#1 - Going to Nigeria, 1992

Peace of Christ!
and
JAMBO!

Letter #1 - January 7, 1993

This is the first in what will be a series of letters from Nigeria, a rambling combination of Dear Diary and Alistair Cooke, without the fireplace. I am writing largely for myself, but since so many people said before I left that they wanted to hear ALL ABOUT what I was/am doing, here it is. If the day comes when youhave heard all you possibly want to hear about Nigeria, or Sheehan, the nice things about letters is that I will never know.

I left New York (finally) on the evening of December 23rd. The last days before going were more than a little hectic. I arrived in Manhattan on Thursday evening the 10th, just in time for the biggest storm the East Coast had seen in 70 years. I had to go up to Fordham on Friday, so the adventures began even before leaving the country. Actually, that day, dealing with New York in the midst of the floods, was the worst travel situation I have faced so far. (Of course, I have not yet tried driving in Nigeria.) While I was at the Provincial's office I was handed a 5-page shopping list of things that the Media Centre wanted me to procure. Those who didn't see me or talk with me in the final days before leaving, that's a major reason why. I wasn't outdoing Broadway shows or parties - I was working on the list.

In typical Sheehan fashion, I got a case of strep just before leaving. But the doctor sent over 6 pills which cleared it right up. (At $17 the pill, curing illness is probably the least they could have done.) I stayed up all night Tuesday night doing packing and inventory and laundry, but by 3pm the next day, I was ready when the Bureau car pulled up. Two foot lockers, three suitcases, a box and two carry-on bags. All I could think of was Francis Xavier. When he set out for Japan, Fr. Ignatius had to order him to take along a 2nd set of underwear. Of course, he wasn't going to work at a Media Centre...

JFK airport and the drive out were what you would expect from New York and that airport two days before Christmas. We tipped (bribed) a porter to deal with the bags, and a friend of Fr.McFarland's, the Jesuit I came to join, who works at KLM, managed to grease some of the stickier wheels. I paid for the excess luggage, but nowhere near what I should have, and he arranged a Business Class seat for the NY/Amsterdam leg of the trip. And a lunch chit for Amsterdam. Deo gratias.

(By the way - whenever anyone asks - "What can we give John?" - we are going to start a fund, so that when he has these long travel legs, we can all chip in a little bit and upgrade his body to the Business Class section of the plane. I don't care if I have to bring my own food and drink, the difference in the size of the seat makes all the difference in the world. I can hear the wittier among you making remarks about the size of my seat, so I will move on.)

In the waiting area, I discovered that a high school group was making the trip, which made me even more grateful not to be in the same section. We took off around 7pm, as advertised, and I was asleep before the pilot made the first bank to clear the runway space. They woke me for dinner, and I skipped the movie. Not a major sacrifice. Life aboard a long distance airplane is a lot like being in a home - you sleep a little, someone comes and puts food in front of you, you watch a little tv, you sleep some more. The Amsterdam leg was around 6 hours in the air. My seatmate said perhaps 4 words the whole time, and seemed to be on a very different cycle - when I was asleep, she was awake, and vice versa. Now, I was wearing my black clerical shirt, my Tilley hat and a safari vest with 329 pockets, so she may have simply felt that unconsciousness was the best way to deal with me. Whatever the reason, I had a lovely time catching up on sleep and getting in some quiet reflection about what it was/is I really am doing on this Nigerian trek.

We arrived in Amsterdam just before 8am, and I had a five-hour layover. (And a chit for a free lunch, compliments of that nice man at KLM.) I had been told about a special lounge for missionaries, run by an international group. I couldn't find it, and when I finally broke down and asked, I learned it had been closed down. The Duty Free shops are interesting, but not overwhelming - I had hoped to get a laser printer, but they were not among the items being sold. Tulip bulbs, yes. Laser printers, no. I did get some cheese for the men in Nigeria, and some scotch and cigars. There was a prayer chapel - twice when I stopped in there were Moslems on little rugs pointing east, and another time there was a charismatic prayer service underway. So I wandered about, browsed, terrorized several small children who couldn't figure me out at all, and quietly passed time until the plane was to leave.

Although I had never left the departure area, there is a second security check before boarding any flight. At that point, they informed us that we were being limited to a single carry-on bag. I kept the computer, stuck my soutane (white cassock) and the proof copy of Gifford's new book (Pretorian, due to come out some time in February or March - some of the most wonderful characters I have come across in a book in my whole life! Keep your eye out for this one. Helped keep me sane over the next several hours.) into the Duty Free bag, and strolled into a room with several hundred Nigerians.

As I was later to discover even more strikingly, Nigerians are given to a wide range of modes of dress, and we had them all in the waiting area. Ditto colors, ditto attitudes. Native dresses, very mod sunglasses and leather coats, boom boxes and straw baskets, all came together in this one area. Called a waiting room. So we waited. And waited. And waited.

The plane was late arriving, so (law of nature) the plane was late departing. And the Nigerians are not a patient people. The KLM folk did not get to spent the interval in quiet contemplation of their careers or upcoming Christmas celebrations. As soon as one Nigerian was finished asking a question or sharing an opinion about the quality of the operation of the airline, another was warmed up and ready to take his/her place. (A side note - few things in Nigeria operate anywhere near as well as does KLM airlines, so the indigenous folk had had lots of practice at being indignant.)

When the plane was finally ready for boarding, the staff abandoned the normal procedure of women and children and old folks first - it was every man for himself, and Katy bar the door. When I got in, I discovered a gentleman comfortably in my seat, reading his paper. Fortunately, I had been assigned a window seat (which I hate) so I left him comfortably where he was, took the aisle seat, and settled in to watch the show. Even with the one bag per person limit, there was more luggage than the cabin could handle. KLM was not about to try to deal with this group of passengers, however, so they literally had bags in the front aisle. We left Amsterdam around 2, and before you knew what was happening, bingo, we were being fed again.

Shortly after taking off, we were informed that there would be a slight change of plans. Because of the fighting in Lome, there was a military curfew in effect, and so we were going to go there first, to drop off and pick up passengers so that we could be off before the curfew. Now we left Amsterdam late, so there was some question about whether or not we would be able to get into Lome (check your Atlas - look under Togoland) and out before the curfew. Just so we shouldn't get bored.

The flight itself was uneventful. Change that to boring. The movie was the one with Goldie Hawn and Meryl Streep, where they become immortal. Cute. Sort of. And then more food. And then Lome. Where we spent the better part of two hours. One hour loading and unloading passengers, and another hour arguing with the ground control and the soldiers. There was a point where we really thought we would be spending the night in the plane on the ground. Many of the passengers were getting more than a little testy - a number of us were becoming downright gamey - and the little children, understandably, were becoming whatever is the next stage beyond unbearable. But we did get away, and I have to give high marks to the KLM flight attendants. Despite a fair degree of provocation, I never saw one of them slug a passenger.

We finally landed at Lagos sometime after 11 local time. Off the plane, and on to Immigration. Before landing I slipped into the washroom, and with faint images of Marvel Comics echoing in my memory, I changed into my white soutane. TARA! Super priest! So here I am coming toward Immigration and Customs - white soutane, safari vest and Tilley hat, computer bag on one shoulder and Duty Free Liquor bag in the free hand. Wouldn't you want to welcome this man into your country?

Immigration was fairly quick, actually, and although I did not emulate the Pope and kiss the ground, my relief at landing was certainly no less than his. I hired a luggage cart - no luggage helper, just a cart, and started the vigil. 45 minutes later, the last of my bags came off, and I started to pile them on the luggage cart. Remember, we are talking here about two foot lockers, three suitcases, one box and two carry on bags. Plus now I have added eight cheeses, a bottle of scotch and a box of cigars. I broke down, and asked one of the local aspirants to riches how much he charged to help a wandering priest. "$50" was the immediate reply. After some conversation, I agree to pay $20 for three of the strong young men. By local standards, I was still coming across as John D. Rockafeller III, but it was Christmas morning and I was real tired of the luggage area.

My train of bearers and I started the safari toward the Customs desk. I went to one that said "Things to Declare". I started to tell the officer that I thought I didn't have anything and he interrupted me by asking if I was a reverend father. I told him that I was a Catholic priest, and he waved me through with the request to pray for him. Now I understood why I had been advised to wear the soutane.

Peter Schineller, who is the regional superior of the Ghana - Nigeria Region, was waiting to collect me, and had been there patiently waiting since the 10:20pm announced arrival time. Of things like this is sainthood comprised. So our three porters, all my baggage and the two Jesuits all headed out for the car. Peter went to the car park to get the station wagon, leaving me with the porters, the bags, and a collection of small boys and beggars who sized up the situation and immediately sensed there was a pigeon in their midst. One of the boys started sketching, and produced a sketch of me, which may be included somewhere in this letter if I manage to figure out how to do that. He got what was left of my American change. The next one wanted something "for Christmas, Merry Christmas, Father, God bless you, what do you have for me for Christmas?" I told him I had nothing; this standing in front of a pile of luggage the size of a small house. I said that all I could give him was my blessing. That, it seemed was enough, and so at his request, I gave him my blessing. And the one after him, and after him. When Peter finally came, I had a line about ten deep of people waiting for my blessing.

We did have to discourage several additional "volunteers" from helping us load the car, but we got everything in, and took off. It was now after one in the morning, but the traffic looked like downtown Newark at 3 in the afternoon. We unloaded, and just as we were quietly collapsing, Bill Scanlon, another Jesuit, came in from saying Mass at the college. We visited, had a drink, and by 2:30, I was falling into bed.

I woke up early at the dawn call to prayer from a nearby minaret, but managed to get back to sleep. I was later awakened with a series of phone calls - turned out to be someone from the States trying to send a FAX. And again, I got back to sleep. I did finally stagger forth around 9:30. There were sounds of children singing carols in the front yard (ie, right outside my window) so I went down to investigate. And see if there were such a thing as coffee in Nigeria. I went out the front door to find Peter with a video camera, filming some of the neighborhood children who had stopped by to wish us a "Happy Christmas" and to see what they could get. As I came out, Peter announced "And here's Father Christmas!". I was surrounded with little ones, hugging my legs and wondering what I had brought them for Christmas. Bill Scanlon slipped me some candy bars, so the reputation of Father Christmas was saved.

The next several hours included a lot of children singing and playing games, some breakfast (I did get coffee), and videos of some of the more memorable moments. Yes, there is even footage of "Father Christmas" leading a spirited if somewhat confusing rendition of "The 12 Days of Christmas". The children gradually wandered off, and I said Mass in the house chapel with Peter as my "congregation". We all changed clothes, and headed over to the Pacelli School for the Blind, run by a group of sisters for whom the Jesuits say Mass and act as chaplains. It was my first daytime view of downtown Lagos.

Think of the South Bronx. Now make it more run down, and slightly dirtier, and you start to get close to what I was seeing. My first impression was that in Lagos, a paint salesman would starve to death. The Jesuit residence is located in what was described to me as an "upper middle class neighborhood", and I immediately realized that I was not in Kansas anymore, Toto. Driving is its own adventure, although Christmas celebrating kept many drivers off the roads.

The students were all away for the Christmas holidays, but a number of sisters had come to stay from other parts of the country, so there were perhaps a dozen sisters plus the three Jesuits. Some things were familiar. They do have a tv set and a VCR, and the set was on constantly throughout the time we were there. We had a fascinating dinner, followed by dancing. The menu was varied - we had pounded yams, sort of like heavy mashed potatoes. You eat them with your fingers, breaking off a little bit and rolling it into a ball, which is then dunked into a green soup. It looks like creamed spinach, and tastes rather like a goat smells. It was not my favorite dish. Pepper is a liberally used spice, and pepper rice keeps the sinuses clean and several other systems on alert as well. Delicious, but there is a price to pay. There was a salad, and some small pieces of chicken. There was beer and minerals (read soft drinks - remember, this was a British colony for a long time, and a lot of expressions remain very British) and some very nice wine. After the dancing there were some toasts, then a cake, then more dancing. Finally, back to the house for siesta. Thank heaven for local customs.

I learned a lot during my first day. I learned that "off" is a verb - "Off the machine, it is time to go." (A slightly different connotation than one might find in Chicago, say.) A number of other words find their way into the verb category, and spelling and much usage tend to favour the British system. Driving is on the right, however. Postage is cheap, but, I am told, not very reliable.

After siesta, Bill Scanlon and I picked up one of the sisters who had volunteered to take me/us on a tour of downtown Lagos. Lagos is rightfully known as one of the worst cities in the world to drive in. The combination of bad drivers, bad cars, bad roads and staggering populations is re-enforced by confusing and narrow streets, and the result is mayhem and disaster. On Christmas Day, however, everybody was somewhere else. The result was that I got a view of Lagos in several hours that would have otherwise taken several days. The harmattan is currently blowing, a fine dry dust off the Sahara, so that everything is covered with this fine powder, and the skyline looks faintly like Los Angeles. We saw the National Theatre, a tremendous complex, and large sections of downtown, including the offices and the residences of a number of ambassadors. We stopped at a beach, and Bill marvelled at how crowded it was, with people flying kites, families having picnics, people wading in the surf, people riding horses. From my New York and New Jersey beach experience, there was practically no one there. But it was a fascinating look at a city largely without people, and one that is available only very occasionally in an average year.

Sister stayed for supper, and talk, and after we took her home, this wanderer was ready for bed. Christmas Day, 1992 - in Lagos, Nigeria. And the evening and the morning were the first day. And he found that it was very good.

Miscellaneous Thoughts. I realize that there is more than a little danger, and a certain amount of presumption, in attempting to make observations based on short associations with a people or a place. Having said that, I will proceed to make those observations, hopefully always being free to re-shape them and alter them as circumstances indicate.

Nigerians, at least those in the south, seem to be pushy and forward, very concerned with their comfort and satisfying their senses. At the same time, they are gentle and open and laugh easily. Some of that is to cover embarrassment; laughter needs to be taken in its context, because it does not always indicate simply enjoyment or pleasure. The conditions of life - the crowding and the climate and the constant assault on the senses of noises and colours and sounds and different languages, the inability to easily do what you want or need to do through no fault of your own - whether going downtown or making a phone call or just planning on using a device that needs electricity - all this ought to lead to murderous levels of stress.

Yet while I have been told that hypertension is a major medical problem, I have also been told that it is more a factor of salt consumption than the pressure of living. A long-time Nigerian transplant observed that incidents that would provoke suicide in other peoples are here accepted with grace and a gentle confidence in the future. My sense so far is a people of grace, gentleness and nobility.

So far, observing Americans in Nigeria, I am presented with two models of how to deal with Africa. Obviously there are many more models, but I have found two very distinct ones at work. One man I have seen is a scholar, writes a lot about Nigerians and has produced several works for Nigerians. His main contact with Nigerians seems to children, in whom he takes great delight. His adult contacts, however, appear more limited, and seem to be largely business related. Nigerians, talking about him, find him formal and a little cold. A nice man, but they find little to relate with. The other model is energetic and very outgoing. He likes to go out into the community and spend time with people, and he has a number of Nigerian friends. He is obviously enjoying his time here a great deal, and that communicates itself to people easily. He works to brighten his environment, fighting against the sense of isolation and enclosure that the bars on all the windows and the gate and the wall around one's property could create. I pay attention to this because I know that within me I could go either way, and it is good for me at this point to see at least these two ways so clearly lived out.

Saturday, December 26, 1992 - In its sense of reminding us what we really about, the Church provides the day after Christmas with the remembrance of the first martyr in the Christian Church, St. Stephen. I awoke with a raging headache around 5:30, and there was no more sleep this day. I went with Scanlon to the sisters for 8AM Mass. Great multi-part singing. We stayed for breakfast, and one of the sisters uprooted several large plants destined to be re-potted at the Jesuit house. We carried them over, did the work of the transplanting and the cleaning up therefrom, and - thanks be to God - it was siesta time again. This, I confess, is a custom that takes practically no getting used to. After siesta I had a visit qua business meeting with Peter, talking about where I was going, some problems that have emerged (erupted?) in Kaduna, and general details of life in Nigeria. Scanlon made supper - spaghetti and chork balls (chicken and pork mixed together) and after some talk and the unpacking of the foot lockers I had brought, bed.

Miscellaneous Thoughts. Dawn is a real event around here. Roosters crow, the guys on the minarets burst forth calling the people to prayer, traffic noises notably pick up, and general sounds of humanity coming to life around the neighborhood tend to reach into the sleeping mind of the stranger and bring him to life. If what I am like at those early moments can truly be called life.

Sunday, Dec. 27, 1992 - The Feast of the Holy Family. I went with Scanlon to Our Lady of Fatima parish for the 10:30 Mass. He preached and I was the main celebrant. The church is very open, lots of overhead fans at work, and a large gallery surrounding 3/4 of the church. I was told not to expect too large a crowd, since many would have gone back to their villages for the Christmas holidays. The Mass before had been packed, but at ours, there was still a little bit of room in the gallery, and the people standing outside were only about one layer deep. A small crowd.

The church choir numbered around 20, with organ and several varieties of drums, and a Casio keyboard. All of which were used. This day, the hymns were Christmas (traditional), African, and the parts of the Mass were Gregorian, from the Missa de Angelis, the Mass of the Angels. In our terms, there was not much about the Mass itself that was too different. People take their time singing - none of this 2 verses and stop, we sang every verse to every song, we sang the Gloria and the Creed and all the parts of the Mass, and there was great participation. After Communion, at the 2nd collection, they put a great box at the front of the center aisle. Fr. Scanlon and I went down with holy water sprinklers, and blessed the people as they came up with their offerings. Came up? Danced up. The music accompanying this was great, very rhythmic, and yours truly found himself dancing along with the crowd as he was sprinkling. The altar boys kept up a supply chain - as one sprinkler ran dry, there was another ready to take its place. It was a great liturgical introduction to Nigeria, and even though the Mass went until 12:20 (yes, almost 2 hours - that's because the crowd was so small, and Fr. Scanlon didn't preach very long), it was a very exhilarating experience.

There is one priest for this parish - typical Sunday Mass attendance is over 5,000, so he is grateful whenever anyone comes along to help. We had lunch with him afterwards, and he is a delightful man. He was really pushing to find out why I could not stay and be a permanent attachment to the parish. After lunch, back to the Jesuit residence, the by-now traditional siesta, and I started to read a draft of a history of the Nigerian Mission that is being compiled. In the evening, several of the Jesuits from the area came over for dinner - Jack Ryan who is just starting as chaplain at a local college, although he has been in Nigeria for many years, and Frank Cusimano and Bob Dullahan who are both at Christ the King parish, the Jesuit parish in Lagos. Fr. Pat Ryan was due in from Ghana, but he was met at the airport by friends and did not arrive at the residence until after I had cashed it in for the evening.

Monday - 28 December. Feast of the Holy Innocents. Hmmm. We packed the car early, and Scanlon, Anthony the cook and I headed out to pick up Fr. Cusimano, and we all took off for Benin City. The drive was just over 3 1/2 hours, which was very good time for that trip (they tell me).

Until recently, the trip would have been much longer because of fairly frequent police checks, usually a gentle form of harassment and an opportunity for the local constabulary to elicit a small bribe. Several weeks ago, however, a drunken police officer shot a high-ranking military man at a police check. Remember, this is still a military dictatorship, so the military simply declared the police checks illegal and they stopped. Apparently for several days after the shooting the police simply disappeared; no police or traffic wardens even came out on the streets. They were unsure about the reaction to the shooting, so everybody simply stayed home.

The roads range from quite good to unbelievably awful. The exciting part is that the awful spots can appear in the middle of the good spots with no warning, so driving is not unlike a Nintendo game, with hazards appearing at random, challenging your alertness and reaction time. We lost at least once - when we arrived in Benin City we discovered that we had bent the rim of a rear tire and some repair action had to be taken. The scenery changed too, as we moved more into what we would call rain forest country. There were several toll booths - tolls were 1 Naira (5 cents) and at each area there were numerous hawkers, with food, trinkets, newspapers, and people looking for rides. We did get some bananas at one point - small and very sweet.

The Novitiate is a large compound of several buildings, and new retreat house just starting construction. It is back off the main roads - you go down two dirt roads and a path to get there - and as we turned into the lane leading to the gate, a large snake slithered across the road in front of us. Large = around 8 feet in length. Makes you real careful about closing the door to your bedroom when you go in and out.

After getting something to eat, I went into Benin City with two of the Nigerian Scholastics. There was to be a Christmas party that night, and everyone was to contribute a gift, something costing not more than 50 Naira ($2.50 - are you starting to get the hang of this arithmetic?) Because I was there, one of the shop keepers asked 140 Naira for a baseball cap. The Scholastic, Simeon, finally got it for 40, but he confessed afterwards that if I had not been there, he would probably have gotten it for less. White man in the marketplace - prices go up by at least double, usually more. I ended up buying some blank cassette tapes, which are highly prized and valuable. I got to meet Simeon's father, who runs a tailor shop, and on the way back, we stopped and I met the rest of Simeon's family, his mother, his sister and four of his five brothers. His 5th brother was in the hospital with abdominal pains. I saw a lot of downtown Benin City - as in Lagos, the horn is an essential element for driving. Not used in the kind of aggressive way we do in the States, but it alerts a car or a scooter that you are passing, it warns pedestrians that you are there, it "encourages" a driver in front of you to be slightly more ambitious entering a roundabout - but used and taken with much more acceptance than "back home".

We got back to the Novitiate in time for a soccer (the sport that here is called football, causing no end of confusion if Americans start to talk about the NFL) match between the Novices and the other scholastics who had come from the Jesuit house in Ibadan where they are studying. The "older" men won. Shower - when you walk into a shower and see only one tap, you know what you're in for - and then Mass in the Novitiate chapel. Bill Reilly was the principal celebrant. Bill came over several times to help in the creation of the library, and has now come to the mission as a permanent assignment. Bill, it should be noted, will be 77 in May. He has a truly wonderful deep resonant speaking voice, and has been helping train the novices and scholastics in speaking. Singing was accompanied only by drums and percussion, and was terrific. Followed, in the best Jesuit tradition by drinks, dinner and a major Christmas party.

The party started with entertainment. Several men sang native songs, and then I was asked to sing. Not knowing anything local, I opted for O Holy Night. I think some people were a little startled - they hadn't quite expected my kind of singing. Most generous with applause and welcomes. Then the gift exchange, and more singing, and a whole lot of dancing, including a dance contest in which I did not participate. Around 10:30 or so things started to wind down - and so did I.

Miscellaneous Thoughts: Water here is not something you take for granted. Or drink from the tap. Close your mouth in the shower. Each room has a liquor bottle of boiled and filtered water, and every refrigerator has several more bottles awaiting attention. Throughout the day, water is constantly being boiled and run through the filters. It becomes something you do almost absent-mindedly. The Jesuit houses all have running water and flush toilets; in the villages surrounding the Novitiate, they have not had water for over two years. There are pipes, and one day the water just stopped. No reason, no explanation, it just stopped. And has never come back. There is a water line from the Jesuit property that they have made available to the neighborhood, and the lines form every day starting at daybreak. The water is sold - not for very much, but enough to keep order - and women and children come with buckets and Jerry cans and whatever they have. Some days the wait can be over 3 hours, and with the construction going on, there have been days when there was no water for long hours at a stretch. It is, I am discovering, true for many parts of Nigeria, that simply getting water and collecting fuel and getting food is the major activity for much of the day.

At the same time, many houses that do not have water do have electricity, and so the flicker of television sets dots the houses in the evening. No street lights on the back roads - actually, there are few street lights on the major streets, for where they had been installed, many have been stolen. And people do not use the electricity for a lot of lighting. So the tv screens do tend to stand out.

There are a lot of languages in Nigeria, major tribal languages, dialects within those, and English in its many and varied forms. There is an ongoing discussion here about "Nigerian English" which is very reminiscent of the "Black English" controversies we have seen in the States. The use of English tends to be very idiomatic, in that expressions are used as units without always being completely appropriate, and images and metaphors are mixed at a dizzying rate. I have started to collect some of the more startling usages, and if not in this letter (which is starting to assume fairly gigantic proportions), I will include samples in some future edition. It makes the sounds in the street truly fascinating, and reading the local newspapers most entertaining.

Architecture tends to be simultaneously open and closed. The Jesuit houses are built in narrow, single room configurations so that there are windows on two sides. Churches and large assembly buildings have a roof and either very limited walls or great windows all around. The contrast is in the small buildings that tend to be very closed - keeping in the cool. One common feature, however, is the bars on all the windows, on all floors. Many will then have screens inside the bar, and then windows.

Driving into Benin City, we saw a lot of very run-down shacks, falling apart kinds of hovels - and in the front, a sign proclaiming "Video Production Facility". Judging by appearances can be extremely risky. But if Lagos looked like a poorer version of the South Bronx, Benin City is slightly below that. Off the main thoroughfare, most of the side roads are dirt - I can only imagine what the rainy season is like.

I have done more dancing in the last three days than in the last three months. Of course, thesis writing does not lead to dancing, except perhaps at the conclusion of the process, a moment at which I have yet to arrive. But here, everything seems to lead to dancing. Go to Mass - dancing in the aisles. Go to breakfast with the nuns, dancing after the meal. Go to a party, dancing and then more dancing. There has to be a technique to doing a pivot turn in sandals - haven't figured it out yet.
Wildlife - lots of lizards. So far, all outside, although I was resting one afternoon and watched several wander back and forth across the screen. They seemed to waiting for someone to open the door. (Why am I uncomfortably reminded of an old Ray Milland movie?) In government offices, without screens, it is not uncommon to have a lizard scurry across the floor while you are waiting for your paperwork to move another station along. There is one large variety with a bright orange neck and head that is especially striking. And despite the lizards, there are lots (and lots) of bugs. So far, and let's face it, I have been in fairly restricted and protected circumstances, I would not recommend this place to the squeamish.

For instance, when I opened my breviary for evening prayer, I found little tiny ants crawling throughout the book. Ants in my glasses case - ants in the soap dish. They are looking for water more than for food, but they are everywhere. It provided rather a strange counterpoint - asking for God's mercy in a psalm as I was casually squishing several hundred small bodies.

Tuesday, December 29
Up at the crack of 7 (although the local call to prayer and the birds and the neighbors and the water line forming all tend to roust one a whole lot earlier. I am, fortunately, long practiced at rolling over.) and breakfast at 7:40. The point of this Jesuit gathering was not exclusively the party the night before, and so we met for a "Who's Doing What Where?" session, sharing the latest news from the different communities around Ghana and Nigeria. Fascinating, and very exciting. It took from 9 until almost 12 to get through all the briefings. The mass at noon had the Regional Superior as the principal concelebrant and one of the Nigerian Jesuit priests as concelebrant. Lunch, siesta, and then the consultors met, so those of us free from responsibility got to talk and visit and for me at least, a further chance just to get to know more about my new homeland.

For instance, I learned that in most places, when the laundry is done, everything is ironed. Underwear, socks - you wash it, it gets ironed. That's not some fashion fetish, the heat from the iron helps to kill the little living things that inhabit the water. And Noel Coward had it absolutely right - the noon day sun is not to be played around with. You start the day early when it's cool, you quit in the middle, and you pick it up again and work into the evening, when the coolness starts to return. The hours in the middle are truly fit for little but lying quietly on a bed and perspiring gently.

After supper, Peter Schineller played some of the videos he had taken both at the novitiate and at Lagos (including the 12 Days of Christmas moment mentioned above) and then I broke out mycopy of "Beauty and the Beast". A room filled with Nigerian Jesuit Scholastics, American Jesuit priests and a brother, all entranced with the animated work of the Disney studios. Inculturation? Somehow.

Wednesday, December 30 - Hard to imagine that one week ago I was feverishly trying to figure out what would and would not fit into a suitcase. Today in Benin City the harmattan is in full swing. The sky is dark, dark, dark, and to American eyes, it looks as though a major rain storm is imminent. But this is the dry season, and the clouds are produced not by water laden clouds but by dust, dust which keeps in the heat and depresses everyone.

The novitiate routine was back in force, so mass was at 7AM this morning. After breakfast, one of the American priests gave me a haircut - well, not a full cut but he trimmed and shaped the back where I had been unsuccessful at my self-cut attempts. Getting a haircut was one of several things on my "To Do" list that never got attended to before I left.

Food - well, milk is always powdered, and comes in both regular and skim varieties. (I find it hard to believe that anyone manufactures, much less buys, much less drinks, powdered skim milk. Fortunately, drinking it is not required.) There is butter available, but the spread of choice is a local margerine, very sweet and very good. Coffee is usually instant, although beans are available. The instant comes from Brazil, and is very good. The eggs have very pale yolks, and so omelets come out slightly brown, and fried eggs are a study in white and pastel yellow. Bread is sweet, although you can get "Salt bread" that has a stronger taste. There are several varieties of banana, and fried plantain is a regular desert item. Oranges are plentiful, and tangellos are a great eat - very juicy, and you learn to lean toward the green ones. Drinking water is a major preoccupation - I down about a bottle (liquor bottle size) at every meal.

On the head is the preferred mode of carrying, and little ones start practicing right after they start walking. The size of the loads are awe-inspiring, and the selection is relatively endless. (Relatively endless? I have obviously been reading too many Nigerian newspapers.) I have seen men with chairs balanced on their heads, women with five foot diameter trays loaded with produce, children with 20-gallon water jugs, obviously loaded. A cloth ring sits on the head, and whatever needs to be carried gets placed on top of that. The hands are then left free for waving or collecting money or scratching - or whatever. My favorite moment was driving by a woman with a great huge tray of tomatoes balanced on her head - standing on one foot, scratching the back of her leg with the other foot.

Today was very quiet. Several committees were meeting, and the Region's consultors met again for several hours - and the rest of the community read and talked and watched the sky get very dramatically dark. Spaghetti for dinner - it's the third time I have had spaghetti in a week, it must be a traditional Nigerian dish. Italians, take note. (Good spaghetti, too, none of this stuff from a can.)

Miscellaneous Thoughts. In the States, if I say "I have ants", it means that some room in which I am interested is infested. Here, it means that literally there are ants wandering about on my body. I mentioned that my breviary was infested? Well, when you pick up a book, the little visitors tend to move from the book to the body. They're very small and don't seem to sting, but I kill them anyway. I am very grateful that I am not a Buddhist, and have no compunction whatsoever about killing small creatures in large quantities.

December 31, 1992 - Thursday. One week ago, I spent the day in airplanes and the Amsterdam airport. Today I said goodbye to friends and brothers from three different countries, as the Scholastics returned to Ibadan. I went into the Cathedral with the Novice Master and the Novices for the ordination of three diocesan priests. The local bishop is more than slightly controversial. He is given to using public events to proclaim restrictive legislation and to attack and scold individuals, priests and laity alike. One of his major public tantrums took place at a 50th wedding anniversary celebration, so there was more than a little apprehension about what might happen at an ordination. The selection of candidates for ordination has apparently been a subject of some disagreement itself, and at least one man in the past was told only the day before his ordination that he would not be being ordained the next day. We approached the ceremony with more than the usual interest.

For me, of course, it was the first ordination I had been to since my own. My first time as a priest to be able to welcome a new priest into the order of the presbyterate. That moment when the priests come and lay their hands on the heads of the newly ordained - it was a great moment on my ordination day, but it was a tremendously moving moment in this ceremony as well.

The ordination and the attendant ceremonies went smoothly, with some slight cultural differences, but with no surprises or disturbances. One of the men was from a tribal group that tended to war whoop as a sign of approval or excitement, and His excellency may have been a tad intimidated - but whatever the reason, all went well and the ceremonies and celebrations afterwards were appropriately joyful. I met a number of people, had another exposure to native Nigerian soup - that green stuff I mentioned earlier? - and once again found myself welcoming the siesta.

Especially since plans for the rest of the day included concelebrating at the New Year's Eve mass at St. Joseph's church in Benin City, and leaving for Kaduna by 6AM the next morning, New Year's Day. Stanley and Livingston had nothing on Sheehan with the possible exception that I was going to be driven in a Peugeot station wagon while, if memory serves, they each had to do an inordinate amount of walking.

Idle Thoughts: The grapevine has it that the Apostolic Delegate has asked the Regional Superior to lend him a Jesuit to help with the affairs of the Vatican in Nigeria. Except that he wants someone with a lot of experience in Nigeria, can you see me in a job like that? Part of me gets the giggles, part of thinks it would be fascinating work and an interesting use of my talents. Even in my short time here, I know that there are more political mine fields in that kind of job than I want to begin to think about, but wouldn't it make a great premise for a novel?

The Mass at St. Joseph's was scheduled to start at 10PM, and end right around midnight. We drove over - Brother Jerry Menkhaus drove the van with me and the novices. I had had some experience driving in Nigeria, about which I have already talked. Driving at night is a whole new terror, and although I have the greatest confidence in Jerry as a driver, I felt more at ease on the Mammoth roller coaster at Great Adventure. Or the ride that goes upside down at the CNE. Potholes, people wandering in the streets, no street lights, a greasy windshield that tends to focus oncoming light into your eyes, headlamps unfocused or missing, the normal craziness of Nigerian traffic - tense. Very tense.

St. Joseph's holds around 2,500, and there were perhaps another 1,500 standing around the outside. There were 6 concelebrants, a major choir, and if I thought I had seen dancing in Church before, my terpsichorean eyes were about to be opened. One of the newly ordained men who had been a deacon at St. Joseph's came to join us - right after the stroke of midnight he leaned over to me and said, "Well, I am now in my second year as a priest".

The congregation was most responsive, and the homily was decidedly in the dialogue mode. When the gifts were brought up, however, things came to a decided halt while everyone danced and were blessed with holy water. There is an Australian Jesuit working at this parish, and one of his innovations has been to abandon the traditional holy water sprinkler. I was rather surprised when I saw him "blessing" the crowd with a Windex bottle. Yup, spraying merrily away as hundreds danced in front of him. A slightly odd visual moment.

After communion, yours truly had been invited to sing. Since the feast was of the Blessed Mother, I had chosen Schubert's Ave Maria. But I only sang one verse - it was getting close to midnight, and I didn't think I was going to make it. The stroke of the new year brought more dancing (no surprise there) and great hugging and handshaking - and then we all came together and finished the Mass. (Well, we waited for the choir to sing the traditional Hallelujah Chorus, then we finished. Sure it's traditional. Apparently, every choir sings it at any major feast.) A charismatic group was then going to conduct a prayer service that would last until dawn with more dancing - a band was coming in the sacristy door as we were going out - but thinking about our early departure, I declined the invitation to stay and pray with my feet.

And thus endeth 1992. Of course, when we went to bed, it was still 1992 in New York. As we were packing the car to head for Kaduna the next morning, the ball was just dropping in Times Square. 6 hours and a world away, we didn't even hear the singing.

This, it occurs to me, it probably a good place to let Part I come to an end. We'll meet on the Road to Kaduna, whenever the next instalment goes forth. There are more road adventures, more encounters with bureaucrats, and as I write this conclusion, I have no idea if I will be staying in Kaduna or if the Jesuits will be packing up and heading out for places unknown. It's not a question of safety, for those whose sense of melodrama tends to the physical, but a minor soap opera of charges of bad administration, neglect - I'll try to spell it out in outline form in the next letter.

The bottom line? At the moment I am very happy, healthy (although with more bites and scrapes than I had when I left) and enjoying myself immensely. I have met a host of welcoming, friendly, helpful, warm and thoroughly charming Nigerians. I find the weather most accommodating, even the harmattan has its charms, and there is not a snowflake for thousands of miles. Accommodations have been great - wait until you hear about the house in Kaduna - if this is poverty, I can hardly wait for chastity! - and the food is about twice as plentiful as I really need. Phone service ranges between erratic and non-existent, so don't even try calling or FAXing, and mail service seems to be occasionally great, and occasionally awful. Much like home. But cheaper.

My love to you all. Special thanks to those who took on themselves the copying and mailing of Part I, and again, feel free to share this opus long-windus with anyone across whom you come. I apologise for being so vague and general; I'll try to go into more serious detail in the next edition.

Until then, you are in my prayers and my thoughts more than you will ever know, and I would ask to be occasionally remembered in yours.