Guest Post: Mike Sobiloff

Hello all, just a reminder that anyone kind and cool enough to visit me in West Africa is invited to write a guest post for my blog. Voila, thus, a message from my loving bro who came to visit me in BF not once but TWICE! while he studied abroad in Ghana. Love you, Michael. And merci beaucoup!


I’ve been meaning to write an entry in my sister’s blog for months now, but as things go, it took me a while to finally buckle down and do it. But I’m glad I did.

I had the fortune of visiting Belehede with two of my friends during my five-month stay in Ghana. It was a weird feeling going to a place that I had been hearing about for nearly two years at that point. Before that, Belehede was kind of an abstraction to me—in the middle of nowhere, no electricity, no running water, Burkinabe, Christina.

I think that for most of us, such is our understanding of that part of the world. And yes, all those things are true. Christina was living almost literally in the middle of nowhere. She was living with the bare minimum, in a place where no one spoke English, where most people can’t read or write, where she was the only white face for miles. Throw your Western sensibilities out the window. It’s different.

But she’s managed to do it, right? And she’s staying in Western Africa for at least another year.

Why?

How?

Granted, she’s a wonderful person who is resilient, headstrong and determined, but how could someone live in a place that to most of us is so completely foreign and terrifying?

Everyone wonders is she in danger? Africa is place full of guerilla war, militaristic dictatorships, wild animals and savages. Turn on the news, and you’ll hear about widespread AIDS, violent protests, vicious tribalism, and female circumcision. In movies we see blood diamonds, genocide, and 2000 pound crocodiles. Right?

Well yeah, Africa has that stuff. But that’s the thing, Africa is not a monolith, or a one-headed beast. Africa is a continent comprised of 53 different countries, and countless more distinct cultures and traditions*. But you don’t hear the good things. You hear about the war, the famine, the disease, and justifiably, it freaks you out.

But that’s the thing.

My first time in Burkina Faso, I was sitting in a gorgeous outdoor garden in Ouagadougou, watching a live band play, eating and drinking with friends from Ghana, Burkina, and America. I was there with my Reporting Africa class, covering a bi-annual pan-African film festival in Ouaga. At that point, I had seen a lot of movies, toured around the city, and spent rare quality time with my sister. I couldn’t have been happier. So I called home.

I had figured something out at that point, that few Westerns have the good fortune to ever realize—our way of life here in America is just one of many. So, I assured my parents that living in Africa doesn’t require you to give up everything you have and know. It is different, absolutely, but that’s what ends up being so wonderful about it. Because in my experience, different doesn’t usually mean worse, but whether we are willing to admit it or not, I think that too many people assume that it does.

From early on, we are told that America is the greatest country in the world. We have freedom, we have a working government—we’re civilized, privileged, better. But how do you quantify good and bad? I don’t think you can or should, but we tend to act like the world is a binary place. Africa is poor. America is wealthy. Africa is wild. America is cultured. Africa is backwards. America is a template that all other countries should try to emulate.

I disagree. The reason that I was so happy during my time abroad was that Africa is different. There is something delightful about becoming African, so to speak. Things that seem like such a big deal here suddenly become less important. You slow down, and buy what you eat that day. You meet everyone. And though it may seem like a different world on the surface, there is so much that you aren’t seeing.

So, my point is that yes, she’s safe. Safer than you could probably imagine. And how is Christina able to spend so much time away from home? I think she’s of the attitude that anywhere is home if you have the capacity to love it. She’s made Burkina Faso and Togo her homes. For me, Ghana feels like home. I have friends there that I’ll know for a lifetime. The sights, the smells, the noises are all comforting and inviting to me. The people, though culturally and economically different from us, are essentially the same. The things I do with my friends in New York are more-or-less what I do with my friends in Ghana. We play music. We watch movies. We talk about girls and wingman for each other. We stay up an extra hour at 3 am after a long night of drinking, because at 4 we can get something to eat.

So you find your niche. I was surprised, studying at the University of Ghana to find that I liked the students in my drumming class more than those in my journalism class. What I’m hoping to convey is that I shouldn’t have been surprised. I can’t stand most of the journalism kids at NYU**, but I’ve always hung out with musicians. That’s what everyone in America should understand—that from afar, you’re rarely seeing the whole picture.

Think about it. Right now, you have many different perceptions of the African continent. Where did you get them from? Chances are, you can’t say specifically. The news, I guess. Movies, yeah. Africa might come up in a conversation. Christina’s blog, hopefully. For me that’s problematic. I was surprised that I liked the musicians more, because I hadn’t imagined that I could relate to Ghanaians the way I do to Americans. And why would I? Our perception of that part of the world is shaped pretty much entirely by things that we think we know, because nobody tells us otherwise.

But people are people, and people are what make places what they are. Christina is surrounded by wonderful people, and not just the other Peace Corps volunteers, or the Burkinabe who she worked directly with, but the vendors, the mothers, the children, whoever. We owe it to them to stop and reconsider what we know. And while it’s alarming to find out how much of what we know is wrong, it’s also a gift.

The happiest I’ve been in three and a half years of college was a period of five months in Ghana. That isn’t to say that I haven’t been happy in college, but I was really happy in Ghana. Leaving was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But I’ll go back, hopefully many times over the course of my life, because I now understand the value of having a few homes. There is a lot standing in the way of the continent that I love so much, and it is up to us—those who are lucky enough to be exposed to the other side—to make sure that Africa is not forgotten. Because though we do not see the repercussions of centuries of rampant and violent imperialism day to day, those repercussions are vast. And the people that face them are not savages who don’t understand how to integrate into the civilized Western world. They are people. People who have gone to great lengths to take care of Christina and me. They are family, they are friends, they are you and me.


*Think of it this way. When referring to France, you say France. If you’re talking about anniversary of the Berlin wall falling, it’s in Germany. But how many times have you said something like “My friend/relative/coworker Christina is in Africa right now,” or “I donate money every month to children in Africa.” She’s in Burkina Faso or Togo, and those kids could be anywhere. It may seem like I’m splitting hairs, but that kind of language homogenizes Africans, making it easier for policy makers to distort our understanding of Africa, while robbing individual cultures of their identities. (I realize that throughout this post, I will repeatedly say “Africa” instead of naming a specific country. In those instances, I am either deliberately referring to Africa as a whole, or to “Africa” as we perceive it)

**I didn’t hate or even dislike the people in my journalism class in Ghana. I liked them a lot actually. But I found that I related to the musicians, dancers and actors more. The journalism folks were kind of nerdy.

Goldie Locks gives up artificial color (for now)

America is too much.

I was home for the month of October and it was a fantastic trip. I was lucky to be able to see many friends and family, eat too much good food* and travel around to get the most out of every minute. Did anyone read that book – Eat, Pray, Love? I'm not recommending it. The themes of the book are: fretting, feasting, feeling and falling in love. Bleeeg. So I read this book probably a year ago and today am “fretting” and “feeling” confused: why can I relate to that stuff?

Because America is too much. I went home to America to do the following things: eat, drink, purchase and dress up. In that book this woman had a crisis and then took a year-long, three-part trip traveling to Italy (to indulge), India (to introspect) and then to Indones... well who cares? Here's how I'll sum it up: binge, purge, recover. Does that sound familiar to any of you girls? Any of you people in America? Have we not, as America women, not all gone through periods of such? WHY?

I went to Best Buy to get a cheap laptop and my camera fixed. There was only one problem with it – the screen was broken. When I asked the guy for help about fixing it I swear he did a double take – like he was stretching to the depths of his memory to recall the last time someone asked him such a question. -Did you buy the camera here? -I don't know. -Is it old? -No, I don't think so – it looked like new when I took it from my Dad two and a half years ago. -So its over a year old? You can't fix it. We don't carry any of those old parts. -So you cannot fix it even though it works like brand new except this one, isolated, broken part? -Well I could check with the geek gang for you...? You know where this story goes: it would cost just about as much if not more to fix the old camera as to buy a new one.

I DON'T WANT TO BUY A NEW CAMERA. I want to fix my OLD ONE. But I won't. Is this my fault?? That I'm eventually going to chuck an almost-perfectly good piece of electronic equipment simply because its a) cheaper to buy a new one, b) impossible to recycle it via Best Buy, c) complicated to figure out where the heck to bring it to and maybe not even worth it once I factor in the distance I'll have to drive, alone, in a gas-guzzling car borrowed from my parents to the end location? I DON'T WANT TO LIVE IN AMERICA. I don't want these kinds of problems. When I'm in my parents' home, I am totally overwhelmed by the amount of STUFF. Why so much stuff? I want to change them – I want to help them purge and recover. Here, let me be in charge of collecting things for the Vietnam Vets (that's where my family donates old clothes and excess stuff). Mom, you don't need this and do you still want this? And this can't possibly fit you – let me help you with that. Of course, this is a never-ending process. I come home, metaphorically binge and purge – riding the familiar wave of American culture – then leave desperate to get back to my “normal” life. I yearn for my routine, my small house, my yoga mat...

Ever read Out of Africa? Well I do recommend this book about another woman who goes on long trip and never really comes back. Issak Dinesen, a bad-ass/ pioneering, Danish woman discovers where she really belongs in colonized Kenya and then stays for the rest of her life. Meryl Streep played her in the movie. Well I can gladly relate to this woman who came to love and understand a people and a place so different from her own. She learned the local language; she integrated. I have come to love Burkina and Togo in my own way too. In fact, I'd go as far to say that I couldn't be happier in my present situation. But a few months in Togo and I'll yearn for more comfort, more options, kickboxing classes and running routes...

West Africa is not enough.

Even last week – I got back and had to majorly readjust. What is it? What is it about all this? America is definitely too much. I left home sad to see myself go, once again, away from my loving family, and emotionally hungover from too much socializing, indulging and fun.

What is it about being in West Africa? Well, I miss things that smell sweet. I miss perfume and scented candles and body lotions that don't just attract dust, dirt, mosquitoes and insects. I miss impenetrable roofs and glass windows. I miss living without fear of accidentally sleeping with a cockroach. I miss indoor climate control and blankets. I miss warm and cold faucets, showers and machines that wash. I miss paved roads and concrete. I miss carpet and clean bare feet. I miss refrigeration. I miss seasons.

Why don't well-educated Togolese have offices with computers and the internet? Why hasn't an average Burkinabe ever read a book and never will? Why don't village girls go to school? Why is a woman second and a man first?

Why do Africans want to be fat? Why do Americans want to be thin? Why do I need makeup in America? And why is it not worth it in Burkina or Togo?

So where is best? Where is balanced and mixed and reasonable? Where can I walk with clean, bare feet; get my new-looking, old camera fixed; put on heals; take a yoga class; learn to dance; train modestly to run; pick up a local language while still using my English and French; get where I'm going on foot, bike or public transport; see a movie in a theater or go to a play; have a job with freedom and responsibility; cook good food with fresh ingredients or go out to eat; meet interesting people, see beautiful things and experience changing seasons?

Where is my oatmeal porridge not too hot and not too cold? Where is just right?

I don't know. In case you were wondering. I have absolutely no idea where I am going. In case you thought I did. But I like my natural hair color, people, and won't be changing it any time soon.


*You may or may not have heard that my family and I were filmed for an hour-long segment of a four-part TV special with Sandra Lee on holidays, homecomings, celebrations and family traditions. We were the heartwarming, homecoming part. So the first thing I did in America was change my clothes and put on makeup for the bright lights awaiting me at the departure gate of Kennedy airport. The first thing I did upon arrival to my house in New Jersey after open presents for the family was eat cheese, on camera.