Father John and the Talking Clock
Another adventure. Well, all of life is an adventure, but every now and then life condenses itself, so to speak, and you get more experience that usual crammed into time. Or maybe we just manage to look at the time differently. Whatever ‑ in early 1999 I was visiting the Irish Embassy and ran into this little nun, who asked me to do a retreat for her community. I pleaded a busy schedule but she said she was looking for something late in 2000 ‑ which seemed about six years away. She said he group was outside of Yola, and in a moment of I don't know WHAT I was thinking of, I said okay. Now part of my sudden agreeability was that I was thinking Yaba ‑ whichis about ten minutes drive from our house. She, of course, had said, Yola ‑ which is about six miles beyond Hell and Gone, on the road to Kano. Not exactly the end of the earth ‑ but you cansee it from here.
Suddenly ‑ much more quickly than I would have thought possible ‑ the calendar was saying October, and I realized that on 3rd November I would have to bundle myself up and head off to give a retreat. I inquired and was told that the plane flew at 10:45 in the morning, stopping first in Abuja and then going on to Yola. OK. Sent word to the Sisters in Zing ‑ which means you call another group of Sisters in Yola and they take the message and the next time the Carmelites come to town they get the message.
Carmelites are a cloistered order ‑ this batch anyway ‑ except for those who do the necessaryoutside work to keep things going, the bulk of the sisters remain in the cloister, in silence, doing the work necessary to keep things running but for the most part, devoting their lives to prayer. St Theresa, the Little Flower, was a Carmelite, and if you don't know anything about her, there is a wonderful biography of her by Dorothy Day that is worth looking up. If you don't know who Dorothy Day is, shame on you, you now have two women you need to learn more about.
The Sheehans have been involved with Carmelites since the turn of the last century. A group moved into Schenectady and my grandfather and grandmother helped them get the house where they live and did some of the remodeling. My father was very close to them ‑ sang in their church for special occasions, and used to boast that he was one of only three men who were actually allowed inside the cloister ‑ the Bishop, the doctor and the plumber. (He was the plumber.) I was taken to visit the sisters when I was very small, and was actually allowed inside the cloister. My mother says she can remember hearing my boy soprano voice coming through the grillwork that separated the sisters from the outside world, singing "How Much Is That Doggy In the Window" for the pleasure of the nuns. Okay ‑ they didn't have a lot of entertainment. But I really was a pretty good boy soprano. I visited those Sisters when I was on my way into the Novitiate and when I was ordained ‑ I had the great pleasure of celebrating Mass for them and staying overnight in a separate room they have for visiting priests. And there are some wonderful Carmelites in Toronto (although that batch isn't cloistered, they are teaching and running a school.) that I also got very close to. So coming to the Carmelite house here was a sort of homecoming.
Remember that I said they had told me the flight was at 10:45? Well, when I went to buy my ticket, I was told the flight was at 2PM. Thank you very much. Tried to call the other sisters in Yola to leave a message but no answer. (Turned out they had left for the week to attend a meeting in Jos.) Got to the airport with my 2PM ticket to learn that the flight would leave at 2:30. Hmm. Those of you who have been following my life in Nigeria narratives can probably guess the next bit ‑ Yup, the 2:30 flight finally left at 4:20. Remember too, this was not a flight going directly to Yola, first we went to Abuja, then to Yola ‑ so it was 6:30 (and dark) when we got to Yola.
There were two sisters there to meet me, but the general rule of thumb is, unless it is absolutely life and death, you don't travel at night. In fact, the Bishops of the two adjoining dioceses here have issued an order to their priests and nuns, that they are NOT allowed to travel after dark. A young Carmelite priest was killed not too long ago by armed robbers because he had gotten delayed and was trying to get home after dark. So we were not going to go to Yola that night. We went to the house of the sisters who were away and settled in. There is no electricity in this part of the country. Been out for a couple of months and there is no end in sight. Seems there was a power outage and during the time the NEPA was out, thieves came in and stole miles of cable (for the copper inside) and one whole section, the equivalent of a state, is without power.
So no power, no water (because even if there is water, there is no way to pump it up) and really hot. The sisters had brought water, and some canned and snack food so we had something to eat and ‑ well, not much to do at that point but go to bed. And sweat.
We were up before five, because we wanted to get on the road by six so we could get to the convent before the scheduled 7:30 Mass ‑ which I was supposed to celebrate, all things being equal. Cooler in the morning ‑ roads empty, and in better shape than the roads in Lagos.( I've seen battlefields in better shape than some of the roads in Lagos. But you knew that.) Got to the convent before Mass, so Father dropped his bags, slipped into an Alb and Stole and Chasuble and tried to think of something enlightening to say about the saint of the day or the readings. I don't think I was terribly successful in that, but on the other hand, I don't think I particularly disgraced myself either.
Now for those of you who went through the tales of Father John in Russia, you know I am given to describing gastrononomic dimensions of my adventures whenever they occur. However, when I am giving a retreat, it is usually my custom to fast during the retreat, and offer that up for the people making the retreat. It's an admission that I probably need all the help I can get. So there won't be much in the way of menus in this narrative. I did have breakfast with the Sisters – in silence, of course. Brown bread to die for, more in the Irish than in the Russian tradition, and a hot porridge made of ground nuts, soya and something else, that was fantastic! When I come off the fast, I hope there is some of THAT around.
And the first talk. Carmelites live most of their lives in silence, so I didn't have to do my usual encouragement for silence during the retreat. But we were sitting in the community room, waiting for the last one or two to arrive, and suddenly this very mechanical voice erupts ‑ it in now ten Oh one AM. Seems the nuns in silence have a clock that talks. I got the giggles and one of the sisters hurriedly took the clock away. Haven't seen or heard it since. I have this image of a clock sitting in a dark closet with a gag across its little mechanical mouth.
We are outside of Zing, in a deserted area, with mountains on all sides and desert in between,. Not Sahara sand desert, but arid, with occasional bushes. The rainy season has ended here, and the rivers are already almost completely dry and smaller streams and brooks are completely gone. The air is very dry, which is lovely, and at night it gets cool, which is also lovely, and there is often a breeze which is a help. There is a separate house for priests about a two minute walk away from the sisters, very nice ‑ and if there were electricity it would be even nicer. The house is built for electricity ‑ I mean, there are plugs and fans and even a fridge. They have a generator – which isn't working, of course ‑ and a small emergency gen which they run occasionally to help cool down the fridges ‑ and I can plug in my computer for a re‑charge. But at night it's candles and kerosine lanterns.
There are 11 on retreat ‑ six Irish sisters and five Nigerians who are still in the early stages of their religious life. The convent was founded several years by the then Bishop of this diocese, guy named (I kid you not) Sheehan. He is now Bishop of Kano and a good friend. Looks remarkably like the photos of my grandfather Sheehan (who died in 1924) but we have found no linkage anywhere in our known ancestry.
On the way over for the first afternoon conference, I heard music being played outside the walls. (I confess, at first I thought it was goats and someone blowing a whistle, to keep the goats together ‑ but eventually I figured out it was music.) I got to the church and from the top step was able to see over the wall. The first thing I saw was a young man, by himself, walking along with his ear to a radio. I couldn't really see the radio, but I caught a glimpse of the antenna reflecting the sunlight. About 50 yards behind him was a group of musicians, perhaps six. A couple of drums, someone with a bell (or two), someone with a block and of course, the guy with the whistle. I give him the benefit of the doubt. To my ears it sounded rather like what happens when a young child takes a plastic recorder and starts to blow and fingers the holes randomly. However, ears more delicately tuned than mine may well find melodic structure and pattern in there.
And behind it all, the gentle roar of a petrol generator struggling to keep the fridges chilled..
The compound is built on a hill, so everything is up and down. Rooms on two sides of large garden, with concrete walkways connecting everything, and then another parallel compound in the same arrangement. The cells (that's what they call rooms for monks and contemplative sisters) are mostly in one block, while the other has the community room, the workshop where they make hosts, the laundry room, kitchen and refectory, a couple of administrative offices. At the bottom of the compound is the chapel ‑ L‑shaped, with the Sisters in one side, separated by metal grillwork, and on the other side space for externs. The altar is in the corner, so it can be seen by both groups. There is actually space for as many as 21 Sisters, looking to the future.
Between the last conference and supper, the Sisters had Evening Prayer. My intention was to sit out in the garden and read for a bit. My access into and out of the compound is through the chapel, so when the sisters are praying, I can't really move through. So I went out and sat on the concrete steps by one section of the garden. Problem. I had volunteered to fast during the retreat. The local mosquito population had made no such decision, and apparently the word had gotten out ‑ FRESH MEAT!! I walked around for a bit, watched the beginnings of sunset and the mountains all around. Harmattan is just starting ‑ the annual dust storms ‑ so the farthest away mountains are seen through the harmattan haze. But still lovely. Eventually, however, the mosquitos discovered my new locations and I finally retreated into the dining room.
Where there was light! They had connected the lights to the gen, and were charging the re‑chargeables but also had other lights on. So for about thirty minutes I did get some reading done. Then they turned the gen off, and used the portable lights for supper.
The clever among you may be asking why, if I am fasting, I go to the meals. I play tapes during the meals for the sisters, sometimes music and sometimes talks. It adds another whole dimension to fasting as well ‑ seeing and smelling without actually tasting. So far, the food looks great.
Unlike the Jesuit Fathers, who have a staff almost as big as the whole Carmelite community, they have no staff here and do everything themselves. To watch the meals be served and cleaned is a delight. Everyone is taking care of everyone else. Some items, like being cook, are scheduled. Other dimensions may be as the spirit moves or there may be a schedule, I haven't figured that out yet. There are two long tables, facing each other, with a serving table and walking around space in between. Food is brought out to the serving tables. After grace, one or two sisters pass the food around, serving the others. No word is spoken. No one asks for anything ‑ but occasionally, during the meal, someone will notice someone is lacking something and serves. But they serve everyone each time. The same kind of routine appears at the end of the meal. Someone, by schedule or instinct I do not know, grabs two plastic containers and collects silverware and scraps. Another passes around with a tray for cups and glasses, and plates and bowls, which have been stacked, are likewise collected and brought together for washing. Very smooth, everyone taking their turn, serving and being served. Very nice.
After supper, back to my quiet little house. And let me tell you, it is quiet. You look out over the valley, and I can probably see 40 or 50 miles ‑ and the only light is an occasional flicker from a fire. No electricity means no radios, no loudspeakers (thank you, God!), no television. The nearest phone is a forty minute drive back toward Yola. No email.
The sisters have given me a rechargeable fluorescent, in addition to the kerosine lantern and candles. Good news and bad news ‑ the light is good. It attracts bugs. As I write this there are perhaps 150 small creatures that look a little like a large flea crawling all over the light. Every now and then I stop and kill the ones on the outside of the fixture ‑ the ones on the inside are on their own. When I go to bed, I will slather myself with bug repellant and see if I can get away without using the mosquito net. The netting works, but as it keeps the bugs out it also keep the heat in. Another trade‑off.
Don't panic ‑ this is not going to turn into another Russian missive. For one thing, there isn't the time ‑ I am only here for ten days. And once the basics have been covered ‑ what goes on, what the place looks like ‑ there aren't usually too many humorous anecdotes connected with a group of people engaged in prayer and silence. If there are, I think it might be questioned if I were doing a good job as a retreat director. I can't even regale you with the traditional menu updates.
Monday ‑ 6th of November. Yesterday was Sunday, which meant more of the locals joined us for morning Mass, so I had Carmelites to me right and locals to me left. There were perhaps twenty of them including a bunch of small children, one wearing a NY Giants t‑shirt and matching shorts. I quickly re‑vamped my homily to include them, and ended up with a much better talk than I had originally planned on giving. I only later discovered that most of the adults probably didn't speak any English.
The rest of the day followed the schedule ‑ people who live in cloistered communities are very good about schedules. I am still working on the retreat. I arrived and unpacked to find that a book that is crucial ‑ I had forgotten. It's a book of guided meditations that I use at the end of many of the talks. Fortunately they had a copy in their library. Unfortunately it's not the same edition, so none of the page numbers I had carefully jotted down have any relationship to the talks, so I have to re‑do all of those. I also forgot to bring one CD for music and decided not to bring another set of tapes, and I should have. So I'm juggling some aspects of the retreat. I usually give a long guided meditation during a retreat like this, but in a community of contemplatives, I've decided to skip it. Today is the first day I am available for private consultation with the sisters, so I can start to get a sense of how things are going. I might put it back in.
They're all very concerned about my fasting. And given my stomach/acid thingy, I am paying attention. The thing is, after a couple of days your system shuts down and you stop producing the acid, so it should be okay. That's why, when you end a fast, you end gently, not jumping right into a large banquet ‑ because your system is in no shape to handle it. You start gently, let your system turn things back on, and then you can proceed. Your stomach has also contracted, and your capacity doesn't match your appetite. Based on previous fasts, today and tomorrow will be the tough days.
I got smart last night, and sprayed the fluorescent light with bug spray, so any little creatures that arrived, died without my direct intervention. However, the mosquitoes got me again, and my ankles are a mass of bites.
Lovely breeze this morning. Sky looks like rain, but I know that's a harmattan cloud, not water. I hope the harmattan doesn't kick up and make it hard to get out.
In my free time I am reading the Constitutions and about the Constitutions, and also starting to prepare for the adult discussion group on the 21st. Christmas Facts and Legends is the theme, and so I am going through Ray Brown's book, the Birth of the Messiah. He's written a whole (long) book on the Infancy narratives ‑ and they only appear in Luke and Matthew. And interestingly enough, many things in one don't appear in the other. Probably the best book on this subject there is, so I am going through it again to refresh my memory. More than anybody wants to know about the Infancy Narratives, but I will pick and choose.
Daily Schedule ‑ Mass at 7:30, followed by breakfast. I'm usually back at my little house by 9, and the first conference is at 10. I'm available for consultation from 10 to 11, and in the dining room for lunch at 12:30. I'm available for consultation from 2 to 3 and 3 to 4, and the second conference is at 4:30. Supper at 6:30 ‑ and the day is over. It gets dark up here by 6:15, so by the time I head back to my house, it is truly dark. Half moon on the increase, so there is light outside (I carry my trusty pocket flashlight). Fire up the fluorescent, do some reading, a little writing, prepare the notes and materials for the next day ‑ by 9 pm I'm ready for bed. Yes, children, Father John is actually getting nine hours sleep a night. Well, he's in bed nine hours. Not all of that is sleep. You need more sleep when you fast ‑ at least I do. And I have certainly been getting some interesting dreams. (Which are NOT part of this narrative.)
I feel like I've been here for a week, at least. Spent part of today looking at drainage and water runoff systems. They have done some very clever things here, which I shall try to remember and copy for our house in Surulere. Today was the first day I was available for private consultation ‑ three slots, three people. I had asked, if possible, that the morning slot not be used unless necessary ‑ four of the six days were immediately filled in. Sigh. This is usually a rough day for fasting, and it turned out to be ‑ some slight dizziness, headache. I am taking salt in addition to copious amounts of water. Tomorrow everything should settle down. Getting cooler, as harmattan settles in. One of the Sisters told me there was a blanket in the closet ‑ I assured her I would love the chill.
Today was one of those interesting days when problems people talked about in the conferences emerged in the talks ‑ and the talks were all planned before ever I met anyone. The local parish priest stopped by to say hello ‑ an Irish Augustinian. His parish has 42 outstations. 42! Talk about the need for priests. Most are small, but transport up here is impossible, so an hour's walk about defines the boundary of a church.
Starting to feel at home ‑ NEPA off and on and off again today. This evening I was tired and feeling a little weak, and so was going to go to bed early. Then NEPA came, so we had lights, and it gave me new energy and I started in to do some work. Of course, fifteen minutes later it went out again, so I sighed and went to bed.
Tuesday, 7 November ‑ Election Day in the US. Of course, in a cloistered house, there is no radio, no newspapers, so it will be next week before I learn who won the election. Unless, of course we get a visitor. The Mercy Sisters from Yola drove over today, to bring the news of the death of a sister from a community where one of these nuns had lived previously. Although there was one Irish Carmelite community that is the founding house, so to speak, the original six came from all over. One from Scotland, one who is Irish but had spent her religious life in England. Two had extensive careers in other orders before entering Carmel. I haven't spoken privately with other members of the community so I don't know their stories yet, but I will. The spaces for signing up now have fifteen marks ‑ and there are still only 11 sisters. Maybe it's just the novelty of talking.
It's a different variation of the Carmelite life. My experience with cloistered Carmelites is that once you enter, you live and die within the monastery. You might be sent (or volunteer) to go and start another community, like here. But the expats here go back for a holiday every two years. They can stay part of the time with family, if they have any, and the rest with their original communities.
Did I mention that all the doors have either strips of wood or small rolls of material, like we would use in chilly climes, to help keep out the cold drafts? Here they use them to keep out the snakes. For the same reason, we are asked to keep the plugs in the sink and the shower, so crawly things don't come up the drain.
Wednesday, 8th of November ‑ Yesterday the community got news that one of the nuns in a community where Sr Catherine had been had died. A fairly well‑known Carmelite, if that's not a contradiction. ("Love, and be unknown.") So this morning we celebrated both the Feast of Blessed Elizabeth of the Holy Trinity and a special Mass for the repose of the soul of Sr. Theresa. A very nice service.
The nuns have a dog. Name of Monty. Very old dog, and while he does bark at strangers, his schedule is not strenuous. Moving into the shade when the sun shifts is about as far as he wants to go. But when one of the bells rings, he howls. Something about that particular bell sets him off and he raises his own voice ‑ we assume in prayer. He's a very high tenor or a soprano.
I'm at the end of my fifth day of fasting. Lots of water, lots of salt and a fair amount of temptation. But no food. I am ‑ as they say ‑ hungry.
They're burning the mountains tonight. The priest stopped by with some email I had promised to send for him, and he was explaining that this is something they do annually, to keep the growth down, and they use it for hunting. They kill the animals that the fire drives out and eat them. Of course, he said, every year there are some human casualties, people who get caught on the wrong side of the fire. Joking, I said, "I assume they don't eat them." Long pause. Then he said, "Well, you know up here blood is a favorite drink. Human blood. Out of a cup." And saying that, he tapped the back of his head. He meant, of course, a human skull for the cup. I am definitely NOT going out for any walks after supper. The population here is predominantly what we used to call pagan ‑ not Moslem, not Christian, but varieties of religions that used to bring forth anthropologists in droves. (Swarms? Herds? What do anthropologists travel in? I know, Jeeps.) But coming back to the house the fires can be seen very clearly, about six of them, and smaller lines of light connecting them.
Friday, November 10 ‑ So far, so good. I can't tell if I have lost any weight but I feel thinner. Still no solid food, although I have broken down a couple of times and had a mineral (soft drink). I eat salt and drink a whole lot of water and try not to stand up too quickly.
The retreat seems to be going well. The private conferences have been fascinating and some of the stories are fairly hair curling. One sister was told by her parents she would have to marry, even though she had said she wanted to enter religious life. She was the eldest daughter. She tried to resign herself to this. When she went to visit the young man (who had initially lied to her father, saying that they had discussed marriage and she had agreed), she was locked up and raped. Seems the tradition in his tribe is that the husband captures and rapes his bride, and then the marriage begins. Her family knew nothing of this. He wrote them to say she had decided to stay and he had arranged for her to continue her schooling there. After a month of repeated rapes, she became pregnant. After a while her parents found out but the man ‑ technically her husband, according to his tribal custom but no official ceremony had ever taken place ‑ refused to let her go. (I'm not quite sure why the father didn't simply shoot him, but different customs.) The baby was born, and when he was about three months old, she managed to escape to her parents. He showed up, but they refused to let her go. While the discussion was on about who would get the child, the child died, and he has not been seen since. There's more, but you get the idea.
When talking about the Last Supper, I had talked about some Jewish customs and used some Jewish prayers, so at the request of some of the sisters, I did a modified Shabbat service this evening before supper ‑ sang the blessings of the food and wine and the Kiddush. Very dramatic. The interesting thing is that with all the talking during the day and perhaps the fasting, the voice is stronger than it has been for a long time.
Tomorrow is the last full day of the retreat. Sunday morning I will have breakfast and then do the final conference. The Sisters are going to have recreation at the mid‑day meal, so they can talk and I can share the break time with them. The priest down the road has invited me for supper that night. In one sense I'd prefer to stay here but he doesn't get many visitors, and being a visitor means ‑ well, visiting. Monday morning I say the early Mass, have another breakfast and off to the airplane. Nigeria Airways again. I wonder if the grace of the retreat will make the plane fly on time.
The Last day of the retreat was fun. Sunday Mass, with some of the people from the surrounding villages, and then ‑ BREAKFAST!! Of course, after 8 days of no solid food, my little tummy had shrunk (Well, on the inside anyway) and so after a little porridge and two pieces brown bread and a cup of tea, I was stuffed. But the Sisters were all smiles and so happy to see me eating again. Me too. The last conference was very upbeat and positive, then the Prioress took me around and showed me some of the place I had not seen, especially their altar bread making factory, which is very interesting, and labor intensive. Lack of NEPA is the biggest problem ‑ and like everywhere else, when NEPA did come, it was so erratic it blew out several machines. So now they have the big generator (which it works) to run the equipment.
Did I mention that during the retreat the Sisters got a puppy? Not usually one of the graces associated with a retreat, but God works in mysterious ways. She's about a month old, and the community is vying for names ‑ some are calling her Sheba, several others want Grace. She woke me up on Sunday morning singing (about 4:30!), to which chorus Monty promptly joined in. Monty is going through some jealousy pangs ‑ but when she gets a little older his patience shall be rewarded.
Lunch was recreation for the Sisters, so talking was allowed. Father had a special plate, and by refusing second helpings and dessert managed to "clean my plate" without undue pain. The Prioress had asked me what my fee would be for this week ‑ I'm a Jesuit, and we have a thing called gratuity of ministry ‑ we don't charge for what we do. And I'm not in the retreat "business," I don't have a clue what the going rate for a preached retreat like this is. And, quite honestly, no one does it quite like I do ‑ special music, coordinated with the talks, meal time talks, things like that ‑ and this is a poor and somewhat struggling community. So what I finally told Sister was that she should pay for my plane fare (at least I shouldn't lose money), and give me a loaf of their home‑baked brown bread, the recipe for the ground nut porridge, and let me go around with Sister Celine and take cutting from some of their lovely plants for our garden in Lagos. She didn't think that was enough, so I added that I had ordered some vestments and two albs ‑ let them throw in one of the albs as part of my stipend. Seemed fair to her, so we spit on our hands and shook. So after lunch, Sr. Celine and I went around and took cuttings, which she will keep in water overnight, and after breakfast wrap in something moist and then something waterproof. I have extra room in my suitcase, so I'll take them back to Lagos and add to the beauty of our garden.
After that I was exhausted. Read a little, and then Fr Michael Walsh, the Augustinian who has appeared earlier in this narrative showed up to take me to supper. We weren't going to his place, but rather to another parish a little ways away. Dirt roads most of the trek ‑ low mountains all around, really quite lovely. Very few cars on the road, most people trekking, most holding their "good" shoes in their hands and walking barefoot along the gravel road. They put the shoes on when they get to the church or the house or wherever they're headed.
I asked where most of them were going, since there seemed to be a lot of traffic, and Michael explained that there is a Sunday Market ‑ mostly beer selling ‑ and when we got to the market itself, it was packed and very joyful. Beer drinking is part of the tribal culture and taken very seriously. One reason why this region is so heavily Catholic. Muslims don't drink alcohol, and the predominant Protestant group is Methodist, and a group that also disapproves of drinking. So when the missionaries first came, local culture immediately turned to the Catholics ‑ who drink.
Fr. Paul is the parish priest at the little church, and we had dinner with him. He has one of the oldest and best cooks in the Region ‑ this guy has been working for the priests for about 40 years, not always in the same house but going from rectory to rector. Paul has one main church and 67 outstations. He's the Bishop's nephew ‑ usually that would mean he was the (you should pardon the expression) fair‑haired boy, but the Bishop here (recently appointed Archbishop for Jos) is very good and legitimate and so all it meant was that Paul was barred from a number of offices. Which is fine with him ‑ he is much more interested in teaching and being a working priest than sitting in a chancery office.
He is of the Kona tribe, and toward the end of the evening got talking about some of the Kona traditions. His family, for instance, are the guardians of a sacred statue in the tribe, over 400 years old, passed on from generation to generation, and when the boys are initiated, the history and lore of the statue are explained to them. Some are higher in the family than others, so Paul did not get the full history, only parts. Apparently the statue was carved as an image of the ancestors, the founders of the tribe, and so even when they are gone, they can look on the statue and have a link to their founder. There have been copies made, in case the original gets stolen, but it is a case of great pride and honor for the family to keep this statue safe. There are other items like it with other families, and together they hold the Kona tradition.
When the chief dies, it is kept secret. His head is cut off, and taken to a secret place where all the heads of the kinds are kept, and this is their chronology, again, going back for several hundred years. This is how they keep the record of who was king before or after who. The rest of the king is buried, and then the announcement is made that the king is dead. Paul said he has never seen the place, probably a cave deep in one of the surrounding mountains, where all the heads are kept.
An anthropologists dream, but as Paul said, it would probably have to be a Kona anthropologist for people to talk to him.
He was also very good about explaining the roots of some of the ethnic problems they have been having in this area. Now I assume that deep in your heart of hearts you are not really interested in the cultural clashes between the rajiv and the chamba tribes, with the Tiv taking both sides and in some cases having it end up Tiv fighting Tiv ‑ plus some mercenaries brought in from Benin Republic or Cameroon ‑ the Cameroon border is only a few miles away over some easily climbable mountains. I am told that mules are no longer available for a hundred miles around here, because they have all been commandeered to smuggle fuel out of Nigeria (where it is cheap) and into Cameroon (where the price is considerably higher). A poor man who can make one successful trip can make almost a year's pay.
Monday morning ‑ Mass, breakfast, everyone saying goodbye ‑ packed my brown bread and my cuttings into the suitcase, a small farewell in the driveway where Father John sang ‑ Surprise! ‑ and off to the plane. The 1 o'clock plane left around 2:30 ‑ another hour of needless waiting on the ground in Maiduguri (the intermediate stop) and I was home.
Lost ten pounds ‑ which will sneak back up once food in re‑introduced into the diet. But it was a lovely and restful time, I met some truly prayerful women (who will be praying for me) ‑ all in all,not a bad week.
As you know, I am a beggar for the Jesuits ‑ and in the months ahead I will be coming out to do some serious fund‑raising for the Jesuits. But ‑ if you are looking for good groups to give money to ‑ don't forget the Carmelites. The ones in Schenectady, the ones in Zing, or other monasteries near to you.
Okay ‑ end of mini‑missive. Love to you all. There may or may not be Christmas cards, but there will certainly be Christmas prayers.
One of the joys of my life has been Rotary. I am a 3rd generation Rotarian, and first joined Rotary in around 1976, in South Bend, Indiana. I have been a Rotarian whenever I could, and the option of being able to visit other Rotary clubs around the world when traveling is one of the great dimensions of this fellowship.
