Rpcvdraft - User contributions [en]

Group XIII description

2008-01-10T04:42:30Z

Wschroeder:

{{Infobox Group XIII}}
This is a blank page. If your group wants to try a different format, please try it.

Our group was great.

==Training==
We trained.

==Service==
We served.

===Service Started===
We arrived.

===Service Events===
What was going on.

===Service Ended===
Our service ended

==See also ==
[[Group XIII stories]] and fragments

[[Group XIII bios]]

[[Category:Groups]]

Training at UCLA - slices of memory

2008-01-09T05:52:06Z

Wschroeder:

Bill Schroeder, Nigeria XIII: LAX to Enugu - Slices of Memory with Spaces
Between

On the day we were supposed to arrive at our training site somehow a number
of us found each other at the Los Angeles airport. One of us suggested all
the suitcases to go in one taxi and the people in another. The excited
conversation is a vivid memory. The adventure was about to begin.

The Dracker Motel near the UCLA campus was filled by our group and a group
training for Ethopia. 120 young people living in one complex were preparing
to take the world by storm.

Women and men were assigned separate rooms. Bureaucracy being what it is
this seemed a significant achievement. Once divided by sexes we were
assigned rooms in alphabetical order. At the reception desk I asked for
mail for, "Scanella, Schnapper, Schmidt and Schroeder." I loved it.

I have a memory of a number of us hanging around the Dracker swimming pool.

We walked from the Dracker to the Myra Hershey Hall for meals. I observed
people hosing leaves off their sidewalk. I remember being somewhat
surprised that people in a desert would be so extravagent with water.

Classes at UCLA: I remember some of the Igbo language classes; I can't
remember one of the others.

We drank coffee. We talked. Sometimes we went to Will Wright's for ice
cream. Another ice cream store nearby had more flavours but wasn't as
pretty.

We fell in love.

One man described being on a civil rights march in Alabama. I came from a
somewhat right wing family in what we would now be described Lake Wobegon
country. Someone telling me they had been on a civil rights march in the
Deep South may as well have said they had gone for a walk on the moon.

I remember walking across the UCLA campus on the day after Halloween.
Overnight someone had entered a building with an observatory, got on the
roof and painted a brilliant orange and black pumpkin on the metal
hemisphere covering the telescope. I appreciated both the humour and the
excellence of the painting.

When we gathered at J.F.K. airport for the flight to Lagos it was snowing.
Our departure was delayed. When we did take off we were told the snow
caused the plane to leave with a light fuel load so we would be landing at
Bermuda to take on additional fuel. Bermuda -- night, warm, humid,
pleasant. I had never been south of New York before. I wondered if this is
what the Bahamas felt like.

Landing in Dakar: An airport guard spoke French - naturally. Everyone
seemed to be tearing around looking for Marie-France who could tell us what
he was asking or we wanting. Was there a stop between Dakar and Lagos? - I
have a feeling there was but I can't recall.

We had been told some of our luggage would arrive after we arrived. When we
got off the plane and were met by the Director of the Peace Corps in Nigeria
that luggage was on the runway next to the plane.

From the airport to our Lagos motel we rode in the back of a large van.
Night. No street lights. Everywhere there were little stands with small
lamps. We went around the roundabouts "the wrong way". We just laughed.
This was crazy. And fun. The energy level is one of my sharpest memories.

After some training in Lagos We took a bus from Lagos to Enugu. Somewhere
in the Midwest there was a "rest stop". "Girls use the bushes on the left,
boys the bushes on the right."

I remember the huge queue to get on the ferry across the Niger. Some
lorries had been waiting for days. Our bus got on immediately. Think.

Enugu: We must have been in the government rest house. At dinner the male
waiters with complexions as black as midnight wore immaculate white coats.
The meal was delicious. Then or later I have a memory of meeting Warren
Zeigler, Director of the PC in the East.

I remember waiting in the PCV rest house in Enugu waiting for the Headmaster
who would drive me to the school near Owerri. Indeed, the adventure was
about to begin. Why did the Peace Corps stop their rest houses?

Training at UCLA - slices of memory

2008-01-09T05:40:00Z

Wschroeder:

Bill Schroeder, Nigeria XIII: LAX to Enugu - Slices of Memory with Spaces
Between

On the day we were supposed to arrive at our training site somehow a number
of us found each other at the Los Angeles airport. One of us suggested all
the suitcases to go in one taxi and the people in another. The excited
conversation is a vivid memory. The adventure was about to begin.

The Dracker Motel near the UCLA campus was filled by our group and a group
training for Ethopia. 120 young people living in one complex were preparing
to take the world by storm.

Women and men were assigned separate rooms. Bureaucracy being what it is
this seemed a significant achievement. Once divided by sexes we were
assigned rooms in alphabetical order. At the reception desk I asked for
mail for, "Scanella, Schnapper, Schmidt and Schroeder." I loved it.

I have a memory of a number of us hanging around the Dracker swimming pool.

We walked from the Dracker to the Myra Hershey Hall for meals. I observed
people hosing leaves off their sidewalk. I remember being somewhat
surprised that people in a desert would be so extravagent with water.

Classes at UCLA: I remember some of the Igbo language classes; I can't
remember one of the others.

We drank coffee. We talked. Sometimes we went to Will Wright's for ice
cream. Another ice cream store nearby had more flavours but wasn't as
pretty.

We fell in love.

One man described being on a civil rights march in Alabama. I came from a
somewhat right wing family in what we would now be described Lake Wobegon
country. Someone telling me they had been on a civil rights march in the
Deep South may as well have said they have just gone for a walk on the moon.

I remember walking across the UCLA campus on the day after Halloween.
Overnight someone had entered a building with an observatory, got on the
roof and painted a brilliant orange and black pumpkin on the metal
hemisphere covering the telescope. I appreciated both the humour and the
excellence of the painting.

When we gathered at J.F.K. airport for the flight to Lagos it was snowing.
Our departure was delayed. When we did take off we were told the snow
caused the plane to leave with a light fuel load so we would be landing at
Bermuda to take on additional fuel. Bermuda -- night, warm, humid,
pleasant. I had never been south of New York before. I wondered if this is
what the Bahamas felt like.

Landing in Dakar: An airport guard spoke French - naturally. Everyone
seemed to be tearing around looking for Marie-France who could tell us what
he was asking or we wanting. Was there a stop between Dakar and Lagos? - I
have a feeling there was but I can't recall.

We had been told some of our luggage would arrive after we arrived. When we
got off the plane and were met by the Director of the Peace Corps in Nigeria
that luggage was on the runway next to the plane.

From the airport to our Lagos motel we rode in the back of a large van.
Night. No street lights. Everywhere there were little stands with small
lamps. We went around the roundabouts "the wrong way". We just laughed.
This was crazy. And fun. The energy level is one of my sharpest memories.

After some training in Lagos We took a bus from Lagos to Enugu. Somewhere
in the Midwest there was a "rest stop". "Girls use the bushes on the left,
boys the bushes on the right."

I remember the huge queue to get on the ferry across the Niger. Some
lorries had been waiting for days. Our bus got on immediately. Think.

Enugu: We must have been in the government rest house. At dinner the male
waiters with complexions as black as midnight wore immaculate white coats.
The meal was delicious. Then or later I have a memory of meeting Warren
Zeigler, Director of the PC in the East.

I remember waiting in the PCV rest house in Enugu waiting for the Headmaster
who would drive me to the school near Owerri. Indeed, the adventure was
about to begin. Why did the Peace Corps stop their rest houses?

Training at UCLA - slices of memory

2008-01-09T05:18:23Z

Wschroeder:

Bill Schroeder, Nigeria XIII: LAX to Enugu - Slices of Memory with Spaces
Between

On the day we were supposed to arrive at our training site somehow a number
of us found each other at the Los Angeles airport. One of us suggested all
the suitcases to go in one taxi and the people in another. The excited
conversation is a vivid memory. The adventure was about to begin.

The Dracker Motel near the UCLA campus was filled by our group and a group
training for Ethopia. 120 young people living in one complex were preparing
to take the world by storm.

Women and men were assigned separate rooms. Bureaucracy being what it is
this seemed a significant achievement. Once divided by sexes we were
assigned rooms in alphabetical order. At the reception desk I asked for
mail for, "Scanella, Schnapper, Schmidt and Schroeder." I loved it.

I have a memory of a number of us hanging around the Dracker swimming pool.

We walked from the Dracker to the Myra Hershey Hall for meals. I observed
people hosing leaves off their sidewalk. I remember being somewhat
surprised that people in a desert would be so extravagent with water.

Classes at UCLA: I remember some of the Igbo language classes; I can't
remember one of the others.

We drank coffee. We talked. Sometimes we went to Will Wright's for ice
cream. Another ice cream store nearby had more flavours but wasn't as
pretty.

We fell in love.

One man described being on a civil rights march in Alabama. I came from a
somewhat right wing family in what we would now be described Lake Woebegone
country. Someone telling me they had been on a civil rights march in the
Deep South may as well have said they have just gone for a walk on the moon.

I remember walking across the UCLA campus on the day after Halloween.
Overnight someone had entered a building with an observatory, got on the
roof and painted a brilliant orange and black pumpkin on the metal
hemisphere covering the telescope. I appreciated both the humour and the
excellence of the painting.

When we gathered at J.F.K. airport for the flight to Lagos it was snowing.
Our departure was delayed. When we did take off we were told the snow
caused the plane to leave with a light fuel load so we would be landing at
Bermuda to take on additional fuel. Bermuda -- night, warm, humid,
pleasant. I had never been south of New York before. I wondered if this is
what the Bahamas felt like.

Landing in Dakar: An airport guard spoke French - naturally. Everyone
seemed to be tearing around looking for Marie-France who could tell us what
he was asking or we wanting. Was there a stop between Dakar and Lagos? - I
have a feeling there was but I can't recall.

We had been told some of our luggage would arrive after we arrived. When we
got off the plane and were met by the Director of the Peace Corps in Nigeria
that luggage was on the runway next to the plane.

From the airport to our Lagos motel we rode in the back of a large van.
Night. No street lights. Everywhere there were little stands with small
lamps. We went around the roundabouts "the wrong way". We just laughed.
This was crazy. And fun. The energy level is one of my sharpest memories.

After some training in Lagos We took a bus from Lagos to Enugu. Somewhere
in the Midwest there was a "rest stop". "Girls use the bushes on the left,
boys the bushes on the right."

I remember the huge queue to get on the ferry across the Niger. Some
lorries had been waiting for days. Our bus got on immediately. Think.

Enugu: We must have been in the government rest house. At dinner the male
waiters with complexions as black as midnight wore immaculate white coats.
The meal was delicious. Then or later I have a memory of meeting Warren
Zeigler, Director of the PC in the East.

I remember waiting in the PCV rest house in Enugu waiting for the Headmaster
who would drive me to the school near Owerri. Indeed, the adventure was
about to begin. Why did the Peace Corps stop their rest houses?

Training at UCLA - slices of memory

2008-01-09T05:06:38Z

Wschroeder:

Bill Schroeder, Nigeria XIII LAX to Enugu - Slices of Memory with Spaces
Between

On the day we were supposed to arrive at our training site somehow a number
of us found each other at the Los Angeles airport. One of us suggested all
the suitcases to go in one taxi and the people in another. The excited
conversation is a vivid memory. The adventure was about to begin.

The Dracker Motel near the UCLA campus was filled by our group and a group
training for Ethopia. 120 young people living in one complex were preparing
to take the world by storm.

Women and men were assigned separate rooms. Bureaucracy being what it is
this seemed a significant achievement. Once divided by sexes we were
assigned rooms in alphabetical order. At the reception desk I asked for
mail for, "Scanella, Schnapper, Schmidt and Schroeder." I loved it.

I have a memory of a number of us hanging around the Dracker swimming pool.

We walked from the Dracker to the Myra Hershey Hall for meals. I observed
people hosing leaves off their sidewalk. I remember being somewhat
surprised that people in a desert would be so extravagent with water.

Classes at UCLA: I remember some of the Igbo language classes; I can't
remember one of the others.

We drank coffee. We talked. Sometimes we went to Will Wright's for ice
cream. Another ice cream store nearby had more flavours but wasn't as
pretty.

We fell in love.

One man described being on a civil rights march in Alabama. I came from a
somewhat right wing family in what we would now be described Lake Woebegone
country. Someone telling me they had been on a civil rights march in the
Deep South may as well have said they have just gone for a walk on the moon.

I remember walking across the UCLA campus on the day after Halloween.
Overnight someone had entered a building with an observatory, got on the
roof and painted a brilliant orange and black pumpkin on the metal
hemisphere covering the telescope. I appreciated both the humour and the
excellence of the painting.

When we gathered at J.F.K. airport for the flight to Lagos it was snowing.
Our departure was delayed. When we did take off we were told the snow
caused the plane to leave with a light fuel load so we would be landing at
Bermuda to take on additional fuel. Bermuda -- night, warm, humid,
pleasant. I had never been south of New York before. I wondered if this is
what the Bahamas felt like.

Landing in Dakar: An airport guard spoke French - naturally. Everyone
seemed to be tearing around looking for Marie-France who could tell us what
he was asking or we wanting. Was there a stop between Dakar and Lagos? - I
have a feeling there was but I can't recall.

We had been told some of our luggage would arrive after we arrived. When we
got off the plane and were met by the Director of the Peace Corps in Nigeria
that luggage was on the runway next to the plane.

From the airport to our Lagos motel we rode in the back of a large van.
Night. No street lights. Everywhere there were little stands with small
lamps. We went around the roundabouts "the wrong way". We just laughed.
This was crazy. And fun. The energy level is one of my sharpest memories.

After some training in Lagos We took a bus from Lagos to Enugu. Somewhere
in the Midwest there was a "rest stop". "Girls use the bushes on the left,
boys the bushes on the right."

I remember the huge queue to get on the ferry across the Niger. Some
lorries had been waiting for days. Our bus got on immediately. Think.

Enugu: We must have been in the government rest house. At dinner the male
waiters with complexions as black as midnight wore immaculate white coats.
The meal was delicious. Then or later I have a memory of meeting Warren
Zeigler, Director of the PC in the East.

I remember waiting in the PCV rest house in Enugu waiting for the Headmaster
who would drive me to the school near Owerri. Indeed, the adventure was
about to begin. Why did the Peace Corps stop their rest houses?

Group XIII stories

2008-01-09T05:04:59Z

Wschroeder:

[[Bio Brent Ashabranner]] By Tony Z. from FON newsletter

[[Going Home on a Motorcycle]] By Steve Manning,

[[Training at UCLA - slices of memory]] by Bill Schroeder

Add fragment link(s) here as pages?

Group XIII bios

2008-01-05T07:10:06Z

Wschroeder:

Bill Schroeder – from Nigeria to New Zealand.

I had been thinking of coming to New Zealand before Nigeria XIII and the training days at UCLA. In Nigeria I applied to

the New Zealand Department of Education for a teaching position. One requirement was a police check. A police check in

Owerri for entry to New Zealand seemed odd, not least because at the time Biafra had declared itself an independent

state.

Back home and hopefully on my way to New Zealand, another piece of bureaucracy was getting clearance from the local

Draft Board to leave the country. I was invited to meet the Board. When I did I found myself talking with four or five

men, the youngest of whom appeared to be about 80. I was told I could leave the country if I produced a copy of my

teaching contract. I explained that New Zealand teachers did not have a contract, they only had a position. I have a

memory of them looking at each other with great doubt; clearly a teaching position without a contract was outside their

world view. To resolve their problem they again asked for my contract. I explained again. After going around this

loop a few times I was told I could go to New Zealand providing I sent a copy of my contract back to them. Within a few

days at the school I asked my Headmaster to write to the Draft Board explaining the situation. They wrote back to him

asking for a copy of my contract. The Headmaster was capable of great rudeness. He gave heart and soul to his reply

and we didn’t hear from them again.

The school was on the West Coast of the South Island. If it isn’t raining it is going to rain; the average annual

rainfall is around thirteen feet. It is a mining area with a history of industrial relations thick enough to cut with a

knife. It was a superb place to enter New Zealand.

After six years my career of teaching fourteen year-olds to solve quadratic equations had come to a merciful end. At

the same time I felt called to explore ministry in the Anglican church. I was accepted for training and spent two years

in an Auckland seminary, my only North Island experience. Since ordination I have had positions in parishes as far

north as one can go in the South Island, an isolated area of exquisite beauty, and a parish almost as far south as one

can go.

After fifteen years of inner-city ministry in Christchurch I was completely exhausted. I was asked to look after a

rural parish for a short time. The short time became three years and was a wonderful, restoring time. I still do a

bit of work for the church but more as an interest than a job.

I have two children, a daughter living near Christchurch and a son in Melbourne, Australia. My wife Val-mai and I live

on the shore of Otago Harbour, about ten kilometres from the city of Dunedin. Sometimes I stand and watch the ships in

the harbour channel. Those ships seem a long way from a Minneapolis Draft Board.

I grew up in Nigeria, entering as a socially ill at ease young man and leaving as a more or less reasonable adult. The

mentor for this change was the Headmaster at my school, an Irish Catholic priest – one of the most influential people in

my life. But all that is a story for another day.
[[Image:Bill schroeder 4.jpg|thumb|center|500px|The bike has grown, the clothes have shrunk, the hairline has certainly

moved but I am still on two wheels.]]

Group XIII bios

2008-01-05T00:30:12Z

Wschroeder:

Bill Schroeder – from Nigeria to New Zealand.

I had been thinking of coming to New Zealand before Nigeria XIII and the training days at UCLA. In Nigeria I applied to

the New Zealand Department of Education for a teaching position. One requirement was a police check. A police check in

Owerri for entry to New Zealand seemed odd, not least because at the time Biafra had declared itself an independent

state.

Back home and hopefully on my way to New Zealand, another piece of bureaucracy was getting clearance from the local

Draft Board to leave the country. I was invited to meet the Board. When I did I found myself talking with four or five

men, the youngest of whom appeared to be about 80. I was told I could leave the country if I produced a copy of my

teaching contract. I explained that New Zealand teachers did not have a contract, they only had a position. I have a

memory of them looking at each other with great doubt; clearly a teaching position without a contract was outside their

world view. To resolve their problem they again asked for my contract. I explained again. After going around this

loop a few times I was told I could go to New Zealand providing I sent a copy of my contract back to them. Within a few

days at the school I asked my Headmaster to write to the Draft Board explaining the situation. They wrote back to him

asking for a copy of my contract. The Headmaster was capable of great rudeness. He gave heart and soul to his reply

and we didn’t hear from them again.

The school was on the West Coast of the South Island. If it isn’t raining it is going to rain; the average annual

rainfall is around thirteen feet. It is a mining area with a history of industrial relations thick enough to cut with a

knife. It was a superb place to enter New Zealand.

After six years my career of teaching fourteen year-olds to solve quadratic equations had come to a merciful end. At

the same time I felt called to explore ministry in the Anglican church. I was accepted for training and spent two years

in an Auckland seminary, my only North Island experience. Since ordination I have had positions in parishes as far

north as one can go in the South Island, an isolated area of exquisite beauty, and a parish almost as far south as one

can go.

After fifteen years of inner-city ministry in Christchurch I was completely exhausted. I was asked to look after a

rural parish for a short time. The short time became three years and was a wonderful, restoring time. I still do a

bit of work for the church but more as an interest than a job.

I have two children, a daughter living near Christchurch and a son in Melbourne, Australia. My wife Val-mai and I live

on the shore of Otago Harbour, about ten kilometres from the city of Dunedin. Sometimes I stand and watch the ships in

the harbour channel. Those ships seem a long way from a Minneapolis Draft Board.

I grew up in Nigeria, entering as a socially ill at ease young man and leaving as a more or less reasonable adult. The

mentor for this change was the Headmaster at my school, an Irish Catholic priest – one of the most influential people in

my life. But all that is a story or another day.
[[Image:Bill schroeder 4.jpg|thumb|center|500px|The bike has grown, the clothes have shrunk, the hairline has certainly

moved but I am still on two wheels.]]

Staff - East Region

2008-01-03T07:20:50Z

Wschroeder:

East (Enugu)

*1961-62 Donald Grummon
*1962-63 Jacques E. Wilmore
*1963-65 Warren Zeigler
*1965-66 John McConnell – (Aug 1965 - May 66)
*1966-67 Ruth L. Olson

----

*1965-67 Kenneth D. Meals – associate director
*1965-67 Richard K. Mastain – educational consultant
*1966-67 S. Carroll Buchanan – associate director
*1966-67 Judith A (Gates) Van Klaveren – nurse
*1966-67 Chuck Cohen – (Aba)

[[Category:Staff]]
From Bill Schroeder. I believe the dates above for John McConnell aren't quite right. I would appreciate comment. The debrief for Nigeria XIII was in August(?) 1966. I believe John McConnell was convenor. Was it at Nsukka?? I don't have a memory of a female staff member in Nigeria when we left -- bearing in mind the independence of Biafra was in full swing, the pogroms had begun, etc. But I think I would have remembered a change in staff. ...just to hang a question mark and invite other comments. Bill

Talk:Sometimes WAWA was a good thing

2008-01-03T07:07:58Z

Wschroeder:

Talk:Sometimes WAWA was a good thing

2008-01-03T07:03:37Z

Wschroeder:

Chris, thank you for "Sometimes WAWA was a good thing"

Your comment set my mind spinning.

One of the things I had to cope with in Nigeria was a quickly growing sense of internal cynicism. "If something appears to make sense today, just wait, you will eventually discover it doesn't - doesn't either." How to deal with the sense of futility...

'Slice of life': I was sitting at the table in the house at my school playing cards with Michael. Michael was an ex-pat, not PCV. We enjoyed the card game sent by my parents. The electricity was off - which probably means it was a break in term time and the Headmaster didn't have the electrical plant going. The room and table were lit by a kerosene lamp. A battery driven portable radio was on at the far end of the table.

At some point we heard the silken voice of the announcer: "The World Service of the BBC." I can't recall exactly the exact words, we were told Biafra had declared itself independent from the rest of Nigeria.

I remember it clearly. Michael and I stopped to listen. A brief pause... Nothing seemed to be different. Both of us shrugged and one of us said, "Whose deal?"

It was as though the independence, or announcement of the independence, was another "something else" to be thrown on top of the already enormous pile of "something else".

The kerosene lamp lit us, the radio carried on, Chris, thank you for "Sometimes WAWA was a good thing"

Your comment set my mind spinning.

One of the things I had to cope with in Nigeria was a quickly growing sense of internal cynicism. "If something appears to make sense today, just wait, you will eventually discover ''it'' doesn't - doesn't either." How to deal with the sense of futility...

'Slice of life': I was sitting at the table in the house at my school playing cards with Michael. Michael was an ex-pat, not PCV. We enjoyed the card game sent by my parents. The electricity was off - which probably means it was a break in term time and the Headmaster didn't have the electrical plant going. The room and table were lit by a kerosene lamp. A battery driven portable radio was on at the far end of the table.

At some point we heard the silken voice of the announcer: "The World Service of the BBC." I can't recall exactly the exact words, we were told Biafra had declared itself independent from the rest of Nigeria.

I remember it clearly. Michael and I stopped to listen. A brief pause... Nothing seemed to be different. Both of us shrugged and one of us said, "Whose deal?"

It was as though the session, or announcemen6t of the cession was another "something else" to be thrown on top of the already enormous pile of "something else".

One of us dealt the next hand, the kerosene lamp lit us, the radio was on and one of us dealt the next hand.

How to deal with what you describe as "WAWA", how to deal with my sense of cynicism? My cynicism was with me when I left Nigeria. I had no idea how to deal with it. I still don't.

Bill

Talk:Sometimes WAWA was a good thing

2008-01-03T07:02:10Z

Wschroeder:

Chris, thank you for "Sometimes WAWA was a good thing"

Your comment set my mind spinning.

One of the things I had to cope with in Nigeria was a quickly growing sense of internal cynicism. "If something appears to make sense today, just wait, you will eventually discover ''it'' doesn't - doesn't either." How to deal with the sense of futility...

'Slice of life': I was sitting at the table in the house at my school playing cards with Michael. Michael was an ex-pat, not PCV. We enjoyed the card game sent by my parents. The electricity was off - which probably means it was a break in term time and the Headmaster didn't have the electrical plant going. The room and table were lit by a kerosene lamp. A battery driven portable radio was on at the far end of the table.

At some point we heard the silken voice of the announcer: "The World Service of the BBC." I can't recall exactly the exact words, we were told Biafra had declared itself independent from the rest of Nigeria.

I remember it clearly. Michael and I stopped to listen. A brief pause... Nothing seemed to be different. Both of us shrugged and one of us said, "Whose deal?"

It was as though the independence, or announcement of the independence, was another "something else" to be thrown on top of the already enormous pile of "something else".

The kerosene lamp lit us, the radio carried on, Chris, thank you for "Sometimes WAWA was a good thing"

Your comment set my mind spinning.

One of the things I had to cope with in Nigeria was a quickly growing sense of internal cynicism. "If something appears to make sense today, just wait, you will eventually discover ''it'' doesn't - doesn't either." How to deal with the sense of futility...

'Slice of life': I was sitting at the table in the house at my school playing cards with Michael. Michael was an ex-pat, not PCV. We enjoyed the card game sent by my parents. The electricity was off - which probably means it was a break in term time and the Headmaster didn't have the electrical plant going. The room and table were lit by a kerosene lamp. A battery driven portable radio was on at the far end of the table.

At some point we heard the silken voice of the announcer: "The World Service of the BBC." I can't recall exactly the exact words, we were told Biafra had declared itself independent from the rest of Nigeria.

I remember it clearly. Michael and I stopped to listen. A brief pause... Nothing seemed to be different. Both of us shrugged and one of us said, "Whose deal?"

It was as though the session, or announcemen6t of the cession was another "something else" to be thrown on top of the already enormous pile of "something else".

One of us dealt the next hand, the kerosene lamp lit us, the radio was on and one of us dealt the next hand.

How to deal with what you describe as "WAWA", how to deal with my sense of cynicism? My cynicism was with me when I left Nigeria. I had no idea how to deal with it. I still don't.

Bill