It Takes a Village

As we enter the house made of mud and sticks, a member of our crew turns to me and says, "This is one of the nicer ones. Look at the metal roof. Often it's just a tarp." Sandra and Osian, two very talented filmmakers who are documenting the World Surgical Foundation's mission to Ethiopia, set up in the kitchen.

When we arrive at Tariktu's little village on the outskirts of Mojo, we don't hear the word "ferengi" which means "foreigner," a phrase some of us have become quite accustomed to hearing within the city limits of Addis. But we know they must have been thinking it. A busload of white faces speaking English with camera gear dangling from every arm, we might as well have dropped in from outer space. A scene right out of Stephen Spielberg's Close Encounters of the Third Kind, a gaggle of intergalactic diplomats exiting a spacecraft onto the tarmac of Devil's Tower.

Our senses are overwhelmed. The dust. The heat. The flies. Children gather around with feverish excitement. They all want their pictures taken. They all want to see themselves instantaneously immortalized in the tiny screen on the back of my digital camera. "One more, please! One more!" I am surrounded. I feel a kiss on the back of my neck. I am from outer space.

The mud house sits on roughly an eighth of an acre of dry soil. Chickens cluck out back and a small brown calf wanders out of the brush into a clearing. Someone feverishly sweeps the inside of the house with a straw broom. Guests have arrived.

The inside of the house is dark and dusty. It takes a moment for our eyes to adjust to the light. There is a small mattress on the floor in the corner of the main room. A dresser at the far wall holds a small radio. I still can't see where it plugs in. Children with toothy smiles rush in to sneak a peek and race out again. Tariktu's mother stands quietly holding a toddler. The small child clings possessively to her mother and nurses, always with one suspicious eye on her mother's visitors. We all move into the kitchen. That's where the interview will occur. We're all along for the big story, from examination room to recovery room. The drama is tangible. Act II is unfolding before our eyes. The experience is surreal. Small boys peer in through the kitchen window as Don explains to us what each utensil is for. A sign on the front door tells passers-by that bread is made and sold here. All the necessary equipment is present. The traditional coffee
pots and clay stove are neatly set up on the floor in the corner. The house is sturdy. The walls, a matrix of straw and manure, are firmly packed and dry, ready to withstand years of weather and toil.

The dust. The flies. Disease? I can't help but think about the opening in Taritku's belly. How do they keep things out? The village school certainly keeps Taritku out. Children with Taritku's condition are often excluded from participating in the basic communal activities such as attending school. As one would imagine, anal atresia is often messy and the smell can easily offend others. Whether these children are not welcome at school or parents keep them home to avoid offending others, the child inevitably suffers from ever-increasing isolation and missed opportunities.

An old woman holds a small child. She has smile from ear to ear. She willingly poses for a picture. She is wearing her best; a dress with a blue and white flower pattern, a necklace adorned with large wooden beads, and a hat. There's a nervous energy in the kitchen. They're checking the lighting and getting ready for "mom's" interview. The natural light coming in through the kitchen window is perfect. Three boys poke their heads in through the open window to get a glimpse of the excitement. Aliens are in their house.

This is where Tariktu lives. This is where so many of the people of Ethiopia live. I dare not judge their standard of living. After all, they appear to be very happy. They have family and neighbors and houses and land. But what about Tariktu? Is he missing out on some of the basic components of happiness? He can't go to school. He can't learn to read or add triple digits. He can't develop relationships with his schoolmates. What does his life look like further down the road? A wife? Children? Work? Perhaps one operation could change the course of his life and provide some of the materials he needs to build the shelter of his happiness.

Children are everywhere. One child holds a puppy and brings it over to show me how it wriggles around when he rubs its belly. I ask where the bathroom is. I'm on the moon. Where does one go to the bathroom on the moon? "Out back" of course. "Go anywhere you want." Don gently encourages me. "When in Rome!" Out of practicality I have to quickly overcome my refinements. Finally, I get up the courage go "out back" and investigate. I am accompanied by a small band of curious children. I walk faster. I take a few more pictures and show them the tiny screen on the back of the camera. I turn around again and walk rapidly toward the fence at the rear boundary of the farm. They seem to get the picture.

I stand by a row of bushes and attempt to relax. I imagine that I am alone in the private restroom of my hotel back in Addis. Suddenly, the vegetation to my right shakes violently and a large half growl, half whinny comes from behind the bushes. A donkey? I have little previous experience with the species. Then I notice two individuals walking toward me. The village is a hive of activity. We are the main event. It was foolish to think that I would go unnoticed back here by my personal patch of sage scrub. I'll have to wait for the "rest stop." "Selam!" I say. I ask myself whether it was "selam" or "salem?" I can't remember. Seems like don't know much about anything today.

I wander back to the hut. People are congregating in the front of the house. The filmmakers are setting up the final interview. Lighting is checked. Don holds a piece of equipment that reflects the sunlight toward the subject being filmed. I am asked to take stills of the interview, "production photos." Sandra and Osian go over the interview questions one last time. Everyone is watching. Tesfa stands waiting. A quick sound check and the first question is asked. Like a miracle, the fire wells up and words emanate from her effortlessly and fly out to the world. Tesfa's story is Yeab Sera's story is Tariktu's story, the story of her people. Suddenly, Osian backs up and accidently knocks over a bottle of water belonging to Tariktu's mother. He apologizes profusely. I begin to say that I have water. "It's a large bottle and it's back in the…in the…?" At once, I realize that the few words that I need for the moment are gone, lost in
the dust.