#9 - Killing the Turkey and other things

Jesuit Residence
PO Box 223
Surulere, Lagos, NIGERIA
011‑234‑1‑832743 (Voice & FAX)
North American Mail should be sent:
c/o Fr. William Wood, SJ
Kohlmann Hall ‑ 501 E. Fordham Rd
Bronx, NY 10458
28 January 1994

Hail to thee, faithful reader.

Welcome to the closing edition of Massive Missives, Volume 1, 1993. As we approach Christmas, we also approach the first‑year anniversary of Fr. John's Jaunt to Jesuit Jungles, a good time to take stock, reflect on the year gone by, update you on happenings in the country and mine own life since the last lusty letter, and see if there is anything to write about in the future.

Let me begin this with an excerpt someone recently sent me. It is a short piece from the New Republic, July 12, 1993, by the Nairobi Bureau Chief, Joshua Hammer. I share it with you because he has nicely captured one of the fundamental parts of life in Lagos ‑ the go‑slow.
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"Impoverished, filthy, steamy, overcrowded and corrupt, Lagos is the ultimate incarnation of the modern megalopolis gone to hell. Chronic strikes cripple everything from garbage collection to the school system. Telephones rarely work. Virtually nothing can be accomplished without a bribe. But perhaps nothing symbolizes the societal collapse here better than the city's traffic jams, what Nigerians call the "go‑slow".

Locals point out wryly that the last head of state to be assassinated here, General Murtala Mohammed, was shot while stalled in downtown traffic. That was in 1976. Since then the congestion has grown progressively worse. The two candidates in Nigeria's June 12 presidential election, which marked the historic surrender of military power to civilian rule (and which the military has threatened to nullify), made improving traffic a key issue in their campaigns. "I've been all over the world, and the stress level in Lagos is the highest I've seen," a Houston oil engineer told me one evening in the lobby of the Lagos Sheraton, recovering from the three‑hour commute from his office ‑ a seven‑mile trip. I asked if he had any advice for my impending journey into the city. "Bring a bottle of water," he said, "hire a good driver, and God help you if you don't have air conditioning."

I discovered what he meant the following morning. On my way to visit a Lagos newspaper two miles from my hotel, I became trapped in an epic go‑slow in Lagos's industrial zone. An evening downpour had washed out a thirty‑foot section of the road, forcing three lanes of traffic to converge into a single snaking column along the shoulder. Just ahead of me, a steely‑eyed businesswoman in a white Mitsubishi sparred with a battered v.w. van trying to inch into her lane. Neither gave in and the confrontation climaxed in a crunch of metal, shouts and more blocked vehicles. Heaps of garbage lay piled along the curb, residue of a month‑long sanitation strike.

"This city is hell" my driver mumbled. An hour later the go‑slow eased. As traffic picked up, we passed a billboard along the side of the road: "The Lagos Government Has Constructed This Road To Make Your Driving Easy."

Bad road maintenance, undisciplined drivers, poor drainage and endemic corruption all contribute to the traffic crisis. Crooked road contractors skim off money that should go into improving the streets. Crooked inspectors approve dilapidated vehicles in exchange for a $10 bribe. But at the heart of the problem is lousy urban planning. The city's commercial and governmental offices are concentrated on two densely populated islands on the southern edge of the city ‑ Victoria and Lagos ‑ separated from the mainland by a fetid lagoon. Three bridges connect the islands to the rest of the metropolis (population 12 million or so), hardly sufficient to handle an influx of 70,000 vehicles each morning. As a result, an overheated engine or a closed lane can have apocalyptic consequences: one memorable evening four years ago, before the opening of the Third Mainland Bridge, the Eko Bridge was closed for maintenance, causing a traffic jam that lasted fifteen hours.

Sitting in traffic has become such a permanent feature of life in Lagos that the logjams have given rise to an elaborate "go‑slow market" ‑ an army of hawkers who dart through the lanes toting an astonishing variety of merchandise to sell to captive consumers. As I sat stewing in a go‑slow on the Eko Bridge one afternoon, I compiled a list of 125 items I could buy just by leaning out my car window. Among them: clocks, cutlery, raincoats, towels, bath mats, water purifiers, underwear, sink strainers, pingpong paddles, Superglue, walkie‑talkies, toolboxes, suitcases, yogurt, irons, ironing boards, Cheerios, meat pies, economics textbooks, rat poison, cocktail tables, jigsaw puzzles, aftershave, phones, live chickens, pineapples, lava lamps, and outgoing ruler General Ibrahim Babangida's memoirs. I'm told that during Muslim festivals, it's even possible to buy live sheep (they throw the animal in the back seat). The go‑slows also support another, more hazardous commerce. Teams of thieves with walkie‑talkies prey on drivers in stalled cars, smashing windows and making off with valuables. (Diplomats are especially vulnerable.)

Despite the misery, however, most Lagos drivers wouldn't think of giving up their cars. That would mean missing out on the government's fuel subsidy, a legacy of the late '70's when the country was flush with oil money. It allows Nigerians to buy gas for eight cents a gallon ‑ cheaper than it costs in Saudi Arabia. Now that petroleum prices have tumbled and overwhelming foreign debt has pushed the country to the edge of bankruptcy, there has been talk of lifting the subsidy. (There has also been talk of a government ban on Nigeria's brisk trade in broken‑down used cars, on the grounds that 50 per cent of them aren't roadworthy.) But Babangida clearly spelled out the consequences of such a move. "If you touch a subsidy," he was quoted as saying, "you better write your death warrant." For a while, the Lagos government tried an odd‑even license plate system to cut traffic flow in half, but many drivers got around that by bribing the motor vehicle bureau for two sets of plates.

People in Lagos have good reason to be so attached to their cars. For those who don't want to drive ‑ or can't afford to ‑ mass transit is painfully scarce. Lagos' most ambitious attempt to alleviate congestion, the Metropolitan Rail Project, fell victim to the country's turbulent politics a decade ago. In 1982 a French consortium contracted with Lagos's civilian government to build the elevated railway, which would have transported 1 million people a day to and from Lagos Island. But the military overthrew the civilians in 1983, and nixed the project. A handful of government ferries and public buses provide sporadic service.

That leaves the poor commuters dependent on unregulated private buses known as molues. Badly maintained, jam‑packed and frequently operated by drivers under the influence of pot or local moonshine, the buses break down constantly, tying up traffic. They're also dangerous. "We call them swimmers," one Lagos newspaper editor told me, "because they plunge so often into the Lagos lagoon." According to the Federal Road Safety Commission, which has tried unsuccessfully to crack down on them, fifteen have been involved in fatal accidents since January. (Ed. Note: That number has gone up since this article was written.)

The worst in Nigerian history happened on February 8, when fifty people burned to death after their bus exploded on the Third Mainland Bridge. (An engine spark ignited a jerrycan of gasoline carried aboard the bus; the panicked driver then parked against the bridge's guard rail, blocking both exits and trapping everyone inside.) Molue calamities are greeted with a mix of horror and relish by the Lagos media, which jump at the opportunity to churn out such lurid headlines as

THE MOVING MORTUARY and 50 ROASTED BEYOND RECOGNITION.

There isn't much hope that things will improve any time soon. The road commission is trying new strategies, such as hiring more traffic marshalls, tightening safety standards and initiating a Traffic Decongestion Task Force, whatever that is. For the most part, however, Lagos residents dismiss such innovations. They handle their traffic hell with a sense of resignation, a philosophy that is best expressed by a slogan painted on the battered hulks of many Lagos molues. "Remember," it reads,"Nothing is a permanent condition."
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Okay ‑ back to Sheehan again. (As if you couldn't tell.) Now there is a philosophy designed to give hope to a Lagotian. Or even to a New York Jesuit in Lagos. Although the other day I did give in to one of boyhood's great (unrealized) temptations ‑ I bought myself a switchblade. Quite good quality actually, strong spring action and a very sharp blade. Paid about $3.50 for it. No real need for it, it's just fun.

Latest opening line in a conversation ‑ Hi, is this your first coup? Probably the biggest single event since the last time I wrote was "The Coup". As I write this ‑ and when the coup took place ‑ Peter was of course in the U.S. and Bill was away in Benin, so I was holding the fort alone ‑ an interesting turn of phrase, as it developed. Around 11pm, one of our neighbors came over to use the phone, and told me that there had been a coup. Sonofagun. Turns out the military met with the head of government for several hours, at the end of which he "resigned". Things had not been going well lately. The courts had just ruled that the Interim National Government was illegal, a decision bound to shake what little confidence there was in the government, even though the decision was being appealed. A price rise in petrol had been announced, from 70 kobo a litre to 500 kobo a litre, effective instantly. That set off demonstrations and a nationwide strike that grew stronger and wider each day. (Usually strikes and protests in Nigeria begin big and shrink each day. This one kept growing.)

The day after the coup, the new leader, General Abacha, went on television and dissolved the government, dissolved the political parties, dissolved all the elected senates and houses of representatives at the federal and the state level, and replaced all of the state governors with military commanders. He prohibited "processions, political gatherings and associations of any kind, no matter what they are called", and promised that there would be sweeping reforms of a number of institutions, including the phone company, the post office, banks, the petroleum board and several others. He dissolved everything but the fuel price increase.

Since then, the news (government controlled) has been filled with reports of what the new folk have been doing ‑ scolding this one, firing that one, promising that things would soon all be in order. I suspect a lot of it is cosmetic, because as the following excerpt from a magazine suggests, things are not well in the economic life of the Federal Republic of Nigeria (Someone must explain to me some day why this is called a republic.)

An article from the NEWS, 6 December 1993, P. 5

NIGERIA IS BROKE!

Arrears on Nigeria's $30 billion (N630 billion) external debt have shot close to 20 percent of the entire profile. It now stands at $5 billion (about N125 billion). This, according to local economists and Western creditors, is the country's most serious economic crisis since independence. "Without a rescheduling agreement, arrears will rise, external support from donors such as the World Bank will be suspended, industry will continue to function well below capacity, and the country's economic decline will continue, raising the spectre of political instability," forecast The Financial Times mid‑last week, before blaming the 17 November putsch for unlikely agreement with the International Monetary Fund, IMF.

Debt rescheduling, which is unlikely within the next year, is dependent on an IMF deal. Last year, Nigeria serviced only $167 of its bilateral external debt service EDS having averaged between $1.3 billion in the two previous years. Priority for EDS goes to the World Bank whose suspension government of Nigeria narrowly missed early this month when it paid $140 million, being cost of three month's debt service almost two months in arrears.

Nigeria's net capital flows with the World Bank have been negative since 1990, averaging $247 million a year. Economists say the country has run up arrears in debt service to the other main multilateral creditor, the African Development Bank. The dollar value of the debt has grown by about 50 percent since SAP began over eight years ago, thereby raising it to 113 percent of
the GDP. But the par bonds rose strongly last Tuesday from 39 cents in the dollar at the beginning of the year to a high of 63 cents last month. The bonds cost only $110 million to service ‑ two days of Nigeria's oil revenues.

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The glitches in the use of English are fairly typical of local publications, and local usage, and should not minimize the accuracy or the importance of the slightly garbled content. In fact, later and even more detailed news analyses, including stunning reports from the IMF and the World Bank, paint an even bleaker picture, now ranking Nigeria among the 20 poorest nations in the world. We have an infant death rate of 100 deaths per 1,000 live births. The more you learn, the worse it gets.

Now there are strong rumors from good sources that this government is already in trouble, and that there will be another coup in fairly short order, perhaps even before the end of the year. There was an article in the papers, for instance, right after the maiden speech, that although Abacha had said in the speech that civilian governors would be appointed, the junior military officers wanted the reins kept in military hands, ie theirs. If that is true, Abacha has major dissension in his ranks. What is equally interesting, though, is that it appeared in a newspaper. Usually the military is very tight‑lipped about what goes on within its confines, and has several times since I have been here gone after people who spoke out in public, either criticizing the military or "revealing secrets". I have also heard ‑ again from reliable and multiple sources ‑ that the reason for the timing of the coup was to pre‑empt a planned coup by junior officers. Whatever the truth of the rumors, certainly Abacha has appointed military governors for all 30 states.

Of course, all that goes on in ethereal ranks that seldom cross the more humble plane on which yours truly exists. We wait in the queues for the fuel and pay the higher prices. But at least in Surulere, we live an a dollar economy, and so while the prices go up, so does the Naira/dollar exchange rate, and unlike the vast majority of the Nigerians, we don't suffer much.

A news report on December 10th says that the electrical workers and gas workers are planning a total walk‑out in mid‑March, unless the government comes up with something on the order of 1.5 billion Naira for new equipment. That should make March something to look forward to.

When last I wrote, it was mid‑October. The last weeks of October saw Bill Scanlon diagnosed with typhoid ‑ and as that cleared up, the doctor found that his continuing fatigue was the result of a malaria attack and a parasite. That combination does tend to slow down the best of us. A couple of people were visiting, one from the U.S. on his first visit to Africa ‑ so I immediately took them down to the Eko Meridien Hotel, the same luxury spot that has featured in earlier adventures. The particular attraction on this afternoon was the Tex‑Mex Festival going on.That, for the uninformed, is how we introduce people to Nigeria ‑ we take them to a Tex‑Mex lunch. Makes as much sense as anything else I've heard about. The drive through the go‑slow and the hawkers on the street all help to give the new arrival a sense of Nigerian life. And once you have a taste of that, the only sane thing to do is to repair to a luxury hotel as quickly as possible, and visit a friend with air conditioning who will, with practically no hinting at all, take you to lunch in a restaurant having a Tex‑Mex extravaganza.

Because you have another two hour plus drive back through an even longer, more convoluted and complex go‑slow, only now the heat is much worse, the hawkers infinitely more persistent, and the Tex‑Mex lunch that seemed so refreshing in the restaurant is now sitting on your stomach like the September output of the Adjeokuta lead mines. I was in my usual charming humor ‑ but to show you that all is not quite as it should be, I note for the record that I bought two Nigerian hats and a mirror on the way.

Home to watch the football game. No, not soccer, real football. American football. In fact, Monday Night Football from ABC with Frank Gifford and friends. Every Tuesday afternoon, when the local transmission is such that you can receive it, they do an edited version of the preceding night's game. Of course, Peter Schineller, our regional superior, listens to the morning Voice of America news, so he knows what the score is and the highlights of the game. And he makes sure to tell you ahead of time, so there is no suspense when you do get to watch the game. He has a real fetish about not only knowing things, but knowing them first ‑ so he can tell you. He always likes to get to the daily newspaper first ‑ so he can circle what he thinks are the interesting or important stories. No jury in the world would convict me.

The rest of October was filled with guests ‑ not filled with NEPA, as the electrical system was unusually absent, even by its somewhat lax standards ‑ and on the 29th, Peter left for Rome and then for the States. He was gone until the 14th of January, which introduced a different rhythm into the house.

There was a news piece on alzheimers disease today on CNN ‑ I forget what it said.

I went one day with one of our priests to the International Trade Fair. It was an interesting blend of the european and the Nigerian. A plot of land obviously laid out by a european, badly maintained over a number of years to a state of general shoddiness, and a collection of firms and corporations ranging from very professional and slick displays to some with hand‑made signs. There are several buildings, designed to hold major exhibitors. And there were some. But a lot of the space was divided into stalls, into which were crammed more merchants and oddments of merchandise than the greediest fire marshall in the whole U.S. could have been bribed to approve. In between the buildings were more lanes of more stalls, so that the atmosphere largely resembled a huge market ‑ in the Nigerian sense of market. Some of the automobile manufacturers and large equipment producers and importers had fairly stylish outdoor exhibits ‑ it was a jumble of styles and tones and approaches. I did buy some things, primarily clothing for me ‑ a couple of native shirts, and two traditional suits, one a plain white, and a rather more ornate suit with gold and silver designs woven through it. The hat doesn't fit, but then again, with my head, the hat never fits. We stopped and had a bite to eat ‑ suya ‑ which is a highly seasoned roasted goat meat, with raw onion and a dry powder sauce into which to dip it. Cold beer is the most reasonable side dish. Wonderful. I also bought a Moslem prayer rug ‑ I'm not necessarily going to pray on it, but it was 60 Naira, and is very attractive. (About $1.43) I also got me a coffee mug. I like my morning cup of coffee, and my idea of a perfect mug is something in which you can also soak your feet on a bad afternoon. The creators of this piece of earthenware had some idea that people might use it to drink beer from ‑ but it holds enough coffee to satisfy even my greedy self, and because of its earthenware ancestry, it keeps the stuff warm ‑ hot even.

Thanksgiving ‑ my first American Thanksgiving in Nigeria.
(Aren't you glad I am rapidly getting to the end of the list of possible first time events in Nigeria?) we had decided to postpone the celebration of Thanksgiving from the Thursday to Sunday, so that the assembled Fathers would be more able to relax and stuff themselves with appropriate American abandon. We had gone out earlier in the week to buy the turkey.

Buy the turkey. To most ears, that calls to mind the image of going to the supermarket and gazing with an appraising eye at frozen mounds of fowl flesh. Here, it is somewhat more complicated. And as long as you have Patrick to help bail you all, more fun.

Patrick knew where to go to get a turkey, so with Sam driving andyour own dauntless reporter riding shotgun and carrying the money, off we went. The place is ‑ well, under the bridge. A large and long bridge, and under it, the bird sellers gather. The turkey vendors are at one end, and it is an almost endless sea of white. We pulled up, and apparently it is a slow season for turkeys, because we were immediately deluged by vendors, each with one or two turkeys in each hand, held by their scrawny little feet. the birds were surprisingly calm about the whole thing ‑ a trait not shared by their sellers. Maybe it was themission car, maybe it was the Oybo in the front seat, maybe it was a full moon ‑ but we were surrounding by dozens of enthusiastic sellers, and their birds.

It is hard to impartially judge the merits of a bird when that bird is being shoved in front of, and into, your face.

FIRST RULE FOR BUYING A TURKEY: Role up the window. In the first two minutes of what I had naively thought were going to be negotiations, I found myself with a turkey in my lap. Although I lay no claim to being a Dr. Doolittle, or even a James Herriott, I am fond of animals, and with sufficient advance warning, can even muster some genuine affection for birds. However, having a large turkey suddenly thrust in your lap....

And there is, for the scientifically‑minded amongst you, a phenomenon that is, on reflection, not too surprising. Imagine, if you will, a bird that has been spending a large part of of the day upside down. The digestive system and its attendant eliminational functions have been, shall we say, similarly suspended. It does not take a degree in veterinary medicine to imagine what reasonably is the result when this non‑housebroken bird is suddenly placed in an upright position. Hmmm.

At this point, I decided that a strategic retreat was in order. We had gotten a sense of the prices and relative merits of the birds, and so, returning a slightly lighter than when he had first been placed on my lap bird to its owner, we sped off. (I was interested to notice that both Patrick (our night watch) and Sam (our driver), native Nigerians and each with a highly developed street sense, were more than a little nervous in the midst of that crowd.) A little bit away we pulled off to the side of the road, and I gave Patrick some money to go and buy a turkey. He was not enthusiastic about the idea, but he knew it made more sense than my fighting my way into the madding throng.

After a long several minutes, here came Patrick. Carrying a turkey. Followed by many other men, also carrying turkeys. Negotiations continued, and at one point there were two turkeys in the car ‑ not counting the human passengers ‑ but when we finally left we had one and one only turkey.

Nice turkey. Big turkey. Who was going to live with us for several days before the great event. Rose wanted to kill him immediately and put him in the freezer, but I convinced her that this rather defeated the purpose of buying a live turkey. There is something magic about freezing for her. Buy fresh bread ‑ bang, into the freezer. Buy fresh meat ‑ whomp, into the freezer. Now I admit, the freezer does have the advantage of being one of the few places in the house almost completely free from ants. But I think Rose invests it with some magical qualities.

Anyway, we put the bird (whom we carefully did NOT name) into the generator house, the little shed which houses ‑ our generator. The bird found this most amenable, and discovered that he could just fit on top of the generator. We keep it covered, so no harm done. The dog went nuts. The bird was bigger than the dog, but the canine member of our little family kept sticking his head through the grating, and trying to nip the bird. The bird bore with it stoically up to a point, then would flail his wings and drive him away. (Hey ‑ how many times in a week do you get to use the word "flail"?) Now when the NEPA went and we wanted to use the generator, we had to move the bird into the garden shed. not hard. I'm not exactly a country boy, but even I know that when a bird has its wings folded, it can't easily unfold them ‑ the strength in the wings is when they are extended. Like a crocodile opening its mouth.

The reason I mention this is that on the killing day, Patrick and Rose came forth to dispatch the bird. Patrick took the bird from the shed, and bore him down onto the ground. His wings were extended and Patrick stood on one wing and Rose on the other. The bird bore this tolerably well, and you could see from the slightly quizzical expression he was trying to figure out exactly what these strange humans were up to now. Then Rose produced the knife and started to saw his windpipe.

The expression on his face ‑ insofar as a turkey can be said to have an expression ‑ or a face ‑ changed drastically. This was not something he found either pleasant or amusing, and he began to take immediate steps to change his locale. He flapped those great wings, and very nearly threw off Patrick and Rose. There were several seconds when the contest was very much in doubt. I did not open my mouth, before, during or after. Who am I to interfere with local customs?

When the bird had gone to wherever birds go after their throats have been well and truly cut, Rose proceeded to clean him, and in no time at all, he was plucked, emptied and readied for chef Sheehan. He weighed in at just over 18 pounds, cleaned and naked, and he proved to be as delicious dead as he had been entertaining when alive.

Not having absolute confidence in the bird's ability to carry the meal by himself, I also baked brownies, made a cheesecake and an apple cobbler. I cast back to my childhood and made stuffing and cooked the turkey. Rose peeled potatoes for the mashed, and I did peas. I also made a mushroom soup, which was perhaps the best thing of the meal. The turkey was quite good, the stuffing was not as successful. But all ate to the point of bursting, which is, after all, the Thanksgiving tradition, and then we watched a video. Nice day ‑ a lot of work for JRS, but fun.

The next day ‑ turkey for breakfast, what else ‑ we had two Tertians arriving, and guess who got airport duty? (Tertian ‑ the final official stage in Jesuit formation. After you have been ordained for several years, you do the 3rd year of the Novitiate ‑ hence Tertianship. You spend a year and take more classes in the Constitutions and the Society, you make the 30‑day retreat again, and you spend some time in "experiments", apostolic workunlike the work you have been doing. Since I haven't really been doing any work, it is obviously going to be a while before I go off to Tertianship. The current trend is to spend some time in a 3rd world environment, so guys have been going to India, to the Philippines ‑ to northern Ireland ‑ and to Nigeria. These two will be here until April, one working at our parish in Benin, the other at Christ the King here in Lagos.)

I went out in the evening ‑ most flights are scheduled to arrive around 9:30 ‑ and waited. While I was waiting, a young Oriental guy (turned out he was Chinese) came and asked my help. He was supposed to be met and there was no one to meet him. I assured him that I would not leave him. When the two Jesuits finally came through, his people still hadn't come, so I took him home with us. Bill Scanlon was a little startled, but we called his friend in Abba (a state some distance away from Lagos) and sent a FAX, fixed him up in the tv room, and tried to make him feel a little less nervous. Imagine being in Lagos with no one to meet you! It is of things like this that nightmares are made.

Turned out he is a manufacturer of shoes, and has made a deal with a Nigerian distributor. He came to Nigeria to see for himself the operation and get to know the people involved more personally. A very interesting guy, we had a long talk the next day. His friend did come and get him in the afternoon, and if he comes back, he has promised to visit. And if I ever go to Hong Kong, I have someone to call.

A SAFARI TO THE BOMADI MISSION

Okay, armchair explorers, fasten your safety belts, whip out the handy dandy map of Nigeria that I am sure by now you have purchased (if not, I'm thinking of running a sale) and away we go on another exploration into the hinterlands of Nigeria, where men are men and women are women and electricity (along with toilet paper) is something that has not yet been widely promulgated.

I went from Lagos to Benin on December 7th, the first time that I had done a cross‑country drive by myself. I had been to Benin twice, and was relatively confident. But there are virtually no signs along the way, so if you make a mistake, it can be some time before you discover you're on the wrong road. Or in the wrong state.

But the trip was relatively incident free. It took me an hour and a quarter to get from our house to the first toll gate, a distance of around 10 kilometers ‑ but things picked up considerably after that, and the road was as good as I have ever seen it. There were still a number of car‑eating potholes, but some of the them had had white circles painted around them, there obviously had been work done on the roadway, and in one or two places, there were even signs indicating a diversion (ie, when one crosses from one side of the highway to the other. That is one of the exciting aspects of driving, they are usually unmarked, and so it becomes a guess or a following of other cars who apparently for no reason decide to switch sides. Sometimes there is an obstruction, sometimes there seems to be no reason, except perhaps a perverse desire to be different, or some variation on the "grass is always greener" syndrome. There was one point on my return trip when I was in the far right westbound lane, and there was oncoming traffic in the next lane. Then the road divider, then more westbound traffic on the eastbound side, and another lane of eastbound traffic. People sort of cross over when they want to, and oncoming usually clears for them. Those times when they don't, of course, provide for some spectacular accidents ‑ but more of that on the return trip.)

I did get just a teensy weensy itsy bitsy bit lost once I got into Benin City. I knew I was close to the parish, but I couldn't seem to settle in on it. I was actually heading for the Novitiate, but I had mail for the parish, and the only way I knew to find the Novitiate was to start from the parish. Eventually St. Anthony found me and returned me to the proper track, and I was in the Novitiate and standing under a cold shower by 3:30 in the afternoon. (That is not an indication of sexual tension, simply that cold or dirty are the only two options.) I spent a couple of days at the Novitiate, just relaxing and preparing for the retreat. When I give a retreat, whether preached or directed, or as it turned out, a combination of the two, my job is mostly to listen. The person making the retreat has to listen for the voice of God in their lives and especially in their prayer. I have to listen to them when we meet, and also to see if I can help them discern what God may be saying. I cannot approach a retreat with an inside full of fatigue or busy‑ness, so the several days to prepare are for me very important.

And very nice. The Novitiate is a lovely, landscaped, quiet place. You can see stars (you can't see stars in Lagos) and they even have fireflies. (We don't have fireflies in Lagos.) It was a lovely time. (We don't have...well, sometimes we do.)

On Saturday, one of the Kiltegan priests stopped by to guide me down. His name is Pawdie ‑ a corruption of Patrick ‑ and he has been in Nigeria just over one year. Before that he was 21 years in Brazil, and the transition is not an automatic or an easy one. One of our Novices, Barida Pronen, came with me. He is from a village outside of Port Harcourt, and the Novice Master wanted him to begin the process of getting a passport. That took him most of the week. He didn't get the document, but he did everything he could do.

We did not go to Port Harcourt, where the retreat was to be held, but instead went down to Burutu (OK troops, out with the maps.) where Pawdie is stationed along with another Kiltegan, Fr. Eugene. Now you can't drive to Burutu. We drove to Warri, and left my car at what I later discovered was a house of Irish engineers who are working in the oil fields for a Japanese firm (which rather explains the eclectic decor of the house. I thought the poster of the naked Japanese girl was a little out of place, even for a group of Irish priests...). Then on to the docks, where Pawdie dropped us and luggage off, and he left his car at the Bishop's House. When he arrived, we began the process of getting a boat downstream to Burutu. (Have you found Burutu yet? Find Warri and start radiating out, East southeast of Benin. With me? Bravo.)

Boats run to Burutu when they run. As the day draws to a close, people get a little more ‑ well, frantic is a good word, and the price tends to climb. When we arrived, we were told there were no boats. Pawdie said not to worry, there would be boats. More and more people arrived, and soon there was quite a little crowd on the dock. Each one as they arrived was to sign up on the list and pay the clerk the appropriate fare. Some did. Ours were the first names on the list.

Aha! A boat. Oho! Eighteen people immediately board the boat, without waiting for announcement, lists or invitation. (It is perhaps worth noting here that the capacity of the boat is perhaps thirteen, and that means putting people in every available space, including some obviously not designed for human occupation.) Great discussions ensued, about who had paid and how much they had paid, and how much extra large parcels were going to be charged. In the meantime, the three of us are still among the group standing on the dock. And Pawdie continues to assure me that there will be another boat. I, on the other hand, am checking out the more comfortable looking benches.

But sure enough, another boat comes along. The other boat leaves, both outboard engines working very hard to move the load, but they get underway. The new arrival is like an old Boston whaler ‑ a large, long rowboat, with one outboard at the stern. (One? But didn't the other boat have two? Uhu.) And open. Benches for seats. This time, like time and tide, we wait for no man. Or woman. We are not quite the first on, but we lead the pack. And wait. And wait. And get to know other people who get on. And participate in an argument about fares, and parcels, and seating. Finally, we get our 18 people crammed in ‑ and believe me, the rated capacity of this vessel is nowhere near 18. And off we go. Sort of.

One engine is working hard to move this craft along. In fact, the journey takes almost twice the usual time. We have to stop several times to coax the engine back into life ‑ and each time we speed up or slow down, water comes pouring in through a hole in the bow. The total run is almost two hours.

But it is a fascinating time. The variety of costume and dress ranges from black leather jacket with chrome studs to very dressy traditional dress to village plain and ordinary. And of course, a couple of western shirts, and one guy with nothing on but a thong. Everyone is friendly and chatting with one another ‑ the women next to me starts singing Christmas carols in English, and after a while we have a little Christmas sing‑along going on in the front of the boat. We pass villages on the river that have probably not changed much in 200 hundred years, and two large log floats go by us heading the other way ‑ hundreds of logs loosely bound together and floated along, one with a little hut built on the logs for shelter. All along the river there are fishing nets strung out, so the pilot of the boat had to keep an eye out for them. As evening descended, floating lights are put on each end of the net line, and boats on the river also carried lights. (Don't think electric, think kerosene lamps.) So the effect was charming, rather like some oriental floating garden.

The down side of all this charm was that the boat on which we were riding itself had no light, electric or otherwise, so as darkness continued to get deeper, the amount of faith in the pilot needed if one were to stay calm increased fairly drastically. By the time we actually got to Burutu, it was pitch dark. (Which was ok ‑ so was Burutu. No NEPA when we arrived, and
few generators in the town.)

Burutu ‑ lots of darkness, lots of mosquitos, friendly people. The priests' residence does have a generator, which was chugging away. A meeting of several of the people of the parish was underway when we arrived, so Pawdie went to the meeting, and Barida and I sat quietly and read. Once the gathering was over we had something to eat, visited for bit, and went to bed. The next morning Pawdie was going further down the river to say Mass at one of the outstations, and I volunteered to go with him. Barida, our Novice, had known the other priest, Fr. Eugene from his younger days ‑ he had been an altar server for him ‑ and so he was going to stay "home".

Morning ‑ small boat, good driver, about an hour on the river to get to the village. When I first said I was going to Africa, people tended to have these images of very small and poor villages, no amenities, mud huts and grass roofs. Well, that's this village. The huts tend to be made of wood, but take your image of poor African village, and you have found this village. As we arrived and landed, a small boy, wearing a shirt but no bottom, came running up to greet Pawdie. Shook his hand, and ran off. Pawdie uttered (expletive deleted) ‑ seems toilet paper is not one of the customary items in this village, and the boy had just...well, you get the idea.

The church ‑ chapel ‑ is under construction, as are many buildings in Nigeria. They are putting a cement floor into the place, a few feet at a time, as they can afford it. They use a cement they mix with ground shells from the river, and the result looks very nice but smells rather peculiar. Apparently it either wears off with time or maybe you get used to it. I can tell you from my own limited experience, you don't get used to it in three hours. I heard confessions for about 40 minutes ‑ and understood perhaps 50% of what was said to me. A couple of old women spoke no English whatsoever, so I just prayed that they hadn't committed murder and gave them absolution. Mass was in both English and the local language, and was great fun. I gave blessings to everyone in the place, and then after Mass we went and brought communion to three people who were sick at home.

Those are the moments when you really get to see how the people live. The first house we went to is built out over the river, and there are spaces between the planks. Drop something and it is apt to be floating. Of course, especially for an old women in bed, that makes toilet functions a simple procedure. Stepping carefully, we entered the one room house, followed by about 30 people from the church. Everyone sang a hymn, we prayed with the woman and she received communion. Another prayer, more singing, and off we went to the next house. The other two homes we on land, but simplicity is the order of the day. On the way out, we stopped to greet and visit with an old man sitting on a bench. Pawdie offered his hand, but he refused. Turned out this was the head priest of the local religion, and he never shakes hands with anybody. That would take away some of his power. He greeted us with what seemed to me to be tolerant amusement, but I might not have been reading him right. He is someone Pawdie will have to get to know better as he spends more time in the village.

Back on the boat to return to Burutu so we could move on to Warri so we could get the cars and go on to Eleme (outside Port Harcourt) where the priests of Bomadi Mission would gather for this retreat. (Confused? Me too.) There was great disappointment in the village. No one had known I was coming, but in the interval since I arrived, a party had been put together in my honor. Pawdie apologised sixteen times and explained why we had to move on, and I promised that some day I would return and we could celebrate together. As I was leaving, one of the elders pressed something in my hand. Turned out to be 200 Naira ‑ which in that village is a not inconsiderable sum of money. I thanked him profusely and the whole village ‑ and later gave it to Pawdie for some kind of celebration at a later time for the church.

The ride up to Warri was a lot easier than the ride down, since we had the parish boat and the parish driver. Got the cars, and off to Eleme. Relatively incident free. At one point the Novice who was with me (remember him?) pointed at a car we were passing and said he knew the guy. Turned out to be a priest from his village, so we flagged him down and Barida went off with him there.

Remember the Okigwe retreat? This was the other side of the coin. The accommodations are wonderful ‑ they even have a whole separate house for the director of the retreat ‑ a large living room, bathroom, and HOT WATER!!! Even a little fridge with beer and minerals and a kettle and coffee and tea. Now I fasted again for the week, so all of that did me no good ‑ but it was one of the best rooms I have ever had. Everything screened, and fans in each room, and the weather was gorgeous ‑ cool, and a breeze.

There were eleven priests on the retreat, and eight of them wanted to make a directed retreat and three wanted a preached retreat. Just to put this in a context, usually the absolute maximum number of retreatants that one director would have would be six ‑ and you would try not to have that many. I had eight ‑ and I had to preach three times a time for the other men. Made for a full day. They tell me the grounds were lovely. I seldom left the house. But they were great men, and a very impressive group. The Kiltegans are a missionary group, and all but one was Irish. (The one is a diocesan priest and a native Nigerian. He is the only indigenous priest in the mission.) It was a very good week, although it did not produce the interesting experiences that the Okigwe retreat did. At least, not the kinds of experiences you write down and send around the world.

Eleme is just outside Port Harcourt, and in the middle of an area of oil fields and conflict between the local people and the oil companies. It is not safe to be out at night, and the sisters have a policeman on the property each night for protection. There are regular skirmishes, between villages as well as between the locals and the oil companies, and finding a body on the road in the morning is not an uncommon occurrence. At night, the glow from the burn‑off lights the skies on two sides of the compound, and is quite lovely, as long as you don't think too much about what is going on behind it.

Each day, I would go over to the dining room for breakfast. I didn't eat (I continued to follow the regimen of fasting when giving a retreat), but I played tapes for the men, to help them keep their silence during the retreat. Then back to the house, where retreatants would come to see me (we had a daily sign‑up schedule) and a preached conference. Mass was celebrated in the living room where I lived, then lunch ‑ more tapes ‑ and siesta. More people and conferences in the afternoon, dinner and usually a couple of people after the evening meal. Made for a full day.

On the last morning of the retreat, I celebrated Mass for the sisters, and then celebrated Mass with the men, had breakfast and packed to go. Barida showed up ‑ he had spent the week trying to arrange for his passport ‑ and...the car wouldn't start.

One hour, six volunteers, two batteries and 100 Naira later, we were off, with warnings that we should never stop the car until we got to Benin, because if we did it wouldn't start. ("Don off the car, Masta, or she no go again") On the way to Benin, I counted the police checks along the way ‑ 21 of them. It was the week before Christmas, and the police were out hustling, shaking down the local populace for a little extra Christmas money. They are not there to stop crime. At one point, perhaps a hundred yards past a police check, a man came out from the side of the road and threw a board in front of my, covered with nails. The idea was to make me stop, so he could rob me. I swerved left, missed the board and continued. (I realized later I should have swerved right and knocked him into the next country.) But we were in full sight of the police when this was going on. Probably an off‑duty cop.

Spent a day in Benin, and then home sweet Lagos. Funny how you can miss dirt and noise and congestion. The ride back, besides the adventures of expressway driving, exposed me another of the Christmas perils in Nigeria ‑ Christmas driving. Whether it is that more people are drinking and driving, or just because of the holidays more people are driving ‑ or they are more anxious to get places ‑ whatever the reason, the death toll on the highways rises dramatically during the Christmas season. (And you can't blame it on ice and snow.) I saw four or five major accidents on the way back, three apparently having happened just before I got on the scene ‑ quite literally, the blood was still flowing and the bodies had not been moved from where they had fallen. Accidents seem to have no effect on passing cars ‑ they slow down to eyeball the spectacle, and off they speed. I tend to drive at around 120 kmps, just over 70mph. And I am regularly passed. On these roads, with all the attendant hazards, and the general state of disrepairs of vehicles, I am surprised there aren't more accidents.

During the days before Christmas the traffic assumed truly horrendous proportions, I gave two talks that turned into mini‑concerts ‑ I talked about singing and church, and sang most of my examples ‑ and I discovered that it is hard to get into the Christmas spirit when it is 88 degrees and humid.

Christmas here was nice, and by our standards, very quiet. We decorated the swamp plant in the corner of the living room, and even put lights in the bushes in front of the house. The locals did not understand what was going on, but everyone in the neighborhood came over to look. (And wonder.) They had never seen anything quite like it, and for the first few nights there were little groups standing at our gate peering in.

For whatever reason, neither of us in residence had outside commitments, so I said the Midnight Mass for the convent ‑ small group, with carols and prayers before the Mass ‑ we ended up sitting around a table which served as the altar ‑ and Bill said the morning Mass, which freed me up to do the cooking for the Christmas dinner when all the Jesuits came over. Santa had left little presents for everybody. I was the chief cook, assisted by our regular cook Rose, and produced (if I do say so myself) another magnificent turkey, stuffed, with the creamed onions and peas and hot bread and vegetables and mashed potatoes. No gravy ‑ just before serving, the gravy exploded. Pyrex and gravy all over the kitchen. No one was hurt, but pulse rates went up dramatically.

The day after Christmas I went to Benin, where we had a gathering of Jesuits, and spent several quiet days reading and unwinding. Identical traditional shirts were provided for all attending, so we looked rather like a Mao‑Tse‑Tung fan club ‑ or an orphanage alumni group. But it was fun, and nice to get away from Lagos for a couple of days. At the party I sang several parodies of Christmas carols I had written that featured local Jesuits and topical events. I am no Tom Lehrer, but they got a better reception than they probably deserved. I also sang ‑ at what was really and truly popular demand ‑ O Holy Night. We have come full circle folks, that was what I did at this party last year.

My mother financed an Ogbada for me as a Christmas gift ‑ once those pictures come out, I'll pass them on to one and all. (An Ogbada is a native outfit with pants, a long shirt, and an outer robe resembling a priestly chausable. Only much more ornate. And a matching hat.) My guess is I will look like a tent with a beard ‑ but so far, I'm the only one who looks remotely reasonable in full native dress. I think it's the beard ‑ confuses the image. The phone had died several days before Christmas, so there was no way to contact anyone in the States, or to be contacted, so peace and quiet was the order of the week. Whether we wanted it or not.

Came back from Benin to discover the phone was still off, the car doesn't want to start, the military is becoming openly repressive, the VCR is broken, and the safe is almost empty. No fool I ‑ I used the last of our money to buy food. (I checked ‑ we have several bottles of Scotch. The essentials are covered.)

The days following Christmas found me bracing myself for the rest of the month. Things are about to pick up ‑ among other things, the ongoing battle with the phone company, a 40‑foot container about to be delivered, a month when our house is anticipating over 20 guests. (We have two guest bedrooms ‑ this child of God is going to be doing laundry until my cuticles bleed!)

Life after the coup goes on. Inflation rate is now up to 55% (15% in 91, 43% in 92, higher according to different sets of figures ‑ and no matter whose figures you use, highest in Lagos). One of the three main bridges into Lagos had several of its slabs move about 75 centimeters just before Christmas. Even in Nigeria that calls for closing the bridge. Which means that the horrendous traffic jams have just gotten to whatever the next stage below horrendous is.

The government has just come out with its 1994 budget, a whole new and exciting list of restrictions on spending and foreign exchange (and this at a time when we are about to start building a new house and a multi‑million dollar school complex, all based on American dollars ‑ terrific timing!), and a stern warning that anyone making public statements "contrary to the government's interest" will be jailed and prosecuted. Adds a certain interesting element to speaking in public ‑ like the weekly homily? I have been approached by State Security agents about my preaching, but that was in the government before the government before this one, and I am seldom in the same church twice in a row, so I am not terribly concerned. My mouth has been getting me into trouble for years ‑ so what else is new?

One of the decrees has fixed the foreign exchange rate at 22 Naira to the dollar. Before the decree, it was floating on the parallel market between 45 and 47. All the Bureaux de Change were made agents of the Central Bank, and all foreign exchange transactions have to go through the Central Bank. Right now, the Bureaux de Change have all closed, and the parallel market operators are continuing to operate and giving around 45. There is word that there will be a formal decree very soon making the parallel market illegal, so we are trying to change some large sums fast ‑ and then we'll see what happens. One of the side effects of this is supposed to be to slow internal inflation. Since the decree was issued, prices have jumped drastically in less than two weeks. We are not optimistic.

I did get to see the inside of another Nigerian hospital. The chaplain at the teaching hospital had back to back weddings, so he asked me if I would make rounds and see patients. There is a very good catechist and visitor there, a man who works in the chemistry department, and he ushered me around.

Technology is not a high priority item in Nigeria, and maintenance and cleanliness and efficiency are not normal reference points in the Nigerian psyche, and I had seen hospitals in Benin and in Kaduna, so it was with a certain reluctance that I did this assignment. I must say, LUTH is miles ahead of either Benin or Kaduna ‑ and about seventy years behind most US community hospitals. I had been told four or five patients at most ‑ the guy who took me around had a list with 20 people on it. I did what I could in 75 minutes, but there was a list of people supposed to be coming to the house, and I couldn't give the time that was needed. Several pregnant women, a couple women with newly delivered babies, one small boy with a liver problem, young man with renal failure, one man who died before we got there, a couple of cancer patients, and two women with burns that the Stephen King make‑up school wouldn't reproduce, for fear of being sued by the average viewer for mental damage.

If you've done chaplaincy work in a hospital, even if you've been away for a while, it comes back quickly. It was a full time, and I ‑ well, enjoyed it is not the right word, but I was glad I went.

Speaking of things medical, several people have written to ask about my eye, the occasional blindness that brought me back to the States last spring. I have had occasional blackouts since returning, and before Christmas had a series of them, three in two days, and longer and stronger than ever before. So I faxed the information to the neurologist in New York (how did we ever live without FAX machines?) and he sent over some medication with one of the returning Jesuits after Christmas.

The medication ‑ Dr. Block has sent along a bottle filled with little tiny blue pills. The note accompanying same (with some minor deletions) reads like this:

1 tablet daily for 5 days.
Increase every 5 days by one tablet (20 mgs) to a total of 5‑7
(100‑140 mgs) as tolerated. If side effects occur, TAPER down, no "cold turkey".

Some patients take 10‑12 tablets per day if tolerated before achieving a therapeutic effect.

Prescription should be taken in divided doses, 8‑12 hours.
DON'T RUN OUT OF THE PRESCRIPTION ‑ NO COLD TURKEY!!

The exclamation marks and caps are his. So, I have started theregimen and discovered that I can get the medication here in Nigeria. I can hardly wait to get to a PDR and find out more about this stuff. Side effects include lowered blood pressure (that is not entirely bad, although my bp has been behaving itself over the last several years) and light‑headedness (who'd notice?). It is supposed to reduce/eliminate this going blind in one eye business, which while not crippling is not always helpful. So we'll see what happens. Always something new and different.

Diversion ‑ Pizza. And other foods. It ain't New York, but on the other hand, it ain't mud hut and thatch roof either. There are places where the American appetite can be tingled. One is the New Yorker, a little very American restaurant in Ikoyi. Unlike most Nigerian restaurants, which tend to be dark and enclosed and fairly heavy in terms of environment, this is open and airy and light. they serve hamburgers (great hamburgers. Okay, not by Manhattan burger standards, but significantly better than the Burger Doodle variety ‑ or what our cook makes.), wonderful onion rings (by anyone's standards), and a chocolate milkshake that in a different world would probably not excite me, but right now is the sweetest thing I have tasted in longer than I want to think about it. They have moderately good chili, and good pizza. The cheese used varies, so sometimes it is better than other times, but the crust is great, the ingredients are fresh, and again, in contrast to what one usually finds ‑ wow. Maybe even ‑ WOW. One lovely night, Bill and Jerry had stopped for dinner at the New Yorker, and this was what they brought back to old stay at home John, a small but deeply welcomed Broadway pizza, with a variety of ingredients. I ate my pizza, drank a coke, and watched a fuzzy broadcast of Reasonable Doubts, an American tv show. One could momentarily almost believe one was...Stop that. Back to reality.

I did buy myself a toy last week. A bug zapper. I was showing around Bob and Paul ‑ they were shopping for a washing machine for the new retreat house and wanted to see what the prices and options in Lagos were ‑ and I saw this small version of the outdoor zapper. Blue light, electric coils, attracts and fries flying critters. It was not expensive, and since the mosquitos are returning ‑ one of my chores last week was not only spraying everything but also re‑sealing air conditioners and windows ‑ I thought I'd give it a try. Maybe it's psychological. Maybe I have always just needed a night light and never knew it. But whatever the reason, not only have I not been sucked on for the last several nights, I have slept wonderfully. Long may it last. (Now as long as I don't rise groggily from sleep in the middle of the night and grab hold of this thing... missionary fried in his sleep.)

Reflection ‑ Peter is back. And at some point, I am sure that the subject of what I am going to do is going to come up in conversation. It is, I think, a good time to stake out for myself what the year has been like, in frustrations and whatever the opposite of frustrations is, and in terms of what I am (or ought to be) about as a Jesuit. We (the Jesuits in Lagos) have been meeting each week to share some prayer and talk about the documents for the forthcoming General Congregation in Rome, a gathering of Jesuits from all over the world. And some of the topics and conversations there ring bells in my own ongoing thoughts and meanderings.

Item ‑ God does not send His will forth in Western Union telegrams, neatly spelled out and clear. No goal‑oriented memos, no 2 year or five year plans, no project prospectus. Some Provincial or Superior may couch things in those terms ‑ but for the most part, they are having the same kind of struggle in trying to find God's hand as the rest of us.

Item ‑ Ignatius does spell out in the Constitutions some norms for "Deciding on the Suitability of Missions" ‑ all else being equal in all cases, of course. But the presumption in all of this is the apostolic availability of the man/men in question. We signed up in order to go where the greatest need was ‑ in the eyes of the Superior. It may be (may be?) that our/my vision of that need does not always coincide with his. In which case we talk. In the final analysis, however, I am available to go where I am sent.

To what extent do I have the responsibility to find, within the scope of where I am sent, what the greatest need is? In this case, for instance ‑ I have been sent to Nigeria. The job I was sent to do no longer exists. If I believe that God's hand is in that somewhere, however subtly, then don't I have the responsibility of finding where I can be of the most use?

Other options have appeared. The offer to go to the Gregorian in Rome I thought was a terrific match of need and availability and experience. My Provincial, for whatever reason, disagreed. Company magazine was looking for an editor, and they were more interested in someone who could excite interest in the publication among Jesuits ‑ essentially an aggressive public relations director ‑ than strictly a scissors and paste editor. Editorial skills useful, but the first requirements were for increasing the magazine's audience. I didn't even ask if I could apply for that one, given the last reaction. But again, that sounded like experience and need coming together.

While I was at Benin recently, I was talking with an Irish sister who has been here for several years. And in casual conversation she said something about how hard it was to get used to the place.

That startled me. Because for all of its glitches and hiccups, all its frustrations and its more infrequent delights, I have had no great problems in getting used to the place. Egusi soup is not my favorite dish in the world, but most of the food is quite good, and I would rather have it than American food cooked by Nigerians. Sure I'd like to have a phone system that worked and an electrical system that stayed on all the time. But when I'm in Manhattan I'd like to have subways that didn't smell of urine and fewer beggars per 100 yards and less crime.

I mention that because it occurs to me that my reaction isn't necessarily typical, that some people do find it hard to adjust to living in Nigeria. Since I do not find it particularly hard living here, I guess that immediately counts as a qualification. One that not everyone has.

I like Nigeria. I exist here without major trauma, unlike a number of others who find it difficult to adjust. I sympathize, but I confess it is not a reaction I understand ‑ I live where I live, and deal with what has to be dealt with. (I think this whole business of "inculturation" is one of those academic mountains made of real world molehills. If you grow up in New York and you move to Cleveland, you have some adjustments to make. Ditto Toronto, or LA or Watchahoopee. Or Dublin. Or Innsbruck. Or Lagos. Big deal.) But there are people who do not or can not make those adjustments, and so by simply being able to deal with traffic and food and heat and dishonesty, I am more "qualified" than others.

But after a year, I find it hard to define any deep need that needs me. Right now, I describe my "job" as "doing what no one else wants to do". I handle travel arrangements and do the Regional Newsletter, I act as Guest Master in the house (ie, I make the beds for visitors and make sure that we have clean sheets and towels when someone arrives), I continue to try to improve the general living of the inhabitants of 4 L Agusto Close, I fill in on retreats and Masses and talks when no one else is available ‑ ‑ each time I have done something it has been precisely because no one else could. Or would. Or because my doing it frees someone else to do some part of their job more effectively.

The list of what I do goes on but the essence is that what I am doing is helpful, and appreciated. And if I dropped dead tomorrow, the stuff I do would either be picked up by someone already here or dropped without serious loss and life would go on. If I dropped dead, it would never be considered to bring in someone to do what I do ‑ because there is on that list nothing that is a real need.

So ‑ bottom line time ‑ while I am, I hope, as available as when the subject of Nigeria first came up, and am not saying that life here is terrible and dreadful and I've got to get out of here ‑ which truly is the case with some men who have come and in one case at least is still here ‑ I do feel that the past year has been, if not a waste, certainly not very productive. I've had some wonderful experiences, made some good friends, written some great stuff, and helped a few people. I do question if that is enough. If there are not greater needs I could be meeting, more effective or influential use to which my talents could be put.

Words that spring to mind ‑ frustrating (now I bet that surprised you, huh?) ‑ exotic ‑ interesting ‑ varied ‑ frustrating (okay, I admit, overkill) ‑ rewarding (at times) ‑ disappointing ‑ enriching. I could go on, but the sense is a real mixed bag. The disappointment is not so much that the job I thought I was going to do fell through. Actually, I like the unexpected and the unplanned and the unusual. And the way things have evolved here in Surulere, I am proving to be useful. It would be wrong to say that the past year was a waste, of time or energy or John. It was certainly an unusual year ‑ from travel to hospitals to new and exotic (that's where that word fits in) experiences.

The frustration is ‑ well, I go back to my example of the desk. With the wobbly leg. You have a real need to prop up that desk. So you take a Bible or a dictionary and you stick it under the short leg. You have met your need. You have fixed the desk. But you are not getting very good use out of your Bible or your dictionary. Far be it from me to compare myself to a Bible... you get the picture.

There is disappointment too, in a larger sense, in the role the Jesuits are and are not playing in this country. We have been here for over 30 years, and have had surprisingly little impact. Of the expatriates currently in Nigeria, only one can speak even a little of any of the languages. In Ghana, one young man spent six months studying the language and is getting fluent, another has some knowledge of one of the languages but is not conversant, much less fluent. Many of our men know little about the lived culture, and all of our men live in very Western, very isolated, and by local standards, very luxurious quarters. There are two men in Benin who have been giving retreats for several years, and they, and the men who have taught in seminaries, have probably had the largest ongoing impact. They are about to open a formal retreat house, and that too will hopefully play a stronger role in what is happening here. If the school in Abuja is successful, it will be a major concrete step towards making a permanent impact and trying to change lives in Nigeria.

But for the most part, we don't seem to have a clear direction, a clear "mission", or a strong sense of commitment to who we are and what we believe. One of our men writes letters to the editor regularly ‑ and always sends them in under a phony name. Our men belong to no local groups ‑ social, fraternal, cultural. I have applied to the Nigerian Union of Journalists and have been invited to join the Musical Society of Nigeria. I have also been invited to attend the monthly meeting of the Lagos chapter of the Association of Nigerian Authors ‑ and Jesuits here are startled. I am frustrated because I have been able to find and get involved in so little. And to others it seems like quite a lot.

It was, perhaps, a fortunate accident that I spent the time working on the Mission History, for I got a good sense of the mission in all its liver spots and tremors. I know that the reputation of the Jesuits frequently outstrips the lived reality ‑ but that is true for any large and famous (infamous?) organization. And I know that I often expect more than is going to happen, from myself as much as from others.

Over the last month or so, I've been running a private experiment. Talking with people, both individually and in groups, I have made statements about there being nothing here for me to do. And not once ‑ not once has anyone contradicted that or come up with suggestions. It's been a year, and interesting, but if I dropped dead tomorrow, I feel sorry for the guy who has to fill up an obituary notice.

Now I'll let you in on a little secret ‑ when I started to write this section, the intention was to be upbeat and encouraging. Reading back, I don't think it came out that way. And it would be wrong to leave you with the impression that all is grey and dreadful and awful. Not the case. Ignatius reminds us that life tends to go in cycles ‑ consolation and desolation, times when God's hand is clear in our lives, and times when God seems to have gone away on a short (or long) vacation. Whatever part of the cycle you are in, you can count on there being another turn at some point. And certainly, this isn't a lowest point by any stretch of the imagination.

As I said in one of my earlier letters, I did not join the Jesuits simply to do what I wanted to do. And those of you who have known me through the years, know that during my life as a Jesuit, there have been at least a couple of times when that was obvious. I was not doing things I particularly wanted to do. Sometimes that turned out well, other times... well, there we are. I think they call that life.

I don't think I have a conclusion. Except maybe that to those of you who have been worrying about me ‑ I am actually far better than I may sound. After the discouragement settles, I still do have a faith that there will be a purpose to it all. When I was in 7th and 8th grade, I could never have told you how important being able to read blueprints and electrical schematics would become later in my life. I am probably learning things now that will at some point prove equally crucial. I'll keep you posted.

If this is going to actually get out of the computer and into the DHL pouch, I had best stop rambling and start punching the appropriate keys. But I did feel that, especially given all the years the Jesuits financed my education, and given the reputation of the Jesuits for analysis and reflection, and the interest that people have shown in "what exactly are you doing?" I really owed you a little closing analysis on this first year plus. Technically it hasn't been a year, if you subtract the unscheduled trip to the U.S. But close enough.

It was a year in which we had one election, universally acclaimed as free and fair, and one annulment of that election, almost universally denounced. We had three governments ‑ two military dictatorships, briefly interrupted by an appointed civilian government, later ruled illegal by the Supreme Court. We have had galloping inflation, imposed financial restraints, a fuel price jump from 70 kobo per litre to 325 kobo per litre, and more threatened. I have had the chance to see a fair bit of Nigeria, and have said Mass and preached in 33 different locations. I've been through riots, strikes, hospitals (as patient and as chaplain), and have started to learn three different languages. Not bad for somebody without a job.

At some point in the near future I will have a mass letter for reproduction and mailing to everyone on my Mission Bureau list. I have promised that I will shamelessly beg for money in the final paragraph. (Now that the foreign exchange rate for the naira has been pegged and frozen at half of what it had been, I think we will all be living more simply and begging more shamelessly). Close personal friends are free to ignore it.

I have a meeting later this week to see about summer travel. This summer will be my 25th college reunion (the class I graduated with, not the class I entered with), and so I should be back for about six weeks. Probably end of May through 1st week of July, with a meeting in California (Santa Clara) from July 7‑10. And then back to Lagos. I know I will be in New York and Princeton and South Bend and Salisbury Maryland, and I am hoping to get to Toronto. Other travel is going to depend on finances, and given the recent naira devaluation here, the finances are seriously going to be tight for a while. We don't think it will last ‑ our advisors here are telling us that in four to six months we'll see the exchange rate back up to its former level or even higher. But with a military dictator, one never quite knows, and prudence suggests a certain caution. So I may be very restricted, and spending more time on a bus than on a plane. At the very least, the phone lines will work, and I hope to at least talk with people, even if I can't figure out how to collect on long overdue hugs and promised drinks in person.

For the record, this is Letter #9 in a series that started almost exactly a year ago. My computer tells me that assembled, they total something over 462 k/bytes, around 130 pages (single‑spaced), and something over 81,000 words. (And this from someone who is finding it hard to finish writing a thesis?)

A Table of Contents of Massive Missives

1st Letter ‑ John arrives in Nigeria, goes to Benin. December 23 thru December 31.
2nd Letter ‑ To and in Kaduna. January 1 thru January 8.
3rd Letter ‑ In Kaduna, getting ready to leave. January 9 thru January 26th.
4th Letter ‑ Life in Lagos. January 26 thru Feb. 4th.
5th Letter ‑ February 5th through Easter (April 11th, you heathen). John lives in Lagos, learns about life thru doing housework, and returns to the States.
6th Letter ‑ John in the U.S.
7th Letter ‑ John returns just in time for the riots
8th Letter ‑ Okigwe Retreat, Funerals and other stuff
9th Letter ‑ you just read it!

If you are missing any of these timeless epics, please contact your local distributor. I've been thinking of microfilm.

At the moment I have no idea what is upcoming, personally, professionally, priesthood‑wise (how's that for a trendy construction?) ‑ and when or if these missives will continue into the 2nd year. I have certainly put a strain on friends with the xeroxing and mailing, and I am more grateful than they/you will ever know. It may be time to cut back and effect a certain mysterious silence. Although I have learned some fascinating things about slavery that I have got to fit into some letter some time.

My prayers and hugs accompany this packet, and all sorts of wishes that 94 will be a good year for you ‑ and that there will be a crossing of paths during that time. Until the whenever our paths do cross, take care of your charming/noble/gorgeous self (pick whichever most closely applies), and remember that there is a bearded Jesuit in Nigeria who is thinking of you.