V7V1D132U');kofiwidget2.draw();</script>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw9xGeQlLHOys1Icu_exIqpbu2j6adkBjIbAU5IgNF4bwK9E9hVUHlK2RnlvTngrxE5rAEZhFUo-4mcz5K90r1Q7clJsLeNl-SttxTpDLsal__3xU1CqHy9Hn4ip_1qEymnfh_8z_UlmU-hwplRCu4kjTWszstohpzcWFIoqdKHIm5TMRhV1DPziKwWQ/s4160/IMG_20211219_105327.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="3120" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw9xGeQlLHOys1Icu_exIqpbu2j6adkBjIbAU5IgNF4bwK9E9hVUHlK2RnlvTngrxE5rAEZhFUo-4mcz5K90r1Q7clJsLeNl-SttxTpDLsal__3xU1CqHy9Hn4ip_1qEymnfh_8z_UlmU-hwplRCu4kjTWszstohpzcWFIoqdKHIm5TMRhV1DPziKwWQ/s320/IMG_20211219_105327.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wow! Judith and Francis' wedding! </td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Even though Huang was easily able to name the bride as Judith, they then proceeded to parade a series of young women in front of him to see if any of them would do! The women, who’d hidden Judith in the next room started demanding money to bring her from England. Huang replied that she was only in the next village and he would pay for a bicycle-taxi for her. Then, when all distractions were exhausted, he showered the women and girls with banknotes, (worth 20p each!), and sweets. Judith was brought into the room and the dowry was paid to her family. It was very funny! </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A week later was the civil ceremony, in front of the Territorial Administrator. We’d agreed the price, as $100, 2 crates of soft-drinks and 2 plastic chairs; we paid it all. Judith was in full flow the night before this 2</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: 0.6em; vertical-align: super;">nd</span></span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> wedding. Dress, hair, make-up, but we still hadn’t been given a time to arrive. When we sent Judith’s sister, Leticia, to find out, she said they had no record of the booking and we’d have to pay again because the agent who took our money had run away with it! We had no choice. We finally got to the Territory, and stood on a balcony in full view of the street outside. Everyone came to gawk. The ceremony included taking a glass of orange Fanta and holding it for Judith to drink from, and then she held the glass for me to drink from. Judith was a bit enthusiastic and mine nearly came out of my nose! </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The 3</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: 0.6em; vertical-align: super;">rd</span></span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> wedding was at Basankusu Cathedral, a week after the town-hall one. The preparations started weeks before, calling in pigs, sheep, goats and chickens from family members and keeping them fed and watered until the day. Dancers came to our house for weeks before, to practise dancing to the latest pop songs. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The evening before the wedding, the cooks and the servers (known as the protocol) arrived. Cooking would go on all night. The generator that would light up our garden and play loud music arrived and started to do its work. The butchers arrived. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Judith decided not to sleep. She would survey the cooks in case they stole food. I decided to get some sleep. What, with the sound of the generator, the music, and the chopping of meat, just outside my window, it wasn’t easy!</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At 7:35, the next morning, we joined the procession behind the 2 priests at Basankusu Cathedral. We subtly danced our way in with the readers and the altar-servers. We made our vows and exchanged rings in a mass that lasted 4 hours! The choir was amazing, the congregation euphoric at every stage!</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We lay low for much of the afternoon, at Huang’s house, but arrived back at the house to find 200 people sitting in our yard! We sat like king and queen. We ate, drank and people of limited means gave their modest gifts. We were spirited away at 9 pm. Only an hour later, a heavy tropical thunderstorm dispersed the guests (who would have stayed all night!) And that was it – we got married three times!</span></p>Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-65738866994916772752022-01-03T17:06:00.005+00:002022-06-04T17:54:59.685+01:00Congo Kinshasa : Helping amid tribal conflictJoseph is 21. The total breakdown of medical services in his village left him in a dire position. The doctors and nurses had been forced to flee, and Joseph’s pain became worse. Eventually his family got him onto a boat that would call in at Basankusu, 60 miles downriver. When he arrived, his appendix had already burst; he had an intestinal occlusion (we think from being beaten) – which means that nothing could get through.<div><br /></div><script type='text/javascript' src='https://storage.ko-fi.com/cdn/widget/Widget_2.js'></script><script type='text/javascript'>kofiwidget2.init('Support Me on Ko-fi', '#29abe0', 'V7V1D132U');kofiwidget2.draw();</script> <div><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_sp0ZPM__axoOD_3fSmGtk-uWgb2u0cyTAdU8WY13tLbE_YMiHpQyQPR35vdqMcWX0K0OwbodiwrR92Ft0r3NeJ7f_3E9EHiovdCuP95YT4vmSFqhjITxQ5ivEC5BvDwXfPGfZwycPlY4JV1mxU_1pk1KvF7Rs7GO7Ej7DxLVlQgJSLG05qgiyBjUVQ=s2758" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="2758" data-original-width="1998" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_sp0ZPM__axoOD_3fSmGtk-uWgb2u0cyTAdU8WY13tLbE_YMiHpQyQPR35vdqMcWX0K0OwbodiwrR92Ft0r3NeJ7f_3E9EHiovdCuP95YT4vmSFqhjITxQ5ivEC5BvDwXfPGfZwycPlY4JV1mxU_1pk1KvF7Rs7GO7Ej7DxLVlQgJSLG05qgiyBjUVQ=s400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joseph receiving medication <br />the evening he arrived <br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>
It was already late afternoon when he arrived. Dr Eric called Judith to the hospital. “I know you normally help malnourished children,” he said, “but this young man has fled, in fear of his life, and has no-one else to help him. Without an operation he will die.” Judith told him we’d been stung before – he might die anyway and then the family will ask for money for his funeral, including food for the family and his journey home. We can’t risk such expense!
Dr. Eric suggested that the family sign a disclaimer letter. They would welcome any help we could offer, and put in writing a statement that they wouldn’t pursue the matter further. After they, and a witness, had signed the letter, the doctor gave some antibiotics and other drugs to calm his system. We paid for his first medicines.
Joseph had escaped from the village of Djombo. Djombo is often beset with ethnic conflict. This time it had got out of hand. The Gombe tribe is the majority. The Provincial MPs had appointed traditional chiefs only from the minority Mongo tribe. Regionally, Mongo are the majority, but not in Djombo. The MPs had gone as far as providing automatic weapons to the Mongo groups. The result is carnage, with bodies strewn all over the place, and 347 houses burnt to the ground. Doctors, nurses, teachers and so on, as well as a lot of the population have been forced to flee. Police from the city of Mbandaka, have been deployed.
The operation took place the next morning. Dr Eric called me to buy the compresses, gloves, syringes, anaesthetics and so on, necessary for the operation. I whizzed off into town to collect the money at Hung’s shop, dropping off Judith at Basankusu Cathedral for Christmas Day Mass. I left Dr. Eric to his work, and joined Judith at Mass. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOidNkeSKqXzTaLOI223J83KiqbdGy25aXdxZ3QfCvcHeaqXRLlLru382xsySU9Pj2UMq3MfkwZHghsr6VFCklK1D-CNHF5yUwaXkpBIukegR31YfIdRrbFlg3cSH7wZRGRMYkMwuqu0Hodr6zYnOclQ8Xd6GOZo39qcD3N9mixd5VXFzSP1QomVAprQ=s992" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="992" data-original-width="744" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOidNkeSKqXzTaLOI223J83KiqbdGy25aXdxZ3QfCvcHeaqXRLlLru382xsySU9Pj2UMq3MfkwZHghsr6VFCklK1D-CNHF5yUwaXkpBIukegR31YfIdRrbFlg3cSH7wZRGRMYkMwuqu0Hodr6zYnOclQ8Xd6GOZo39qcD3N9mixd5VXFzSP1QomVAprQ=s320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joseph a few days after his operation</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>I’m pleased to say that the operation was a success. Joseph will spend at least 2 weeks in hospital. </div><div><br /></div><div>So our costs will begin like this: <div><br /></div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>15 days in hospital x £8 = £120 </li><li>Operation = £97 </li><li>Medicines and dressings = £80 </li><li>Food 15 days x £5 (including his 2 minders) = £75 </li></ul></div><div>Total for the beginning: £372</div><div> <a href="http://PayPal.me/FHannaway">PayPal.me/FHannaway</a> 💕
Donations make it work! 💖</div></div></div>Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-45788192155170927052021-09-22T11:08:00.015+01:002022-06-04T17:52:12.236+01:00Congo Kinshasa : Francis Hannaway - ce que je fais<p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Je m'appelle Francis Hannaway.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Je viens de Middlesbrough, en Angleterre.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: right;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://francishannaway.blogspot.com/2020/06/francis-hannaway-what-i-do.html"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>Cette page en anglais</b></span></a>. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Je vis et travaille au Congo. La République Démocratique du Congo, pour lui donner son nom complet, est un pays immense en plein milieu de l'Afrique. Il est couvert d'une forêt tropicale luxuriante. Et je peux cueillir des avocats, des bananes et des ananas dans mon jardin pour prendre le petit-déjeuner.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><u>Mais comment suis-je arrivé ici ? Et qu'est-ce que je fais?</u></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Je vais commencer mon histoire avec mon père. Il était soudeur au chantier naval Smith's Dock, à Middlesbrough. À 29 ans, il a traversé le Canada. Plus tard, après avoir épousé ma mère et avoir eu des enfants, il nous a emmenés à l'autre bout du monde en Australie, où nous avons vécu pendant près de 3 ans. J'aimerais penser que mon sens de l'aventure vient de lui.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2vjn_QgJe8hR3GD0OUQv8GvMK1DiO7r-U3fEfadWbZASe4Umf-xHjbvyKb6l6f1HtHBAvyI7ht8oGQ2fojnAEe6WG5ZeeKAUIRcaSiHAsIp46onMb7LJXfeQqvVZkMHoEqziz6H6M0Ecr/s972/IMG_20200505_175144_780.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="972" data-original-width="972" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2vjn_QgJe8hR3GD0OUQv8GvMK1DiO7r-U3fEfadWbZASe4Umf-xHjbvyKb6l6f1HtHBAvyI7ht8oGQ2fojnAEe6WG5ZeeKAUIRcaSiHAsIp46onMb7LJXfeQqvVZkMHoEqziz6H6M0Ecr/w400-h400/IMG_20200505_175144_780.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Francis Hannaway avec Judith Bondjembo </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Les religieuses de l'école du couvent en Australie nous ont raconté des histoires d'explorateurs : Scott de l'Antarctique, Magellan et le capitaine Cook, bien sûr. Mais c'est David Livingstone qui a attiré mon attention. David Livingstone n'était pas seulement un explorateur aventurier, à la recherche de la source du Nil, il était aussi un missionnaire. J'ai décidé que c'était la vie pour moi.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nous sommes retournés à Middlesbrough quand j'avais 10 ans. J'ai grandi et je suis devenu enseignant pour des enfants avec des besoins éducatifs particuliers. J'ai également participé à la Catholic Handicapped Fellowship (Association Catholique des personnes vivant avec un handicap), dirigeant un club de jeunes hebdomadaire un soir, et des groupes de jeux le samedi matin ; nous avons emmené nos membres en vacances en été. Cela m'a pris beaucoup de temps. J'ai pris un emprunt immobilier et j'ai emménagé dans ma propre maison, j'avais une voiture, une moto, un travail, une vie sociale, de l'argent en poche – mais tout semblait un peu trop facile. J'avais besoin de quelque chose d'un peu plus stimulant – je voulais une aventure.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Alors, j'ai pensé à mon rêve d'enfant d'aller en Afrique. J'ai réalisé bien sûr que le monde entier avait déjà été exploré – mais j'étais sûr qu'il y avait des choses que je pouvais faire pour aider les personnes vivant dans des circonstances difficiles. J'ai postulé au VSO, Voluntary Service Overseas (Service Volontaire Outre-mer). C'est une organisation parrainée par le gouvernement qui envoie des personnes dans les pays en développement pendant 2 ans. Je suis allé passer un entretien à Glasgow. Ils m'ont rejeté.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Je ne savais pas quoi faire ensuite. J'étais de retour à la case départ. Je suppose que j'aurais pu juste aller en Afrique – le Kenya que j'aurais probablement choisi – juste pour voir ce que c'était. Puis j'ai vu une annonce dans un journal catholique. La société missionnaire catholique des Missionnaires de Mill Hill, en Angleterre, recrutait des laïcs pour 3 ans afin de soutenir leur travail dans les pays en train de développement. Quand je leur ai écrit et leur ai dit que je ne savais pas vraiment ce que je pouvais faire pour les aider, une très belle lettre est revenue du P. Mark Connelly disant que lorsqu'il est allé pour la première fois au Pakistan, il n'avait aucune idée de ce qu'il pouvait faire non plus, mais avait passé les 10 dernières années là-bas à construire des communautés parmi les minorités opprimées.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Les missionnaires de Mill Hill ont décidé de m'envoyer au Pakistan. J'avais envie d'Afrique, mais le Pakistan serait encore autre chose. J'ai quitté mon travail, vendu ma maison, ma voiture, ma moto, réduit au strict minimum ma collection de photos et de cassettes (de l’époque!) et j'ai déménagé à Mill Hill, à Londres. J'ai attendu plus d'un an pour un visa qui a finalement été refusé.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Retour à la case départ.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">(Mais, j'ai visité le Pakistan – j'ai fait le tour de tous les endroits où les missionnaires de Mill Hill travaillaient sur une période de 6 semaines avec un visa touristique.)</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Et quand je suis retourné à Mill Hill à Londres, ils m'ont demandé d'aller dans un endroit appelé Zaïre. A cette époque, le Congo avait changé son nom en Zaïre – mais l'a depuis rebaptisé Congo. Je n'avais aucune idée de l'endroit où se trouvait cet endroit du Zaïre. Les jeunes hommes qui étudiaient pour devenir prêtres à Londres m'ont tous dit que ce serait horrible, parce que c'est tellement isolé, ce n'est pas près de n'importe où, et il n'y a pas de vraies routes reliant les lieux. Basankusu, l'endroit où travaillaient les missionnaires était en plein milieu de la forêt tropicale. Pas de magasins, pas de téléphones, pas de journaux, pas de McDonalds… J'ai pensé Woah ! C'est exactement ce que je recherche ! C'était en 1992.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Quand je suis arrivé, j'ai été choqué de voir à quel point tout était en panne, à quel point tout était sale et négligé – mais au bout d'une semaine, je m'y suis habitué. J'y ai passé deux ans dans un petit village, à enseigner à de petits groupes de jeunes gens qui voulaient devenir prêtres missionnaires. J'ai appris la langue locale, le lingala, je me suis fait beaucoup d'amis.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Je suis retourné à une carrière d'enseignant dans les écoles primaires de anglettere, j'ai visité Basankusu plusieurs fois après mon passage là-bas, et j'ai finalement fait quelques visites à Kinshasa pour aider un groupe environnemental là-bas. Lors d'une visite, en 2013, je suis remonté à Basankusu, et je suis resté à la mission où il ne restait qu'un prêtre anglais, le P. John Kirwan, du Liverpool. Il a dit : « Francis, tu reviens régulièrement pour des visites ; pourquoi ne viens-tu pas faire encore 3 ans avec nous ? Nous avons besoin de quelqu'un pour enseigner l'anglais aux étudiants et si vous pouviez vous occuper de la comptabilité pour nous, ce serait encore mieux.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Alors, j'ai accepté et j'y suis retourné, en décembre 2014.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Alors que je me préparais à partir, j'ai lu sur le fléau de la malnutrition au Congo. 50% des nourrissons ne vivent pas au-delà de leur 5e anniversaire - c'est incroyable. Avoir des familles aussi nombreuses fait partie du problème. Les femmes accouchent à peu près chaque année et ne peuvent plus nourrir leurs enfants. La pauvreté est la principale cause de malnutrition – mais il y a d'autres causes – un enfant peut souffrir de l'une des nombreuses maladies tropicales et ne pas être en mesure de reprendre du poids par la suite. L'aliment de base est le manioc - c'est une racine qui est facile à cultiver. Ils en font un morceau de pâte et de féculents et le mangent avec tout. Il contient beaucoup de glucides mais aucune protéine. Alors ça te remplira, mais tu ne grandiras pas. On doit manger de la viande de poisson avec sinon vous aurez de sérieux problèmes.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Alors, j'ai décidé de collecter de l'argent et de voir ce que je pouvais faire.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">J'ai commencé mes fonctions d'enseignant et j'ai commencé à tenir des comptes, en décembre 2014. Et la chatte de mission a donné naissance à 3 adorables petits chatons. Nous en avons donné 2 et le 3ème type est devenu le mien. Il a bien fait pendant un certain temps, puis un jour, il a refusé de manger. Chaque jour qui passait, il maigrissait. J'ai essayé de le nourrir mais il a gardé la bouche fermement fermée et a refusé tout ce que je lui offrais. Finalement, il est mort et j'étais assez déprimé à ce sujet. Comment allais-je faire face aux enfants malnutris si j’étais bouleversé parce que mon chat est mort ? Je vais devoir me ressaisir.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Alors, j'ai soutenu un groupe qui venait juste de démarrer à Basankusu, je leur ai donné de l'argent pour acheter de la nourriture pour nourrir les enfants malnutris pendant 3 jours de la semaine - pour que ce soit un programme d'alimentation complémentaire, les parents ont toujours la responsabilité des enfants les autres jours.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">L'une des volontaires, Judith Bondjembo, a décidé que certains des enfants, 2 ou 3 enfants, étaient si gravement malnutris qu'ils avaient besoin d'un soutien 7 jours sur 7. Elle les nourrit donc elle-même depuis la maison de sa grand-mère, où elle habitait à l'époque. J'ai dit que je le financerais.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Au bout d'environ 9 mois, nous avons constaté que le projet était mal géré – la femme en charge se préparait de la nourriture pour elle-même et sa famille. Judith nous a suggéré de louer une petite maison et de créer nous-mêmes un centre. Alors nous l'avons fait. Nous étions si heureux lorsque tous les bénévoles du premier projet nous ont suivis. Et c'est ainsi que nous avons commencé.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Après 4 ans, la Société Missionnaire a déménagé son établissement d'enseignement à Kinshasa, donc maintenant je suis indépendant d'eux. Judith et moi dirigeons toujours le centre, c'est notre 7e année. Nous sommes en quelque sorte devenus les Services Sociaux de Basankusu. Les gens nous arrêtent dans la rue pour nous montrer leurs enfants.</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><u>Alors, à quoi ressemble une journée type pour moi ? C'est comme ça:</u></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Levé à 6 heures du matin, lavé à l'eau du puits.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Judith me rejoint à 7h. Nous prenons le petit déjeuner ensemble.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Souvent, nous avons des parents avec des enfants malnutris qui arrivent de villages lointains.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nous les emmenons au petit hôpital catholique qui est à côté de chez moi. On les fait enregistrer, on fait l'état civil, l'adresse, le nom, l'âge, le poids, etc. Puis on passe au laboratoire pour faire d'autres tests : le fer dans le sang, les parasites (vers), le paludisme et d'autres maladies sont testés.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Certains enfants ont besoin d'un traitement supplémentaire et sont admis à l'hôpital. La malnutrition se présente sous diverses formes et divers degrés de gravité. Ainsi, nous regroupons les enfants généralement en cas graves et modérés. Les parents sont priés de se présenter avec leurs enfants à notre centre d'alimentation qui se trouve de l'autre côté de Basankusu. C'est juste une petite maison de plain-pied. Le coin cuisine est un abri de chaume à l'extérieur de la maison. Et les enfants s'assoient sur une bâche pour recevoir leur nourriture. Nous tirons de l'eau de notre puits pour nous laver, cuisiner et boire.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Le travail au centre d'alimentation commence à 7 heures du matin. La majorité des enfants souffrent généralement de malnutrition modérée. Les bénévoles participent à tour de rôle et préparent les repas pour eux le lundi, le mercredi et le samedi. Juste après 7 heures du matin, ils boiront du thé au lait avec du sucre et mangeront du pain. Entre 9 et 10, ils mangent de la bouillie. La bouillie est faite de maïs moulu, d'arachides moulues et de lait de soja, avec de l'huile végétale et du sucre ajoutés. Cela garantit une source de protéines et d'énergie facile à absorber. Vers midi, ils prennent un repas d’haricots, sauce tomate, riz et poisson.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Les enfants sévèrement malnutris dorment au centre avec leurs parents. Ils sont nourris tous les jours jusqu'à ce qu'ils puissent être classés comme modérément malnutris. Ces enfants ont souvent les signes classiques de la kwashiorkor : ventre, visage et pieds gonflés, peau pâle qui pèle, cheveux pâles fragiles, léthargie, peu d'intérêt pour manger, souvent irritable – les enfants malnutris sont souvent de mauvaise humeur – quand ils se mettent à rire vous savez ils vont mieux ! Ils commencent les deux premières semaines par un régime de lait entier, en poudre, additionné d'un peu de sucre et d'huile végétale, toutes les quatre heures. Après une semaine, le gonflement est réduit. Finalement, la bouillie est introduite, puis des aliments solides, tels que du riz et des haricots.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lorsque Judith et moi avons fini de soigner les enfants à l'hôpital, nous prenons chacun un taxi-vélo, sur les pistes de terre accidentées, à travers la ville jusqu'au centre d'alimentation. Nous gérons l'approvisionnement en nourriture, l'entretien du bâtiment et des terrains, la plantation de soja et de légumes verts feuillus, et suivons l'inscription et la progression des enfants sur nos livres.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Le premier samedi de chaque mois, nous tenons une réunion avec les douze bénévoles. Les volontaires perçoivent une petite indemnité pour les dépenses lors de cette réunion. Ils reçoivent chacun environ 16 euros, plus 5 tasses de haricots, 5 tasses de riz et 2 tasses de sel. Les jours spéciaux, Noël, la Journée internationale de la femme, les fêtes religieuses, etc., ils reçoivent souvent la même chose. Habituellement, ils obtiendront une longueur de tissu pour faire leur uniforme. La responsable/magasinière du centre reçoit un peu plus car elle vit au centre et est de garde pour les cas graves. Nous avons aussi une infirmière qui prescrit des médicaments et forme les parents. Au cours de la réunion, présidée par Judith, les bénévoles discutent de ce qui s'est bien passé et de ce qui pourrait être amélioré. Les activités associées, telles que nos jardins pour l'arachide, le maïs et les haricots, sont discutées. Les membres qui sont en retard au travail ou qui ont causé un problème peuvent être pénalisés et leurs privilèges suspendus. Ceux qui ont fait un effort supplémentaire sont applaudis.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Novembre à janvier est généralement une période calme au centre. Mai à octobre est la période la plus achalandée, avec jusqu'à 75 enfants présents. L'année dernière a été plus chargée que jamais en raison d'une épidémie de rougeole, 7 000 morts à l'échelle nationale.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs8_edZp8F_jPG2bLimqsqPY09GotykVaad8XTtJIkJUSqsRnA99AOJyAiAFwNedsiaBZCH3D2kGyRZLYU3i1UfIZcZKXXhMxXzX6xe__QSvyB-2gHRIGgi2R-FLQ6OOZOY9Al7gE50GfF/s4160/IMG_20210612_112417.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs8_edZp8F_jPG2bLimqsqPY09GotykVaad8XTtJIkJUSqsRnA99AOJyAiAFwNedsiaBZCH3D2kGyRZLYU3i1UfIZcZKXXhMxXzX6xe__QSvyB-2gHRIGgi2R-FLQ6OOZOY9Al7gE50GfF/w400-h300/IMG_20210612_112417.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Des enfants à la centre de malnutrition. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Vers 13h. Judith et moi laissons les bénévoles finir. Nous rentrons à pied.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Parfois, nous avons des enfants à l'hôpital général et nous pouvons leur rendre visite. Il y a d'innombrables incidents où nous devons retrouver des enfants à la maison, mais généralement, nous les obligeons à rester au même endroit. De même, nous devons souvent donner des conseils diplomatiques au personnel soignant et aux infirmières dans les hôpitaux en raison de la fragilité des enfants souffrant de malnutrition.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Après le déjeuner – généralement composé de poisson, de légumes verts et de riz ou de bananes plantain, je me suis mis à organiser des photos et des vidéos à publier sur Facebook et Instagram. J'écris également un article chaque mois pour la Middlesbrough Catholic Voice. Grâce à ces efforts, nous essayons de collecter suffisamment d'argent pour continuer.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Au cours de l'après-midi, nous pouvions parfois recevoir la visite d'une personne handicapée ayant besoin d'un fauteuil roulant. Au cours des 5 dernières années, j'ai fourni 34 fauteuils roulants. La poliomyélite est la principale cause d'invalidité à Basankusu et au Congo en général. Beaucoup d'adultes handicapés n'ont d’autrechoix que de ramper sur le sol - par temps sec, c'est déjà assez difficile, mais par temps humide, le sol se transforme en boue. Offrir un fauteuil roulant à quelqu'un révolutionne complètement sa vie. Si quelqu'un se présente pour demander une chaise (ou un vélo comme ils aiment les appeler ici), je prends des photos, ou je fais une petite vidéo – puis je lance un appel sur facebook pour récolter de l'argent. Nous fabriquons les chaises localement. Ils coûtent environ €350 chacun à fabriquer.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Le soir, nous faisons généralement le tour de l'hôpital catholique pour rendre visite à l'un de nos enfants qui s'y trouve.</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Les choses ont beaucoup changé depuis les années 1990, lorsque j'étais ici pour la première fois. Les panneaux solaires et la télévision par satellite ne peuvent être achetés que par quelques-uns – et de la même manière, les téléphones portables sont trop chers pour la plupart des gens – mais tout de même, beaucoup de gens en ont de nos jours. J'ai un abonnement de base pour Canal+ à €7/mois. Alors j'ai les infos en français et Judith a ses feuilletons.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Les jours où nous ne sommes pas à l'hôpital ou au centre d'alimentation, nous allons à notre potager dans la forêt. Tous les bénévoles et leurs enfants se joignent à nous. Cette année, nous avons un hectare de terrain planté d'arachides. Cela réduit les coûts au centre en complétant nos stocks. Une partie des cacahuètes peut être vendue et chaque bénévole reçoit une part du reste en guise d'encouragement pour son travail. C'est à environ 6 km de Basankusu.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">J'ai une existence assez maigre, les articles de luxe ne sont pas vraiment disponibles. Nous nous disputons pour savoir si un pot de pâte à tartiner au chocolat est une extravagance ou non. Heureusement, Judith est déterminée à ce que je ne me laisse pas faire et veille à ce que je vive sans mourir de faim.</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><u>Alors, comment puis-je tout financer ?</u></b></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Je prends des photos et fais des vidéos de 2 minutes à mettre sur facebook. Les gens envoient de petits dons, et c'est comme ça que je me débrouille. Je dois générer environ €2.500 chaque mois pour continuer. Cela couvre la nourriture des enfants, les frais d'hospitalisation et mes frais de subsistance quotidiens. Ce serait formidable si les gens pouvaient jeter un œil à ma page facebook pour voir ce que je fais et peut-être envoyer eux-mêmes un petit don.</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/FHannaway" target="_blank">Envoyer un don par PayPal :</a></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/FHannaway" target="_blank">PayPal.me/FHannaway</a></span></p><br />
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Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-7418305056940453672021-09-12T11:11:00.008+01:002022-06-04T17:57:51.795+01:00Congo Kinshasa : another blood transfusion for a malnourished child<div><br /></div><div>Saturday 11 September </div><div><div>Here's another lovely little girl, 10 years, called Mama. She came with her mother to my house Wednesday, but because of the nurses' strike we were left to prescribe ourselves, aot the main centre. I visited her yesterday and she'd already made improvements. </div><div><br /></div></div><div>Sunday 12 September </div>
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A busy Sunday morning, so far... <div><br /></div><div>Little Mama (10) whom I photographed yesterday in an improved state, arrived early. Yesterday, I saw her iron was low (pale eyes/inside eyelids, pale palms). Mum only agreed to iron syrup.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh85QC9vSkloxOd3an1F0ipCt1yYdq9h7dXzEi-Kpb4ssUa4XD2PTG8nVPJDr6_Dqrl3xfrC88kAqxVXQpzlWmD0APp3NDXCVkm8w4RrrzuoGM2RhX0Sf-RjLb5gVliB-ctyGBSZPpPD5jC/s2100/IMG_20210912_104412.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2100" data-original-width="1730" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh85QC9vSkloxOd3an1F0ipCt1yYdq9h7dXzEi-Kpb4ssUa4XD2PTG8nVPJDr6_Dqrl3xfrC88kAqxVXQpzlWmD0APp3NDXCVkm8w4RrrzuoGM2RhX0Sf-RjLb5gVliB-ctyGBSZPpPD5jC/s320/IMG_20210912_104412.jpg" width="264" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mama with her mum</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /><div>Nevertheless, Laeticia was concerned enough this morning to send her to me. I quickly dressed in yesterday's clothes and bypassed the bucket of hot water, which had been brought for my morning bucket-bath. </div><div><br /></div><div>On the way to the hospital, I told her she would almost certainly need a transfusion - and she agreed. </div><div><br /></div><div>I found Dr. Eric, bright and enthusiastic, outside his consulting room, washing his face from a cup of water. (the nurses' strike is still ongoing). </div><div><br /></div><div>Mama's mother told a long complicated story, trying to say her daughter's condition wasn't her fault. She has a lot of issues, but Dr. Eric was able to reassure and encourage her. He recognised her anaemia and convinced mum again that a transfusion was the best way forward. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/FHannaway">Donate to Francis' malnutrition centres. </a></div><div><a href="https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/FHannaway">PayPal.me/FHannaway </a></div><div><br /></div><div>Her oldest daughter arrived. I told her she could be the donor. She refused. I wasn't pleased. "This is your own sister!" but she still refused. Mum told her to go and get, family member, Thomas. The young woman refused again, she didn't like him, she wasn't going!</div><div><br /></div><div>We went over to the shoddy children's ward (where Martini is sleeping) and got her a bed. </div><div><br /></div><div>I returned home (next door) while the doctor and Mama's mother sorted out a donor. </div><div><br /></div><div>My bucket of water had cooled a little, but I felt more awake after getting washed. I sat down to breakfast. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then the rain started. Fortunately, it was heavy but not impassable, as is often the case in the tropics.
Mama Julie told me they needed the 10,000 Congolese Francs (£3) for the donor. (The whole process will cost around £50). </div><div><br /></div><div>The rain continued as I popped in to see Dr. Eric taking blood from the donor - which turned out in the end to be Thomas. I smiled and told him to come to my house afterwards to have some sweet, milky tea and bread. I walked back carefully, in the rain, taking care not to slip in my flimsy flip-flops. Everything was going to be alright. </div></div>Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-52088763599890102162021-07-19T10:27:00.004+01:002022-06-21T10:56:15.162+01:00Congo Kinshasa: Red Zone leaves me between a rock and a hard place<p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="font-size: 1em;">Work at my centre continues; we've got so many children arriving, it's difficult to keep up. We've got 49 at the centre right now. Parents often bring their children at 6 in the morning, or even at 9 in the evening. Some have such advanced malnutrition that they need an immediate blood transfusion at the Catholic hospital, next door. The hospital is a simple clinic, with only one nurse on night duty. We usually keep a stock of pouches for blood at my house, for whenever the hospital pharmacy is closed. Otherwise, we search through the dark streets to find a private pharmacy kiosk on the chance that they have some. Then we need to wake a donor. Not all of the children make it through the night, but for those who do the long process of recovery begins at my centre - for at least 2 or 3 months. We give them foods with protein to repair the body, and energy to keep them positive. We treat them for underlying conditions like worms, malaria and TB.</span></p><p dir="ltr"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTsWIVZY8RSk7JH4GPUatfQOUrBWWl55ZjYnme1E2hE0bt-pgh-QSmDYz7FFzBfpydGCkF_QpELZhP41nhsC4_rtcAZbjyJ4kOXM4LZviYTrqqPXJdKS7mDmYiwNhPrYAwySW13mP2I1CV/s720/Screenshot_20210718_122126.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="679" data-original-width="720" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTsWIVZY8RSk7JH4GPUatfQOUrBWWl55ZjYnme1E2hE0bt-pgh-QSmDYz7FFzBfpydGCkF_QpELZhP41nhsC4_rtcAZbjyJ4kOXM4LZviYTrqqPXJdKS7mDmYiwNhPrYAwySW13mP2I1CV/w400-h378/Screenshot_20210718_122126.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Francis Hannaway and Judith Bondjembo</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: 1em;"><br /></span><p></p><script type='text/javascript' src='https://storage.ko-fi.com/cdn/widget/Widget_2.js'></script><script type='text/javascript'>kofiwidget2.init('Support Me on Ko-fi', '#37a4d6', 'V7V1D132U');kofiwidget2.draw();</script>
<p dir="ltr"><span style="font-size: 1em;">Our hospital bill just for June was £430, plus meds bought outside. Our food bill during May/June/July/August is around £500 each month. Running costs in general are at about £2,000 per month – at this time of year we spend more, November to February we spend less.</span></p><p dir="ltr"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2SlG8RcGn432pL7UT1fHhwVej2rG0KtcF1vWKI3v8eoE_UBA-zRJV4PBBlT5K-DGlCw0Qwj2uteaobWkaO4Zyhds0sWSFU73U1DT_K8GWqSa-MIKE1H2djxIBlmYRX-zE0GIPJX-eqFIA/s4160/IMG_20210612_112417.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2SlG8RcGn432pL7UT1fHhwVej2rG0KtcF1vWKI3v8eoE_UBA-zRJV4PBBlT5K-DGlCw0Qwj2uteaobWkaO4Zyhds0sWSFU73U1DT_K8GWqSa-MIKE1H2djxIBlmYRX-zE0GIPJX-eqFIA/w400-h300/IMG_20210612_112417.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Children at the malnutrition centre recently</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: 1em;"><br /></span></p>
<p dir="ltr">I was thinking about a visit home, but corona and visa complications make it unlikely.</p>
<p dir="ltr"><span style="font-size: 1em;">I was home for Christmas 2019, and stayed a week at Maidenhead, with Mill Hill Missionaries, while I renewed my visa. I came back to the Congo in February 2020, with a return ticket to Manchester, 8 July the same year. (I think I’d decided that I needed more frequent breaks!) The flight was cancelled, but I was forbidden from travelling to Kinshasa for it anyway, because of coronavirus restrictions.</span></p>
<p dir="ltr"><span style="font-size: 1em;">I had the possibility of travelling after my arrival in Kinshasa 27 August, but I was busy with buying stock and registering my charity nationally. The immigration police said they'd tell me what I'd need for a long-term visa. They dragged their heels, issuing a visa for 3 months, and then a further 3 months, as they spun things out again. I finally submitted my application in February and the UK put Congo on the red list. I'm still waiting for my visa and my passport back. I've dodged some more shenanigans from the immigration police during my return to Kinshasa a week ago. (At 9:30 last Wednesday morning, I was told there was a place on a 16-seater which was delivering equipment for a palm plantation at 12 noon. I was the only passenger.) </span></p>
<p dir="ltr">I have a rebooked flight for 8 July in a week’s time, to Manchester, but it would mean a hotel quarantine (an exorbitant £1750) - and I'd need to get my passport back first, and then it would leave me in the UK without a visa to return. So, I won't be getting on the flight. So much for having more frequent breaks!</p>Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-26872453409578995432021-06-25T14:34:00.008+01:002021-06-25T15:00:11.194+01:00Congo Kinshasa: Exploding hot water flask puts Judith in peril! <p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">The morning started as usual; Judith arrived for breakfast and we sat together at the little, plastic, square table in the corner of the sitting-room. In Basankusu, where my malnutrition centres are, we don’t have mains electricity, so, we don’t have an electric kettle. Instead, we heat water on a wood fire outside and put it into a Thermos flask. Judith had been very pleased with her purchase of a new Thermos flask in Mbandaka when she’d come to meet me the previous week. It was bright orange and quite large. Judith’s dad had visited, two days before, and commented on how hot the water was. The plastic looked quite flimsy, but, despite its lightweight appearance, and low price, we were very pleased with how efficient it was.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtWujX18B4JI7NB3dXBN2kqWZkYMYuOlYXYFZjbMVyMLzo3Iuj0w0a-x8v1r8kg4WKOLiz_6w2kJq8S8ux6MibXQO8Wx7Wrs8aQrWHILrZN55XcmQ8sLOXW42Wp1n5WbBlBFOjddZFKCrV/s1796/IMG_20210625_141052.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1796" data-original-width="1561" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtWujX18B4JI7NB3dXBN2kqWZkYMYuOlYXYFZjbMVyMLzo3Iuj0w0a-x8v1r8kg4WKOLiz_6w2kJq8S8ux6MibXQO8Wx7Wrs8aQrWHILrZN55XcmQ8sLOXW42Wp1n5WbBlBFOjddZFKCrV/w348-h400/IMG_20210625_141052.jpg" width="348" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Francis Hannaway and Judith Bondjembo </td></tr></tbody></table><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">We sat down to a simple breakfast. I’d brought some blackcurrant jam from Kinshasa, and a sachet of Nescafé instant coffee. Local bakeries had sprung up in Basankusu after the civil war, with the help of UN agencies, and bread was usually made to a good standard. </span></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I took the heavy Thermos and poured it into my cup, and passed it across the table to Judith. Once in her hands, the weight of it swung it a little on its way and it touched the wall briefly. She poured the steaming water into her cup. It was just when she was about to return it to the table that it happened. There was an explosion. It was like a bomb had gone off! We both sprang to our feet. A large cloud of smoke-like vapour hovered above the table! We saw that it was the flask which had exploded, the bottom and all that was inside had come out with a tremendous force. Still in shock we sat down.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0YnguZvarGTn2HFfADB3GcVPteAK4UzGogw1hApfVK5v-JigrnWr8Ou7HidY_le0nSMY-knA7fViaP9W8F4DYzwALhkwe92WTA9X8oADlpgpU1LbCsSUwGAUlxyYqQ9jkvtD1UhlnayQT/s4160/IMG_20210326_090633.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="3120" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0YnguZvarGTn2HFfADB3GcVPteAK4UzGogw1hApfVK5v-JigrnWr8Ou7HidY_le0nSMY-knA7fViaP9W8F4DYzwALhkwe92WTA9X8oADlpgpU1LbCsSUwGAUlxyYqQ9jkvtD1UhlnayQT/w300-h400/IMG_20210326_090633.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bottom of the Thermos was blown off!</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was several minutes later that Judith realised that the scalding water from the flask had landed on her chair and she was now sitting in it! The shock of the situation had meant that she hadn’t felt it immediately! We’d both thought that there was no damage – but then I realised that I needed to act quickly to cool the scald. I rushed her into the bathroom and splashed handfuls of cool water onto the area at the top of upper leg. I tried to get her to sit in a basin of water, but she thought it was all a lot of fuss for nothing. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She started to tell me about “nkisi ya bankoko”, traditional medicine, or, literally, “medicine of the ancestors”. Now, I’m not completely opposed to certain calming plant-based medicines that might help with a fever or a headache, but certain things need a certain approach. If you have a burn, you need to cool it. Immersion in water is the best way. I’m a trained First Aider and I cooled the wound. Unfortunately, she’d delayed doing that for a little while and it became a burn. A little bit later and huge, fluid-filled blisters started to appear. She asked me to pop them. I explained that the blisters protect the burn area. On further Googling, the advice was that large, painful blisters could be emptied. I emptied the largest one, which was about 10 cm long, and left the others.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkRQkKpzsMR4xbD7kA4RBtoQI88xzEAgBwR94DIQj715kUTq2dKtM5InbmxkfUmNy0oBeQxI1Xa9Hy_hT9Y0SyKuKnrUVmhv_z3_xZ-JFFK1G51CbwT6HLvhtEa3uHgXZ-CNxj6oDDUAFs/s2699/IMG_20210625_142051.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1615" data-original-width="2699" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkRQkKpzsMR4xbD7kA4RBtoQI88xzEAgBwR94DIQj715kUTq2dKtM5InbmxkfUmNy0oBeQxI1Xa9Hy_hT9Y0SyKuKnrUVmhv_z3_xZ-JFFK1G51CbwT6HLvhtEa3uHgXZ-CNxj6oDDUAFs/s320/IMG_20210625_142051.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The huge blister on the back of Judith's upper leg</td></tr></tbody></table><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Judith went outside to talk with her aunt, Mama Claude, who was a clerk in a medical centre, and who knows a thing or two (or thinks she does). People here are obsessed with medicines, be it injections, or pills or ointments. My advice was to leave it uncovered and let the some air get to it. No, it should have something on it – some cream, or antiseptic – was her aunt’s advice. OK, we’d been using tincture of iodine on surgical wounds, I wouldn’t object to that. No, we’ve used it all up, but you can get “blue” at the corner pharmacy kiosk. I assumed it was potassium permanganate or something similar. I still stressed that it didn’t really need anything on it.</span></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The other women sitting outside started to chip in their ideas. Different leaves, the bark of a tree, the flower from a palm tree – and so on. I made it very clear, “Don’t put anything on it!” I said, and went back inside.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The vast majority of people in Basankusu are poorly educated. Many can’t read. Of those who can read, they don’t read because there’s nothing here to read. Faith in the ancestors trumps all knowledge that foreigners from developed countries can bring. It’s their secret. They know things that we foreigners couldn’t possibly understand. It’s very similar to our European ancestors believing that witches float and bleeding people with leeches reduced hysteria. Our ancestors were ignorant and their outdated knowledge has been superseded with modern medicine and medical practice. The ancestors of Basankusu were ignorant, too. Honey will not cure a snakebite; wearing amulets will not protect you from ill health!</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">An hour later, Judith came back into the house. There was something going on. She had a little smug look. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You’ve done something. What have you done?” I asked, noticeably worried. She showed me that all the smaller blisters had also been punctured and the whole area was covered in a sort of sawdust paste. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“What on earth have you done!” My voice rose.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“It’s my body, I can do what I like,” she replied calmly. “It’ll get better quickly now.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“No, it would get better quickly by itself; you don’t understand.” My frustration was hard to conceal. “These old wives’ tales don’t do anything. You’ve only heard about them being successful, but you haven’t seen the infected mess they leave on others. You’ll be scarred for life!”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Judith let me know that it was the pollen-filled middle of a palm-tree flower. I explained that she was putting dirt and bacteria into an open wound and that it would become infected. Did she want to lose a leg? I told her that the wetness in the wound was blood plasma, but none of it seemed to bother her. She insisted, despite hardly being able to walk, that she’d climbed the tree and plucked the flower herself – I knew it couldn’t be true. I took her again to the bathroom and insisted that I wash it off. It was a struggle but she eventually agreed. It wouldn’t come off; it was stuck like glue!</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I went outside to where Mama Julie, Mama Claude, and several other women were sitting.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was looking for the yard-long, flat, wooden paddle that’s used for mixing fufu. I couldn’t find it so I picked up a length of wood to worry them with.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Who has done this terrible thing to Judith!” I announced. “Who decided that they knew better than me and decided to give her an infected wound?” They could see I was angry – they sat with their heads down and said nothing.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I went to Dr David’s house, he lives just next door but one. A big smile spread across his face as I told him what had happened and he started to laugh. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Leave it to me,” he said. “I’ll take her to my clinic by motorbike. You can follow later to see how it’s going.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Half an hour later I joined them in his surgery. On the way, I bought some more tincture of iodine and dressings. Dr David removed all the scalded skin from the blistered area. It left a clean but very red, very much the-skin-underneath wound. The red-raw wound was about the same size as the palm of my hand.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXBUwTh5GQrdBMLOrATL8E7htdfFBx8yzb72w95l__gLVZu8LyWrVENSGVGvP-Uz_5HbQACMSHkt1MNBD5FE_vB3p07wUguBAPwgs-B-A9_Cer49um3-3cI70j7BOdiPp8n9p6oNTvX_OO/s2867/IMG_20210625_142241.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2867" data-original-width="2310" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXBUwTh5GQrdBMLOrATL8E7htdfFBx8yzb72w95l__gLVZu8LyWrVENSGVGvP-Uz_5HbQACMSHkt1MNBD5FE_vB3p07wUguBAPwgs-B-A9_Cer49um3-3cI70j7BOdiPp8n9p6oNTvX_OO/w323-h400/IMG_20210625_142241.jpg" width="323" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The scald wound after Dr David removed the palm flower mixture, and cleaned away damaged skin. </td></tr></tbody></table><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">“It’s a second degree burn,” he said. “It seems to have become so bad because Judith didn’t feel it, at first. But, don’t worry, it’ll heal just fine.” He told us he’d dress the wound himself every 2 or 3 days. </span></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The wound healed very well. There’s a slightly different colour to it, but it’s definitely not scarred, despite her picking bits of dead skin from it, like sunburn, over the weeks of healing.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Judith says she agrees with me about the flower being dirty and an infection risk. However, I’m not completely convinced. If she’s with her friends she likes to ridicule my rejection of nkisi ya bankoko – I never know whether she still believes in them, or, more probably, she just likes to wind me up!</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglUSVouznkbYJic9E3hSlkrqksfKkHddCe6ubQR2tuer1IihjbtWKqBxudmMMMGTHPCspCd22fOwYbwqiFPkuhZGwRr8lNFzsKLcv-m9u7IYMKS8NY9D1Ekau2rpMxfOvri328o_jW6ArV/s4160/IMG_20210524_101353.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="3120" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglUSVouznkbYJic9E3hSlkrqksfKkHddCe6ubQR2tuer1IihjbtWKqBxudmMMMGTHPCspCd22fOwYbwqiFPkuhZGwRr8lNFzsKLcv-m9u7IYMKS8NY9D1Ekau2rpMxfOvri328o_jW6ArV/s320/IMG_20210524_101353.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Judith Bondjembo at the malnutrition centre</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="Https://www.Paypal.me/FHannaway "><img border="0" data-original-height="242" data-original-width="638" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Y1ce4voEc6lCSja2opGyFG5Y5qRIz5nqtTVn4tTv7urX20mfBiGQXrUWdZqOLvvMDjO6fptdnKleiC4W1BMlLN6Vdey3dKXxHFB__WW8e65Vo1IHngCAZaAGyepbhVB-u2ZBUScRXKk4/s320/IMG_20210625_143924.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="www.Paypal.me/FHannaway ">Support our work with malnourished children in the Congo<br />Donate with PayPal </a></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-54515002240851922802021-06-16T18:17:00.001+01:002021-06-16T18:17:08.607+01:00Congo Kinshasa: Momba and medical dilemmas<p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I hadn’t seen Momba since before I went to Kinshasa at the end of August, last year. At that time the swelling in her face, caused by TB, had gone down considerably, and she’d gained weight. We left her with the instructions that sometime in September she should return to her village of Bokakata. While she stayed at our second centre, she’d followed a course of drugs to cure her. She’d got her appetite back – and amazingly, become a new person. Any further medication the hospital might give her she could carry with her to her village. Our work was done – we’d already saved her life.</span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-3wUb7A83gTcwdnNCbn3BKoR0fm3HjrbKQaNkpaMPDeqK6sLXFwIoOBf29jbMoy1-g83zlnnSMknWXEMnLTaOGcXpexEY0R5RdGZI3V99gUU8-lAjTUZzrt2lVcIz7q51num0iCK6f4pa/s3911/IMG_20210312_111956.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3911" data-original-width="2730" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-3wUb7A83gTcwdnNCbn3BKoR0fm3HjrbKQaNkpaMPDeqK6sLXFwIoOBf29jbMoy1-g83zlnnSMknWXEMnLTaOGcXpexEY0R5RdGZI3V99gUU8-lAjTUZzrt2lVcIz7q51num0iCK6f4pa/s320/IMG_20210312_111956.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mama Momba with children the day before her hospital visit</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She came to see me, only a few days after my arrival in March. I noticed that, although most of it had gone, the swelling in her face was still there. She had always talked about “when the bone started to stick out!" and we always assumed she was describing the TB ganglions that made her face swell. This time she showed me inside her mouth. Her back teeth at the back seemed double. Along the length of her teeth on one side there was a ridge of toothlike growth, but just the thickness of a comb. “When I lie on this side, it hurts. At first, it was the other side – but now it’s this side,” she said.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dr Eric was busy with a patient when we arrived at the Catholic hospital next door. She was able to be examined by one of the Medical Assistants (nurse practitioners), Jean-Paul. I’d done my own research and could have come to several conclusions – one of them, bone cancer. Jean Paul confirmed my suspicions. “It could well be bone cancer,” he said. “But it seems to be made from tooth enamel. That had already been in my research – bony spurs growing from the jaw and associated with TB. “She’d need specialist treatment in Kinshasa. It would be expensive and there’s no guarantee of success,” he added. “But you’ll need to see Dr Eric for confirmation."</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dr Eric was now free. He was certain it wasn’t cancer. The tooth enamel growth could just be removed – but it would need to be in the operating room. “Leave it with me and I’ll research it a little more at home. But meanwhile, I’ll book her in for the operation tomorrow morning. It’ll be under general anaesthetic.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I went back to my house and told Judith what had been decided. Judith wasn’t happy.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“We’ve already treated her TB and paid her keep for 6 months, Francis,” she explained. “Her costs have been more than any one of the malnourished children we’ve treated. What if the operation goes wrong and she dies? Then we’ll have more problems!” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Judith was getting annoyed. Momba had reminded her of a recent patient whom we’d offered to help. The patient had suffered a crush injury, in Baringa, after the wall of a house had fallen on him. He’d been bed-ridden for almost 2 years and the family had finally agreed to amputate his leg. I’ve known his family for 30 years, and so was keen to help. Although the family had paid most of it already, Judith and I agreed to pay the remainder of his hospital bill for the amputation. In addition we would pay for any further medication and dressings. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What actually happened was this: six weeks after his operation, he died. The remaining bill for the operation was never paid, even though we’d given the family the money for it. As well as that, they’d done another operation on his hand where the skin had torn apart, without our consent. We ended up with a bill for $400 and the young man was dead. He died from poor bedsore management – his whole body had just deteriorated. Incidentally, the amputation was a great success and the wound was very clean and healing very well – but not so the rest of his body. It was for this reason that Judith had sworn we’d never get involved in someone else’s operation again.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I told her that we’d come so far with Mama Momba that it would be a shame to leave it all now. I insisted that she have the operation, and that it would just be like a visit to the dentist. Reluctantly, she agreed.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The next morning, Momba arrived with some family members. We made the short journey to the hospital and I found them somewhere to sit and wait. A porter came across and said that Dr Eric wanted to see me. I went across to his little office and entered. There, sitting on a chair behind the door, was Judith! She’d been for a chat and explained her worries! Judith left me to talk to the doctor.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I did some more research,” Eric said. “I’m coming down more on the side of possible cancer, but we can’t be certain yet. Judith is right to be concerned – you could be starting a long line of procedures. Let’s see how it goes for a while.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The truth is that diagnostic capacity is very low in Basankusu hospitals. Eventually, our resources have to be taken into consideration. We can’t save the whole world – and if we tried it would bankrupt us very quickly. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dr Eric called Momba to his room and told her that he’d decided not to go ahead. She was happy, and told us how she’d had a dream in which she died and went to heaven, during the operation. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“So, it sounds like you’re very relieved,” laughed Dr Eric. “Do you remember telling me last time about falling and the ‘bone’ broke off?” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yes,” she replied, “that’s when it started on the other side.” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Let’s wait and see if the same happens this time,” he said.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We got Momba back to the house. I kept in mind that her condition could possibly bring her back at a future date. We gave her some money and food to keep her going and told her the time of the next boat to Bokakata. And she thanked us and promised that she would go.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But she’s still in Basankusu – she never went!</span></p><br />Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-63782394173773878532021-06-14T18:32:00.007+01:002021-06-16T19:01:57.776+01:00Congo Kinshasa: Planes and boats and corona tests<p dir="ltr"><span style="font-size: 1em;">The weeks started to drag. Each time we submitted a document, there seemed to be another one I had to procure. “Go to the town hall, go to your doctor …” and so on. But eventually the day came when everything was accepted and submitted. Our charity for malnutrition would become national, and I would get a new 5-year visa. Now to travel back from Kinshasa to Basankusu. </span></p><p dir="ltr"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP2S-2_6YVr7lEV__9VTmKs9OHqDlfQuGzP-gnDyvaO1cmxxmZmcH7mIH12FmuuPffIDuJeXXTDsnoxhbAPoOzzmuqspkY2hEX3fnVdNrkWlciHUh1m1ZuYjNbEy_ks3TKInXP2QYUg-YY/s476/IMG_20210614_185343.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="446" data-original-width="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP2S-2_6YVr7lEV__9VTmKs9OHqDlfQuGzP-gnDyvaO1cmxxmZmcH7mIH12FmuuPffIDuJeXXTDsnoxhbAPoOzzmuqspkY2hEX3fnVdNrkWlciHUh1m1ZuYjNbEy_ks3TKInXP2QYUg-YY/s320/IMG_20210614_185343.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Francis & Judith after<br />their return to Basankusu. </td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p></p><p dir="ltr">
The day I set off for my Coronavirus test, followed a night of heavy rain and, therefore, in Kinshasa, some severe flooding. Taxis and minibuses were not only hard to come by, but the streets were almost gridlocked because of the standing water. I took a motor-bike taxi, being the second passenger after a young woman. When I finally arrived, he charged double the normal fare. Perhaps he knew that he wouldn’t make much today – he was quite bare-faced about it. I didn’t care – I was going back to Basankusu.</p><p dir="ltr"><br />
Mama Geraldine had kindly offered to buy my air-ticket to Mbandaka with Congo Airways and with that in mind, I entered the IRBN compound and was directed to a large building to the left for my Cornavirus test. After that – nothing. Two crowded halls, one of them with payment windows, had nobody at all to give directions. What do I do? Who can I ask? Everyone sat staring at their mobile phones. One the wall was a piece of paper: WiFi logon and a website address. I eventually worked out that the idea was to connect to the website and register my details. I sat down, and worrying about the passing time, tapped in my details and uploaded a photo of my passport. It crashed. I started again – and eventually, success. In the melee of perhaps 100 people, I plucked up the courage to sit at one of the windows, whereupon someone sat opposite me and half threw a piece of paper through the window. He was followed by his friend who remained standing. I asked the friend. What do I do next? Someone else jostled through the crowed and handed his phone through the payment window. The friend smiled, took my phone, clicked the last button on the screen and a q-code appeared. He told me to hand it through the window where it was duly scanned and I was allowed to pay my $30, before being passed on to the next window. Just as one of the operatives started putting a sticker on my form, Mama Geraldine phoned. </p><p dir="ltr">“Don’t do the test! The plane’s not until Thursday!” she blurted.<br /><br /></p><p dir="ltr">
Fortuntely, the staff behind the glass screen were able to reassure me that I would still be OK. Today was Monday, but the result would arrive at night, so it would still cover me for Thursday. Where to next? They pointed me in the direction of the second hall. The crowd had subsided now and there were only a few people there. Still nobody to give directions. I asked a man sitting with his phone on a bench. “Go into room 2” was his advice. The door of a small room in the corner had a number 2 printed on a piece of A4 on the door. I tried it. It appeared to be locked. “Push harder,” the advice came again. It opened and inside I saw a nurse just withdrawing the long probe from a man’s nose! </p><p dir="ltr">“Oh, I’m terribly sorry!” I stammered. </p><p dir="ltr">But the nurse gave me a smile and said that she’d be free in a minute. The test was what I expected: very professionally done and very quick. The nurse apologised for the lack of organisation and reassured me that my test would be valid well into Thursday evening. She said they’d email me the results and that I could collect them the next morning. Her instructions were less clear about where I would collect them, but I knew I could ask for directions when I arrived.<br />
The next morning, I saw the email on my phone with the result – negative, thankfully. I realised that I didn’t need to go back to pick up the results – I just went to an internet café and printed them out.</p><p dir="ltr"><br />
I asked Gracia, our next-door neighbour, and Judith’s cousin, if she could drive me to the airport on the Thursday of my flight. Unfortunately, she was already committed to drive her children to their various schools, but she had a reliable taxi-driver who she could phone. Later on, Christiantus, our Nigerian friend, who is a diocesan priest in Basankusu Diocese, said he would drive me their – even at the early hour of 5 o’clock, as soon as the curfew finished.</p><p dir="ltr"> <br />In my life, it seems that if something can complicate the situation, it will.</p><p dir="ltr">Torrential rain pelted down all night.</p><p dir="ltr">That could mean more flooding. Congo gets 12 times the amount of rain Britain experiences each year. That means that a whole year’s worth of British rain falls in a single month – so you can imagine how heavily it must fall! Around 4 o’clock it started to lessen. The curfew would end at 6 am and really we needed to be on the road as soon as possible after that.</p><p dir="ltr"> <br />I attempted a few desperate phone calls to Christiantus and eventually got a reply. We set off at 6:20. The road was dark and wet; the headlights were remarkably dim. Here and there we encountered partially removed roadblocks, left like that after the night’s curfew.</p><p dir="ltr"> <br />Christiantus explained that he had to say mass later and wouldn’t be able to hang around to help me in the chaos of check-in. We came to a barrier and the soldiers who guard the gate to the airport. Chris wound down the window a little, cold splashes of rain helped to wake me up a bit more. </p><p dir="ltr">“Catholic priest,” he told the soldiers. No reply. </p><p dir="ltr">“I’m a Catholic priest,” he said again. Still no reply. </p><p dir="ltr">“Francis, give them 4,000 congolese francs (£1.70)” </p><p dir="ltr">The barrier rose.</p><p dir="ltr"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhgaiMslZGeNp-PlF5gnjjNOjbhioh5OkyT5Vj0sENr9nSQuJOPIW9NBU_WJY56BmGAYKB2adx0TF8X_lG_q0wkf7rn7dhGAmOygy5SJ-_w-KI2783ZZXh2JG92hgWvkUI3ZO5jG3r0i_w/s784/FB_IMG_1623865643752.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="784" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhgaiMslZGeNp-PlF5gnjjNOjbhioh5OkyT5Vj0sENr9nSQuJOPIW9NBU_WJY56BmGAYKB2adx0TF8X_lG_q0wkf7rn7dhGAmOygy5SJ-_w-KI2783ZZXh2JG92hgWvkUI3ZO5jG3r0i_w/s320/FB_IMG_1623865643752.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Father Christiantus</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <br />I stepped out into a pool of water. A young man held an umbrella over my head as I took my suitcase from the back seat. Christiantus drove off. The umberella guy started to walk with me towards the airport buildings. </p><p dir="ltr">“No, I didn’t call you,” I said firmly. </p><p dir="ltr">He continued to walk with me. </p><p dir="ltr">“No, I refuse! I don’t want you! Go away!” </p><p dir="ltr">These people are opportunists. They say they’ll help you through check-in, but will often disappear with your case, your money, your passport – whatever!</p><p dir="ltr">Eventually, I was met by another man wearing a yellow day-glo vest and a name badge. These registered porters can also trick you, but are more likely to guard their reputation.</p><p dir="ltr"><br />
The plane was late. My fixer held my travel documents, paid my airport tax and so on, while I had an extra 2 hour wait. Oh, well, at least I wasn’t late. When we were finally called to move through check-in, he asked me for $10 so that I wouldn’t have to open my case. It’s a dreadful practice – the Congolese (at least the very small percentage who use airports) haven’t arrived yet at the seriousness of airport security. I accepted it because I was already weary from the whole process, that, and the fact that I had a 1 litre carton of South African red wine in my case, which, anywhere else in the world wouldn’t matter, but here they might decide to remove it.</p><p dir="ltr"> <br />I’m 100% sure the fixer didn’t hand over all of the $10, but suddenly I found myself at the boarding gate. I watched 12 noon approach and pass. Other passengers boarded their planes and departed. Eventually, two young women in the uniforms of another airline, CAA, walked by asking their passengers to group together in one area of seating. I told them that I was with Congo Airways. </p><p dir="ltr">“No, no, you’re with us! Look at the tag on your bag!” </p><p dir="ltr">I looked, and sure enough, it said CAA.</p><p dir="ltr">I’d asked Mama Geraldine to buy for Congo Airways – no wonder I had to change from Wednesday to Thursday!<br /><br /></p><p dir="ltr">
The plane arrived, fairly small, two seats on the left and two on the right. A small plane takes longer, but, after following the River Congo for 2 hours and a half, I finally arrived in Mbandaka.</p><p dir="ltr"><br />
Judith had hired a dugout canoe outboard and driver; she’d come along with a young girl to help with cooking and our watchman to help with buying provisions for the malnutrition centre. </p><p dir="ltr">Mbandaka is officially a town, but people still live as if they were in a village. Cooking is still done from raw ingredients, freshly caught fish, cooked on firewood or charcoal. I<span style="font-size: 1em;"> got to go out for a drink a couple of times with old Basankusu friends. We enjoyed the view from where we stayed because it was literally on the shore of the Congo River.</span></p><div><p dir="ltr">
We set off to Basankusu at 6 am, 28 February, repleat in waterproofs and orange lifejackets. The river was calm.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/iiGR8W_jxRo" width="320" youtube-src-id="iiGR8W_jxRo"></iframe></div><br /><p dir="ltr"><br /></p><p dir="ltr"> We gave places to Antoine Mbula, a former Mill Hill student whom I taught in the 1990s, and Moise Lofinda, who is the boss of the bonobos re-introduction project in Basankusu. The wife of one of the protestant pastors also joined the trip – she sat in the bow of the boat and cooked for us. The driver, who was owner of the boat and motor, asked if we could take a young couple and their 2 children. We reluctantly agreed because we were already full.</p><p dir="ltr"><br />
Cooking on board was done in a charcoal burner. They put the burners in the bow and in a plastic bowl and put a couple of inches of water into the bowl, so that the heat wouldn’t damage the boat. We brought some beer along and Judith and I shared a bottle during the first hour of the journey. The cool of the morning started to lift and I took off my raincoat.</p><p dir="ltr"><br />
It wasn’t long before we started seeing various river craft. A baleinier, literally, a whaling boat, is a barge or series of barges, or whatever might pass for a barge, being pushed by a small tug-like boat. They are often over laden with goods and people, who camp out on the deck and others on top of goods, or even felled trees. A masua is another type of boat, still over laden, still with people sleeping on deck – but also with the possibility of a cabin. River journeys can take weeks – Kinshasa to Basankusu can take between 3 and 5 weeks, for example.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/iiGR8W_jxRo" width="320" youtube-src-id="iiGR8W_jxRo"></iframe></div><p dir="ltr">We travelled north from Mbandaka, hard against the current. sitting in flimsy plastic chairs. Our canoe was about a metre across; Judith had paid for a cover to be erected with some bits of wood and some old roofing sheets, so that we wouldn’t be exposed to the blazing sun.</p><p dir="ltr">
Then we came to the tributary of the Lulonga River, the river for Basankusu. We stopped after a couple more hours. The driver wanted to visit someone in a tiny fishing village. We took advantage and used it as a comfort stop. More beer was brought out and we each drank another bottle.<br /><br /></p><p dir="ltr">
And so the journey continued. Now and then people would call out that they had fish to sell. They would come alongside and haggle over the price – but it was always cheaper than the price in town!<br />
As evening came, so did the threat of rain. The river was very low and a few times we ran aground on sandbanks. The propeller on the outboard would sometimes get tangled in weeds or grass, and we would drift aimlessly while it was being sorted out. <br /><br /></p><p dir="ltr">
The wind picked up and the sky turned grey. The calm river suddenly became like a choppy sea. Waves with sharp peaks appeared and it looked like we might have trouble. Fortunately, it all passed within 30 minutes and the water became calm again. <br /><br /></p><p dir="ltr">
Night came. I tried to sleep in my chair. I regretted accepting the young family on board, because it gave us less room to spread out. I must’ve dozed now and then, and eventually the sun appeared again. I looked for Judith in the seat behind me – she wasn’t there! Then I saw her under the chair just waking up on the floor. <br /><br /></p><p dir="ltr">
The pastor’s wife got the charcoal burner going and we were soon drinking coffee and eating bread and sardines!<br />
We started to speculate on what time we would arrive in Basankusu. Originally, we thought that 24 hours would be enough. Failing that, surely we’d get there by 12 noon or perhaps 1 pm. During one of our stops, Antoine confided in me. </p><p dir="ltr">“They’re not using the motor at full-throttle,” he said. “They want to go home with some fuel themselves. You paid a high price for this trip, but they’re trying to take advantage again!” </p><p dir="ltr">I agreed and relayed the message to Judith. Judith didn’t want a fuss, but said she’d tell the driver. </p><p dir="ltr">“Perhaps they want to conserve fuel to be sure of arriving,” she suggested. </p><p dir="ltr">And so we continued.<br /><br /></p><p dir="ltr">
As we got closer, we saw a huge masua, a really massive riverboat, with people looking out of windows down its side. It had run aground on a sand bank and seemed incapable of shifting itself. Perhaps they would sit there several days until the river slowly released it again. Perhaps they were already digging away at the sandbank. We gave it a wide berth.<br /><br /></p><p dir="ltr">
The first view of Basankusu was the red light at the top of the telephone mast. Judith and I turned on our phones, racing to get a connection. Because we were travelling with Moise, we were able to land at the ABC (Amis du Bonobos au Congo) beach. It was 7 pm – we’d been on the river for 36 hours! Lots of Judith’s nephews and nieces came down to help us carry our things. Then we saw our watchman struggling with the boat’s driver. What on earth were they doing! They were locked in a tight bear-hug of a struggle. The watchman had been following events and had come to the same conclusion as Antoine – the driver had conserved fuel and was now going to go home with it! We estimated its value at about $25 US. It all got a bit out of hand. The last thing Judith wanted was for me, a foreigner, to be associated in a fracas. It could jeopardise my status. She called off the watch man and we unloaded our goods. </p><p dir="ltr">We then learned that the driver had also charged the young couple and charged them to carry their foam mattress! </p><p dir="ltr">We were happy, though, to let Judith’s family spirit away our goods and cases, and went together on foot to our house.<br /><br /></p><p dir="ltr">
More beer? Yes there was! <br />
</p></div><div><br /></div>Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-39119938090837596322020-12-22T11:26:00.011+00:002022-06-21T10:58:19.449+01:00Congo Kinshasa: Worms<p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">We spent our evenings playing Canasta – it’s a card game, played in pairs, and we were four.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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).</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOrOSXXnMlwYT21UHb6DuSikQnEJ6R7n_A2-ZfYyClVY7X1bXEOsZi4Xdtw78VQG6VCOorm2IlWuH969vtr6SWdfF4KuXhkACCRbXl4K9LvZDR-tELGiKnjMh8L4HLp3iRa_pAefvChvUG/s634/Screenshot_20201224_081503.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="634" data-original-width="574" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOrOSXXnMlwYT21UHb6DuSikQnEJ6R7n_A2-ZfYyClVY7X1bXEOsZi4Xdtw78VQG6VCOorm2IlWuH969vtr6SWdfF4KuXhkACCRbXl4K9LvZDR-tELGiKnjMh8L4HLp3iRa_pAefvChvUG/s320/Screenshot_20201224_081503.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNv3FXZ01iAI-7k6Fe_9vpcPqFf8LutuCpEoWYdf6eTPXZlwArqBB_D3Y6XLWVsPoZuem7Ikq_GRrNz3y2kpMVIcU4bh1byzN2KuQZp8BMhvWGqC7XKVgfXus-YHiwY-dmo3IXiHNevVfI/s1264/Screenshot_20201222_122250.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="649" data-original-width="1264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNv3FXZ01iAI-7k6Fe_9vpcPqFf8LutuCpEoWYdf6eTPXZlwArqBB_D3Y6XLWVsPoZuem7Ikq_GRrNz3y2kpMVIcU4bh1byzN2KuQZp8BMhvWGqC7XKVgfXus-YHiwY-dmo3IXiHNevVfI/s320/Screenshot_20201222_122250.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drinking coffee at the table where we played cards. [(l - r) Gerritt, Kees, me- Ben is taking the photo] </td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />We played cards Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings, as well as Tuesdays and Thursdays – oh, and at the weekend, too! In fact, every evening.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></p><script type='text/javascript' src='https://storage.ko-fi.com/cdn/widget/Widget_2.js'></script><script type='text/javascript'>kofiwidget2.init('Support Me on Ko-fi', '#37a4d6', 'V7V1D132U');kofiwidget2.draw();</script>
<p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nobody seemed concerned. Nobody said anything. The game continued. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After the game, we each retired for the evening and the generator was turned off.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Don’t worry, Francis,” he said, “it’s only worms. You’ll take some pills and it’ll soon be gone.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“But why did everyone take such an interest?” I asked.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“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.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3fofdBJzUAjO1VfDdZJ2R6OhtwbbdrwXDmBtFH9D0nM80FMv64y1QJwc7DuhOHCJvhOwSsAgTKVf_ftr0gge5WuhreBCrZRf-OiayE_8DYCjt7sWLG7RqrzeZIoRDLobQt1eKKv95krD3/s799/IMG_20201221_181018.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="798" data-original-width="799" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3fofdBJzUAjO1VfDdZJ2R6OhtwbbdrwXDmBtFH9D0nM80FMv64y1QJwc7DuhOHCJvhOwSsAgTKVf_ftr0gge5WuhreBCrZRf-OiayE_8DYCjt7sWLG7RqrzeZIoRDLobQt1eKKv95krD3/s320/IMG_20201221_181018.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ascaris in all its glory! <br />Photo: James Gathany/CDC<br /></td><td class="tr-caption"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody></tbody></table><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /><br /></span><p></p>Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-76830279290199683262020-10-19T22:42:00.015+01:002020-11-22T09:30:17.400+00:00Congo Kinshasa: The Road to Bibwa<p><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwCheKieVOuk77XzIAYFBHV9iSpGFeGvLAztNesa_C-omheQCUG_gObroZfO1VzQcpM1eXax3TV9ipW9E0ogNmjnAiM_U1ckwuu_A8V406A2sA_KXyCPuiYnvtv-aEG8vknsyjaVuU0C1-/s720/Screenshot_20201020_174610.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="720" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwCheKieVOuk77XzIAYFBHV9iSpGFeGvLAztNesa_C-omheQCUG_gObroZfO1VzQcpM1eXax3TV9ipW9E0ogNmjnAiM_U1ckwuu_A8V406A2sA_KXyCPuiYnvtv-aEG8vknsyjaVuU0C1-/s320/Screenshot_20201020_174610.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Judith Bondjembo and<br />Francis Hannaway </td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">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</span><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi47v23cXsMgdonXmry2YbXiG6du1WLEYaBpFzBc8z_88BICRB5WR_nPi3QaUPnCAH4wcNmi9YHKmb2EnMksAE65hn60tRKJVF-Pc1CsE2Odb6JNrpawcOOj8XcdLnrp6ZPyv7iTBQouie8/s612/IMG_20201019_223948.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="556" data-original-width="612" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi47v23cXsMgdonXmry2YbXiG6du1WLEYaBpFzBc8z_88BICRB5WR_nPi3QaUPnCAH4wcNmi9YHKmb2EnMksAE65hn60tRKJVF-Pc1CsE2Odb6JNrpawcOOj8XcdLnrp6ZPyv7iTBQouie8/s320/IMG_20201019_223948.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A standard yellow Kinshasa taxi<br />(copyright: Rahul Tilak) </td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">- $50, he said. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">- I’m not paying $50! I said in a raised voice.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Judith wasn’t happy. “They could have come to us!” she said.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Who could?”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“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!”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgct1nvQHFESoNaM_X9_RyGJsx5D2xyTUaGdHIgWths756d5zIT0hLfGV7vj5lLr_HnC-XcWyfYInpe025RxTO6PaWrEVuXzNO4idYpf73M6zJhjHUSLxz9ZmgKr6v-5EJuCqpj2oQWGi-K/s367/IMG_20201019_222235.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="367" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgct1nvQHFESoNaM_X9_RyGJsx5D2xyTUaGdHIgWths756d5zIT0hLfGV7vj5lLr_HnC-XcWyfYInpe025RxTO6PaWrEVuXzNO4idYpf73M6zJhjHUSLxz9ZmgKr6v-5EJuCqpj2oQWGi-K/s320/IMG_20201019_222235.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Congested road in Kinshasa</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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! </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“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”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“We’re looking for Fr. Marius,” I said. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“No, I’m sorry, I don’t know him,” came the reply. At that moment I got a call on Messenger; it was Marius. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“We’ve arrived!” I declared. “Where are you?” I expected to see him striding from one of the newly built buildings to greet us. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“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.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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! </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“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!”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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!”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOdDXiITCH3wAonX0uZVmJf_10s53jn0DEVP-HxDJMAHxAtq-ZYAM-nIggVY4D98uAokVtucgeQ_DVzogF2vfWKDRfiZTCULA7m0_CXoITCbHCrfVQpwSrcvpOV0h1agCopU1zNReSpy-r/s720/FB_IMG_1603143160921.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="719" data-original-width="720" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOdDXiITCH3wAonX0uZVmJf_10s53jn0DEVP-HxDJMAHxAtq-ZYAM-nIggVY4D98uAokVtucgeQ_DVzogF2vfWKDRfiZTCULA7m0_CXoITCbHCrfVQpwSrcvpOV0h1agCopU1zNReSpy-r/s320/FB_IMG_1603143160921.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fr Marius Tapang mhm<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p>Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-14906958032708609082020-10-08T17:56:00.011+01:002020-10-08T18:54:46.921+01:00Congo Kinshasa: Little Justine's malnutrition battles<p><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">The letter was written on a page torn from an exercise book. The paper was folded in two and fastened with a single staple.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>“Boboto Medical Centre, Basankusu Diocese.</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Dear Monsieur Francis,</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>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.”</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>“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.”</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzrtGDzoprCjkd92csVI-jHmTrgpmQBpyUws7XUP5aPCqJJ_egvLb1zV0P6BuZ9Kf8kZyBWB60PO22b8X1cJVpcBht6jlAUxVSjnIkG-HRgLTIU7wAn8hbAy1Ejo_21Qaq9_rZqjVUcrFx/s3120/IMG_20200725_101744.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrdeMnZNdMab85OHF27CbvQcC1trtPgwRiKw3NeCsfXJ9Pd8iobvClmXf7pP_i6qOPtUCh6kdIGbavRuXj8CilE1mDc2lHZN7rwxnj-9jJyiQwDSCay0I9dJR4uD02aaq7GRS4iE4xAkqA/s3083/IMG_20201008_182954.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2160" data-original-width="3083" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrdeMnZNdMab85OHF27CbvQcC1trtPgwRiKw3NeCsfXJ9Pd8iobvClmXf7pP_i6qOPtUCh6kdIGbavRuXj8CilE1mDc2lHZN7rwxnj-9jJyiQwDSCay0I9dJR4uD02aaq7GRS4iE4xAkqA/s320/IMG_20201008_182954.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> Justine just after arriving at my house<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Judith smiled. “She just needs the right food – in a couple of weeks we see a big change in her,” she said.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“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.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.)</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRZo0SdF5B9K6BFeigtcqFVlMZIaPnfjGxu0dVLpXlQWg46sZGd1tgpJPVK3Nj4rX9rmZG3jhx_PsoThHlllX96dGn4Fxd41vaqRFOoJSDuIdIDaj2bbMXyKqmMwzUBGDjJ2Zqvd6F3jG7/s3341/IMG_20201008_171328.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3341" data-original-width="2226" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRZo0SdF5B9K6BFeigtcqFVlMZIaPnfjGxu0dVLpXlQWg46sZGd1tgpJPVK3Nj4rX9rmZG3jhx_PsoThHlllX96dGn4Fxd41vaqRFOoJSDuIdIDaj2bbMXyKqmMwzUBGDjJ2Zqvd6F3jG7/w266-h400/IMG_20201008_171328.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Justine's condition deteriorated </td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“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. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“But she’s already been to Boboto – what more can they do?” said Judith, obviously worried. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“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.”</span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKHqwiGZd61Ij5LTF94wUjRd2h5q3VFMtDbX6J93JiCAoP4mGFQ7a7cwqGfOkLJUw5pQD85ZfHjapgn03MPhIlS0BTN1DaPSHfLn55UrxH5Ov-u-T5qKrkoMBgBHTWfsngEGM68kEYWG3G/s1589/IMG_20201008_171220.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1589" data-original-width="1137" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKHqwiGZd61Ij5LTF94wUjRd2h5q3VFMtDbX6J93JiCAoP4mGFQ7a7cwqGfOkLJUw5pQD85ZfHjapgn03MPhIlS0BTN1DaPSHfLn55UrxH5Ov-u-T5qKrkoMBgBHTWfsngEGM68kEYWG3G/w286-h400/IMG_20201008_171220.jpg" width="286" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Justine with her mother at the hospital</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I discussed the situation with Judith.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“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.” </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirxIUlCSE49Nu-lFNq8gbU4kyXh9lsBaoBTopb0mPDrwFhJ-jFLa6FUbeC0ZcRyqRbe5AN33V6kQJ65SbsujXmWvgyNylyuzfi7VpPgGYhrnn8XJfIJy2pUEm4_C4LLsyKkyOW2sBozh01/s4160/IMG_20200809_115401.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="3120" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirxIUlCSE49Nu-lFNq8gbU4kyXh9lsBaoBTopb0mPDrwFhJ-jFLa6FUbeC0ZcRyqRbe5AN33V6kQJ65SbsujXmWvgyNylyuzfi7VpPgGYhrnn8XJfIJy2pUEm4_C4LLsyKkyOW2sBozh01/w300-h400/IMG_20200809_115401.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Justine after leaving hospital. <br />Her shoulder-blade still as sharp as an axe. </td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLJRF-VmSWQ1jxe8D12GH7xjrvags4HO5XrnvD0uM0KfrS2y8N14HBZfZBQMAeBGcnqaxlPSiQRFD69Me7iqYRS_knPGIS1YOu0dRRTqwLJ06iYoOgPgRTgNCr913UsYKW5sC9KDxSygWc/s672/IMG_20201008_174205.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="672" data-original-width="481" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLJRF-VmSWQ1jxe8D12GH7xjrvags4HO5XrnvD0uM0KfrS2y8N14HBZfZBQMAeBGcnqaxlPSiQRFD69Me7iqYRS_knPGIS1YOu0dRRTqwLJ06iYoOgPgRTgNCr913UsYKW5sC9KDxSygWc/w286-h400/IMG_20201008_174205.jpg" width="286" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A photo of Justine taken a few days <br />before she was taken home <br />to her village<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="Www.PayPal.me/FHannaway " imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="115" data-original-width="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0cCkCPGGyc98dje1JFuu3Hcmgi8JbEjxcRp-zwyiOy5jxeNXCfDopEbwXFORUymAnyGU33d5b992SpgQEXxLBafZMZGhiy1YAcydjFsrRXMPPvwd4Xli38SZhF9seXmRIIK9_IEXbtCM9/s0/paypal-donate-button.gif" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Send a donation to Francis by PayPal <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So here we are in Kinshasa – still working hard, buying up provisions and equipment for the centre in Basankusu. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-71754444129089316832020-09-17T21:01:00.008+01:002020-09-18T16:15:16.781+01:00 What's the difference: Francis Hannaway’s Centre for Malnutrition, Mary’s Meals and Aid Organisations? <p><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.”</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQghdAobSkbwtaGfpLHjdCNkvD-AR7r73ZZTrMXAhyphenhyphenAV9FoHdNT3G_BpMo2OspHebVhfkYVi1VMWGybXA72vOpX8NpTba4JU0eprSJmUybPJWXFH5m-cBi-LjTGcCPTzt_HHkgjFcxsvSQ/s1678/IMG_20200917_193501.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1111" data-original-width="1678" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQghdAobSkbwtaGfpLHjdCNkvD-AR7r73ZZTrMXAhyphenhyphenAV9FoHdNT3G_BpMo2OspHebVhfkYVi1VMWGybXA72vOpX8NpTba4JU0eprSJmUybPJWXFH5m-cBi-LjTGcCPTzt_HHkgjFcxsvSQ/w400-h265/IMG_20200917_193501.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Francis Hannaway at his Malnutrition Centre<br />in Basankusu, Congo</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJOG33ha3jsw7twKACueBvWi8t7f5hlNeq22XyoClY3v6Adj9NAubl0VZtgzJ-1KEcqHIqk52ccivwc_Z4j7XYu7_21jy8VMk_iIOq_a9fH7OrZkkbHlxWo1mhP3B5m9twIlkWLtLeFdq3/s375/Screenshot_20200917_193401.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="157" data-original-width="375" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJOG33ha3jsw7twKACueBvWi8t7f5hlNeq22XyoClY3v6Adj9NAubl0VZtgzJ-1KEcqHIqk52ccivwc_Z4j7XYu7_21jy8VMk_iIOq_a9fH7OrZkkbHlxWo1mhP3B5m9twIlkWLtLeFdq3/s320/Screenshot_20200917_193401.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The logo for Mary's Meals - they give<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“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.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilbeoc240s_aTg7l0Si-flamRNafUyvzFv7v_y8iBJk23GC1fWBr03y7ngZkEnW-9OUJRK4-aoBGsJVkR7Q4bgTigCyvQ_bAlxHxNGQf4yyQW8ZtbXG4V-9I5FI_1IQ0WPEBSzfCmhJ3mg/s620/fufu-close-up.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="413" data-original-width="620" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilbeoc240s_aTg7l0Si-flamRNafUyvzFv7v_y8iBJk23GC1fWBr03y7ngZkEnW-9OUJRK4-aoBGsJVkR7Q4bgTigCyvQ_bAlxHxNGQf4yyQW8ZtbXG4V-9I5FI_1IQ0WPEBSzfCmhJ3mg/s320/fufu-close-up.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fufu - a filling and starchy favourite<br />in the Congo</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Are they in the Congo? No.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Will they be in the future? They tend to be in English speaking countries, Congo prefers French. Perhaps I should talk to them.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">However – that’s not what my centre for malnutrition does. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghVO1zS9xnnaDvleeTFqHISuyNI4LfARw58hwXi4vW3PK8zaC1F18_FAPTQSFBthCaZLXrQLpjtIixh_u_1iNxGe6di_sqs5-KVFSGcMDdAAc0EdSbgJ8IdjjgiNqTGIUshKde9iRdJId2/s2025/DSCN8981.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1111" data-original-width="2025" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghVO1zS9xnnaDvleeTFqHISuyNI4LfARw58hwXi4vW3PK8zaC1F18_FAPTQSFBthCaZLXrQLpjtIixh_u_1iNxGe6di_sqs5-KVFSGcMDdAAc0EdSbgJ8IdjjgiNqTGIUshKde9iRdJId2/s320/DSCN8981.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Up to 75 children are treated at <br />Francis Hannaway's Centre<br />at any one time</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />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. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9qDmzDR1NiKZVKB5SXvg4V8Dt-nudSLV_W-Hc77916qQTP7bU0libd04PM50CzhImR6uB4Yz2vwEdR_dKvMAcgyZcUjEgAYMuwApiegE1PMqEUb_qF3Jy52qqD8-NY2d30IspOXdRuuuO/s1060/Refusing+to+drink+milk.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="888" data-original-width="1060" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9qDmzDR1NiKZVKB5SXvg4V8Dt-nudSLV_W-Hc77916qQTP7bU0libd04PM50CzhImR6uB4Yz2vwEdR_dKvMAcgyZcUjEgAYMuwApiegE1PMqEUb_qF3Jy52qqD8-NY2d30IspOXdRuuuO/s320/Refusing+to+drink+milk.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little Mboyo was so thin, <br />we named him "Skeleton" </td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy4EpxKVJRVq3ZSt1Kczb-UvVcx89YBbDDCb5whvNb2p8n03w-LRSzafQAXX0kC5CWKXpxbvwnigR5xefNJes5dJEUbhkNybcdQrXkvBisZo2tNZnAWuTTQBQmThfGx3gRuRVbVd_aHHNh/s931/donations+work+1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="722" data-original-width="931" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy4EpxKVJRVq3ZSt1Kczb-UvVcx89YBbDDCb5whvNb2p8n03w-LRSzafQAXX0kC5CWKXpxbvwnigR5xefNJes5dJEUbhkNybcdQrXkvBisZo2tNZnAWuTTQBQmThfGx3gRuRVbVd_aHHNh/s320/donations+work+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little Mboyo - before and after</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“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?”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNuAoyT-R2B1UK9QViNs_moBrN0EpnEGj5ny3y3VLauTzOG03BPncEVA_-jeNPmMb0LxuDfDaWbtcPpQ0DLJzMMPJkqn1VJPndPEvpEQtuCC4oFyJHbA8yz7re3UfEWV4l4yp_zCBup0Hm/s1548/DSCN9026.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1111" data-original-width="1548" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNuAoyT-R2B1UK9QViNs_moBrN0EpnEGj5ny3y3VLauTzOG03BPncEVA_-jeNPmMb0LxuDfDaWbtcPpQ0DLJzMMPJkqn1VJPndPEvpEQtuCC4oFyJHbA8yz7re3UfEWV4l4yp_zCBup0Hm/s320/DSCN9026.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">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 </td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />“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.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If only this were true.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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!</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg84EOf2-J5Y9pJCmaWMVqH4Kqs1dgdymnMCVAYAhBQDH4Ea17q5KBPwcgCgYSUDrKOlHLZfcePitjPP7SiSoJ2U1tQH2qwTKwAOL8RtO9eSstMf6JxejhI7f_GLxKonyTqFE0H_Gb9qwv0/s4488/AFRMD+letterhead2a+cropped.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1661" data-original-width="4488" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg84EOf2-J5Y9pJCmaWMVqH4Kqs1dgdymnMCVAYAhBQDH4Ea17q5KBPwcgCgYSUDrKOlHLZfcePitjPP7SiSoJ2U1tQH2qwTKwAOL8RtO9eSstMf6JxejhI7f_GLxKonyTqFE0H_Gb9qwv0/s320/AFRMD+letterhead2a+cropped.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Francis Hannaway's group is registered as the Association of Rural Women - Against Malnutrition</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />So, getting back to the original idea: Mary’s Meals is a fantastic organisation which helps children to stay in school.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Aid organisations do a great job in emergency situations.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/FHannaway"><img border="0" data-original-height="115" data-original-width="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4vuAi1BnpAYron1yl8_-ijZFdxEaQ5ZiBbhSC76_dVP2ZYI9aoWRiz-evOkbwH4_d7i5L7zGqOjBuglcglwUmcLcfaU1a_4OCJyRGYdLSambNbyIhBB5g8njJRGIBhVmA5z49egJeZzG3/s0/paypal-donate-button.gif" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/FHannaway">Send a donation today to help Francis Hannaway with his work. <br />Click/tap the link above</a></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />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</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><br />Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1043332964318570825.post-73073763185224207172020-09-09T09:43:00.019+01:002020-11-22T09:37:37.838+00:00Congo Kinshasa: Covid-19 restrictions end - allowing a return to Kinshasa<p><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjloy0ZeeGpNKCcqn9xY_atZ7FO3yQp9o5k3LBtryuwrJLuq10KDaUe0t-GKsmCGZf5UBUYtYacYYR4Ho5DUfjltFJtuW-zocncjoCxo4UqCAGk9ccOkZspsRJAsIW9D9bYMsQQWvyXoVWh/s2448/IMG_20200725_101407.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2447" data-original-width="2448" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjloy0ZeeGpNKCcqn9xY_atZ7FO3yQp9o5k3LBtryuwrJLuq10KDaUe0t-GKsmCGZf5UBUYtYacYYR4Ho5DUfjltFJtuW-zocncjoCxo4UqCAGk9ccOkZspsRJAsIW9D9bYMsQQWvyXoVWh/w400-h400/IMG_20200725_101407.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Severely malourished children arrived<br />almost every day </td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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 6</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: 0.6em; vertical-align: super;">th</span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> 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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvMWW7C87nAxqYGpIMNQ8TIghYYbmQt4VQvelqB62Gqkl9KTzSHthAq9XmkL1ZbnSSJ_4ACFA36sMNBYQEmNXGaj3iwn8t3v1j7G1rBIX9qJbDMQL657Yk8R4dfkPrIHpttUXqL25KmvsD/s1500/800x800-boite-recto-F75_w_1500.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvMWW7C87nAxqYGpIMNQ8TIghYYbmQt4VQvelqB62Gqkl9KTzSHthAq9XmkL1ZbnSSJ_4ACFA36sMNBYQEmNXGaj3iwn8t3v1j7G1rBIX9qJbDMQL657Yk8R4dfkPrIHpttUXqL25KmvsD/w320-h320/800x800-boite-recto-F75_w_1500.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">F-75 milk<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">And so our work continued – with the help of the good people of Hull, York, Middlesbrough and the whole diocese.</span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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 </span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">aérogare, </span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">of N’dolo.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1PuhpuhsRNi_zrBBnBay5ks6k5OCB5qPSXqlHHtoEcrKDHx8-Q7qO1hh3Pm90Tk_jJGvwVZp5pFKTXjmhZowU7IuceArW-Rf-kWpB7FM6yAR72hfgMeKUsqPHzc5-I7eLIc-JAZOXOXN7/s2191/IMG_20200827_143545.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2144" data-original-width="2191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1PuhpuhsRNi_zrBBnBay5ks6k5OCB5qPSXqlHHtoEcrKDHx8-Q7qO1hh3Pm90Tk_jJGvwVZp5pFKTXjmhZowU7IuceArW-Rf-kWpB7FM6yAR72hfgMeKUsqPHzc5-I7eLIc-JAZOXOXN7/s320/IMG_20200827_143545.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Francis onboard the small Caritas plane</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzDeGbw7qP5atvtDaw_8agciXp-fsU-RLQ7pibPPe-KOkQIBAfMX_MLN8uuN0qMfxu1rsi9ddTeLr_vpx-Vke8huz5udGDk6zi6hyphenhyphenaO-2672RYIaARGGl1WSMqdfrZgM2j9scz8QA4FKAr/s2803/IMG_20200831_170144.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1936" data-original-width="2803" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzDeGbw7qP5atvtDaw_8agciXp-fsU-RLQ7pibPPe-KOkQIBAfMX_MLN8uuN0qMfxu1rsi9ddTeLr_vpx-Vke8huz5udGDk6zi6hyphenhyphenaO-2672RYIaARGGl1WSMqdfrZgM2j9scz8QA4FKAr/s320/IMG_20200831_170144.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finally a plate of chips! <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwfkvNLgu2QjX2uW8wWcghsRPTdVzdGCtJPHlaSHklckSzJnWnjg348Tw4qQLCZwNsq1RCP7K_CrcsdmiKlw8Wba65hGiiuQiwF9c3VkrlksGMVjdidltQH36ZVdFmJ9gDptu9DpVElygy/s1552/IMG_20200906_125413.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1552" data-original-width="1124" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwfkvNLgu2QjX2uW8wWcghsRPTdVzdGCtJPHlaSHklckSzJnWnjg348Tw4qQLCZwNsq1RCP7K_CrcsdmiKlw8Wba65hGiiuQiwF9c3VkrlksGMVjdidltQH36ZVdFmJ9gDptu9DpVElygy/s320/IMG_20200906_125413.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Francis Hannaway in Kinshasa<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyBrU0eGHBzdTe4SI47_Jpg0M-lFEVWZlURmwlf05IJN28ATUBeFBJSJyS7_SkQwu_9K7Z9tF8S3jf9E-PEjg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sunday Mass at St Pius X Church, Kinshasa. This is the Gloria (Kembo!) </span></div><p></p>Francis Hannawayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03086485269778188112noreply@blogger.com0