Dirty Wall Project

[View with PicLens]

12►

June 27, 2010 Mumbai, India

“Wish You Were Here”

At eight a.m. Kane and I entered the slum which was already throbbing with the sound of Indian music being played at full volume on huge speakers in the garden. Everyone was awake, although some were still hanging in their doorways, not yet ready to join  in on the excitement that was building. We came with party supplies, streamers, balloons, masks, candy and donuts. Kids were already dancing in the garden to the loud music near a large speaker, and adults scurried around attending to details.

Ashley greeted us at the Balwadi and ushered us upstairs to the new second floor. He was happy, beaming even, and was anxious for us to see the what the space looked like completely cleaned up of construction debris, paint cans, and leftover tiles that had been there when we left the night before. He and Pakia, Simon and Gotia worked long hours last night to ready the space for the party and the grand opening. At the top of the stairs, at one end of the space, hung a banner that read, Janvi Charitable Trust Thanks Dirty Wall Project Foundation. It was a touching gesture on behalf of all the donors who support The Dirty Wall Project, and it made us cry.

The addition of a second floor to the original, small Balwadi (school), was started on April 8th. What should have taken only a month or so to complete, took almost three months. It has been a labour of love with Ashley and Kane at the helm, managing to make everything work, staying sane during countless setbacks and having the vision to complete the task. The result of their efforts and the donations to DWP that made it possible to build, is a space that is over 400 sq. feet,  beautiful and airy, and the pride of Saki Naka. (Most families in the Saki Naka slum live in approximately 80 sq. ft, with few or no windows.)

The celebration was, like India, unpredictable, noisy, chaotic and unpretentious. There were impossibly loud fireworks in the garden, Indian dance performances by two beautiful little girls dressed in costumes with silver bracelets glistening on tiny arms and ankles, their hair braided, pinned up and laced with jasmine, and a breakdance performance by two young boys. The music came from a cell phone hooked up to a giant speaker. Even though the music failed them at times, they danced on in front of a polite and respectful crowd of kids and adults.

When the performances were over, everyone was eager to see the new space. Indians don’t skimp on ceremonial gestures and rituals. I was ushered into a home, surrounded by women, twirled in to a glittering saree, my hair was pinned back, and a sparkly bindi dot was placed between my eyes. My flip-flops were replaced by worn, dusty, stappy, shiny sandals. When my outfit was complete, the women and I  squeezed through the narrow doorway of the home, stepped into the lane way , and walked a few meters to the Balwadi.  A red ribbon was strung across the entrance at the top of the stairs and I was thrilled to be the one to cut it. Sujata, a lively, engaging woman, approached us with an offering plate. On it was a brass holder with a wick dipped in oil and lit, food offerings and red powder. She moved the plate in a circle a few times and then fed everyone a piece of sweet. She dipped her thumb in the red powder and placed a red dot on our foreheads. The second floor of the Balwadi was now officially opened. And the party began.

Over 400 people ate samosas, donuts, pastries and candy, everyone patiently waiting their turn, lined up down the lane way, into the Balwadi and up the stairway.  The little girls had done their hair in braids, bows and ribbons. Their dresses had sequins, glitter, and frills. The boys were energized and spirited and found it hard to contain themselves. They played a ceremonial beat on large drums in a circle.  The pounding was high energy, contagious and deafening, just like India.

This project was a huge undertaking, fraught with problems, set-backs, and stress. Ashley, never without his phone, and without a need to sleep or take a break, was anxious to get this built for the community he works so hard for. Kane brought much needed energy, funding and a willingness to get dirty. The workers, who live in the slum, worked with  primitive tools. (Rocks to cut rope, metal bowls to carry sand and bricks on their heads, buckets and pulley systems rigged to bring supplies to the roof). Suresh and his children, Akash, Sumeet, and Ritik, who share a space with the school, cleaned up construction debris, climbed on to the roof to lash bamboo to the metal poles, moved sand and bricks and painted. It was a barefoot crew. Outside contractors were called in to tile, weld, and do cement work.

The new second floor will allow more classes at the Balwadi, a clean, uncluttered space to work in, a place to hold meetings, celebrations, and Ashley can run more and varied programs to offer the people who live here, but also important, the new second floor offers a view. The people of Saki Naka can climb up from their ground floor, tiny, cramped spaces for a view of their community, the roadway and the bridges. The new Janvi school uniforms were modeled by two patient little children to the delight of everyone. The vision that Ashley had for the school included uniforms and a strategy for the kids to keep learning and start moving forward.

During the evening of celebration, Kane incited the kids to be even more boisterous, if that is possible. At times there were five children hanging on his arms, sitting on his shoulders, and stepping on his feet. We now know the second floor can hold at least seventy people! Ashley grinned the entire evening. Before I could change out of my saree, there was one more ritual to complete.  The  women who graciously spent time with me teaching me how to cook, presented a plate filled with roses. In turn, each woman picked a rose and offered it to us, a sincere gesture of their thanks to DWP. These gentle rituals are an important part of Indian culture. We were honored, humbled, and slightly embarrassed by being the centre of attention. We were also presented with a garland of marigolds from the parents of children that DWP sponsored in school.  We accepted the roses, garlands and little presents that were given to us, on behalf of all the supporters and donors of the Dirty Wall Project and wished you were here to taste, smell and feel Indian hospitality and culture, and appreciate their generosity to  us.

This evening also marked the last day in Saki Naka for Kane (and me). He has worked with these amazing people for four months, and I have had the wonderful opportunity to be a part of it. It was hard to leave. We stayed until after eight p.m. reluctant to let go of the experience and the people. We started our last walk down the lane way to the main road to catch a rickshaw to the train, and we gathered people as we went. When we finally stepped into the rickshaw, Ashley accompanying  us to the train station, there were at least 25 people surrounding us, yelling good-bye. It was hard to count them with eyes filled with water.

The next day as we prepared to fly out of Mumbai, Ashley phoned us to ask us what time we would be at the airport. He arrived at the airport with 22 people from Saki Naka to see us off. This involved organizing six rickshaws, paying for them, getting everyone ready to go and arriving in time to visit with us. Kane took the boys to see the airplanes take off.  This is exciting  for kids who never get out of the Saki Naka area, and see nothing but rubble and debris, to see the shiny, glamourous airport. I sat with the women, who came in their best sarees. Suresh, Gotia and Simon gave us roses. We visited, with Ashley translating  for two hours, until we had to go. Then the women draped us with huge garlands of marigolds, roses and lilies, one for each of us. We left the hot , humid outside air and entered the airport, turning back and waving to all twenty two people lined up along the railing.

As the doors on our time in India closed we couldn’t help but feel humbled and amazed by DWP’s accomplishments over the last few months. For DWP success isn’t measured in the statistics, how many kids we put in school or how many people received care in our health camps. Having an entire community of complete strangers, without being able to speak each other’s language, become family in less than four months is truly something special. DWP doesn’t enter a community with a heavy hand, we don’t tell people how to manage, we ask them what we can do to help, knocking down the walls of formality and creating human bonds between people of different cultures. The people of Saki Naka slum never knew we were a charity but they did know we were their friends and we were there to offer a helping hand.

We wish you were all here to meet the people you support and witness the profound effect your donations have.  It is an overwhelming experience.

Dirty Wall Project is now heading to Munich, Germany where a DWP supporter is holding a exhibition of DWP photographs and fundraiser on July 3rd. From there, DWP will be back in Canada, fundraising over the next 2 months before returning to the beautiful smiles of India.

COSTS

• Labour- Over 40 locals from the Saki Naka slum and surrounding area were hired and given work throughout this project. Total -  65,900 INR or $1532 CAD ( this figure also includes lunches, tea and snacks for our workers)
• Material – Including cement, steel, sand, plumbing, electrical, paint and tiles all purchased from small local shops with in a kilometer of the school. 131,236 INR or $3052 CAD
• Opening Day – Samosas, donuts, veg pastries, sweets, balloons, streamers, fireworks – 4850 INR or $112 CAD (400 people fed and entertained)

Total Cost

• 201,986 INR or $4697 CAD.
• For this figure, Suresh and Shalu’s small home was completely redone, the existing structure was strengthened and the entire second floor was built, increasing the size of the school from 120 sq ft to 550 sq ft.

This project was extremely difficult  and one that DWP hadn’t planned on funding completely. DWP was originally going to spend about $2000 CAD as several big corporations and foundations in India had promised funding for the school. Slowly, as the bureauocratic procedure halted construction several times and the risk of building in a slum community began to scare the corporates, their promises of funding disappeared. I am very proud to say that DWP stuck with this project despite the odds stacked against us and fought for the Saki Naka slum community.

DWP is small in size but big in heart and determination just like the people it strives to help  in India.

Sincerely,

Kane and Cindy Ryan

Share on Facebook

[View with PicLens]

12►

June 2010,  Mumbai, India

My eyes water. It may be from the heap of onions, freshly sliced, sitting on a plate nearby, or it may be from the smoke of burning garbage, or the sweat dripping from my forehead into my eyes, or it may be the kerosene burner, throwing invisible fumes into the small, windowless room.

I wear a scarf to wipe my eyes and my forehead. I wipe my hands on my pants, so that the pen doesn’t slip out of my fingers, and the paper I am writing on stays dry. It is humid, hot and stifling in the tiny dwellings in the slum. I have been invited into their homes to watch and learn how to make amazing, simple, Indian food.

Once the women wake the children, put away the sleeping mat, sweep out their tiny homes, and clear the puddles and garbage away from their doors, we walk to the shops. There is some excitement in deciding what to cook. We shop together at the markets, but I pay for everything. This allows the women to cook recipes they wouldn’t be able to afford, and to make enough to feed their families for a few days, with ingredients left over. I am excited about their menus each day, eager to make sense of the complex flavours, and  learn the methods for making delicious curries, chapati, and sweet treats.

The Saki Naka slum community is home to women from all over India. The food they cook reflects their heritage in the spices they use, the methods they use, and the type of food they covet. Goats were slaughtered in front of me, chickens necks were sliced and their feathers were expertly and quickly removed, fish were grabbed by the gills from a bucket of murky water, slapped on a large, grimy stump, heads were removed, and the scales were scraped with a dull knife. All this bloody carnage was plopped in plastic bags, tied tight, and dropped into the women’s shopping bags, but not before the flies had had their feast on the raw meat. Vegetable vendors line the uneven streets with piles of expertly arranged produce to seduce the crowds of shoppers. We buy bitter gourd, tiny eggplant, lots of onion, bags of garlic, and bunches of cilantro. The tomatoes are plump and juicy and thrown into another plastic bag with some green chilis. I am the subject of much conversation. I can tell by the hundreds of eyes who are staring at the only westerner in these parts. The stares melt into grins and a nod of the head and sometimes a lilting “hello”.

The cooking and the prepping takes place on the floor. Indian women handle food with delicate gestures,  slow chopping, and gentle stirring. The food is not attacked, it is seduced into simmering broths of heady, spicy aromas. Debris from slicing, grating and pounding is scraped by hand off the floor, and put into a container to be disposed of later. Knives are basic. All the prepped ingredients are put into little containers to be used as necessary in the preparation of a meal. Dishes are washed and rinsed under a tap in the corner of the room where they also bathe. They take care to wash all meats and vegetables before using, and  expertly guide children, with their muddly feet,  around the sliced and diced ingredients laying in dishes on the floor. Children are offered tastes in tiny, metal dishes and relish the flavours. Torn pages from newspapers drink the leftover oil from deepfried morsels. Nothing is wasted in the slum. Everything is repurposed.

I watch from my cross-legged position in a corner of the room and write furiously in my notebook,  making notes about approximate quantities (they don’t measure), cooking times, and trying to decipher what they are telling me. They speak Marathi. Sign language is necessary. I am startled when all the homes have an electric grinder to make the masala paste and grind spices. This is their most coveted cooking tool and the their only appliance. As the food bubbles in hammered aluminum pots with plates for lids, the women wipe away the mess on the floor and bring out a wide stainless steel tray with 3″ sides. Flour is sifted in to the tray, water is added bit by bit and their strong, bony hands deftly knead the flour and water mixture into a smooth, elastic dough. Balls of dough are pinched off the large piece, rolled into balls, dipped in flour, flattened into small disks, rolled out, folded, floured, rolled, flipped and finally laid to rest on a pan, pre-heated on the kerosene burner. There is more flipping, and pressing of the dough to make cloud like puffs of air within the layers of dough. Of all the food I have watched the women prepare, the chapati is revered and each woman treats the dough slightly differently, some oil the dough while cooking, some splash it with water. It is eaten everyday and it is necessary for a cook to master the process.

When the food is cooked and ready to eat, all the cooking pots are moved under the tap to be washed later and a fabric or a woven plastic mat is laid out on the floor for seating. Water is poured, perhaps a mango drink is offered. Kane and Ashley are called from their work and the three of us eat, cross-legged on the floor, all eyes watching us.  The hospitality is gracious and sincere. Guests eat first, the family eats later, despite our protestations. Neighbours come by to see how we like the food, children lurk in doorways, and we pepper Ashley with questions about the food, the women and their families, their situations and where they came from. The stories are as varied as the women, and though they all have different financial situations from dire poverty to ownership of a slum home, they live in a community of people bound by a caste system with few opportunities to swim against the tide of poverty.

It has been an enriching experience. I will take with me their lessons on generosity, neighbours helping neighbours, giving when there is nothing to give, and the sincere attitude these women had when trying to teach the foreigner in their midst how to cook on one burner, without measuring, crouched in living spaces not much bigger than a western bathroom.

Though they have yet to dress me in a saree, but have intentions to, I have learned how to say “enough, no more”, in Marathi. “Bus, bus!!” I moan, as they try to feed me another plateful of food.

The Dirty Wall Project will be producing a cookbook of these recipes, with the women’s stories, and photographs of their families, themselves, and their homes. The cookbook will be for sale, with 100% of the proceeds used to make many lives more comfortable in india.

Sincerely,

Cindy Ryan

Share on Facebook

Sameena

◄ Back

Next ►

Picture 1 of 4

Sameena. The left side of her face is paralyzed.

June 19th, Mumbai,India.

A couple of days ago, during a meeting with some concerned parents looking for educational support for their children, I noticed a man enter the Balwadi and sit quietly, awaiting his turn to speak with Ashley and me. When the other parents left, the man, whose name is Fayez, sat down in front of Ashley and me and began speaking about his wife Sameena.

Sameena was diagnosed with a brain tumor over 5 years ago. The tumor had been successfully removed, but complications during surgery has paralyzed the left side of her face and damaged several nerves.

Sameena is on constant pain killers and doing her best to overcome her situation. With the entire left side of her face paralyzed, Sameena’s left eye cannot blink and without stitches in the corner of her eye, her eyeball would fall out of the socket. What seemed like a temporary solution, stitching her eye on one side to close her eye slightly, and thus keep her eye from falling out,  has now become a permenent solution. Every so often Sameena goes in to the hospital, has the stitches removed from one side of her eye and then the other side is stitched. This allows time for healing on each side of the eye. The only other solution for Sameena is a corneal transplant, but she would first have to be able to blink, and that isn’t possible. Sameena requires constant pain medication, daily eye drops to keep her eye moist, and emergency antibiotics in case of infection.

After speaking with Fayez at the Balwadi, it was quite obvious that he was very concerned for his wife and his family and he was looking for help with the cost of all the daily medication that Sameena needs to keep her comfortable. It was obvious to me that DWP had to try and help somehow. Fayez shook our hands, touched his heart and left the Balwadi, heading back to his family.

Ashely knows this family and has helped them before by getting education sponsorship for his children’s school fees through a local charity called Discover Urjaa.  Fayez has contracted TB and also has Osteoporosis, since he last talked to Ashley, and works very little. He does odd jobs for his neighbours every day, which brings in a small amount of money. The family lives in Fayez’s father’s home, who is deceased. Fayez has lived in the tiny, one room house since his birth more than 30 years ago. It is an  upper level home in a group of homes called “chawls” which is basically a congested neigbourhood. While these homes are not slum homes, the families are very poor, but better off than people who live in temporary slum dwellings.  Fayez’s brother lives downstairs in the home below, but for the past year has stopped all contact with Fayez because his brother finds his family’s medical conditions a burden and doesn’t want to have to support them.

A few days after my first meeting with Fayez , Ashley and I made an announced house visit to see Sameena’s condition first hand. Sameena, wrapped in a shawl, answered and let us in. She offered us their bed to sit on, while she busied herself at the sink getting us a glass of water. Fayez looked relieved to see us, knowing that by us being there, it would mean possible help for his family. He quickly sent his oldest daughter Faizan to the store to buy us a cold drink. (it is impossible to enter an Indian’s home be it Muslim,Hindu or Christian without being offered something to eat or drink) Fayez gathered his wife’s medical charts and prescriptions and handed them to me while Sameena sat on the floor with her daughter Muskan on her lap. I asked them questions about her medications such as how much they spent in a month, and what further treatments she required. Sameena described her situation with candor. We spoke of many things over the next hour as I tried to grasp this family’s situation. Before leaving, I took with me, copies of her prescriptions and a promise to help.

The next day after coming home from a days work at the slum, I dropped into a chemist shop in Crawford Market and spoke to an elderly pharmacist with bi-focals perched on his nose and wearing a white labcoat, as if he had just stepped out of a movie playing the part of the friendly doctor. I checked the prices of Sameena’s medicine and the availability, and with the help of a calculator I figured out how much medication Sameena required to last her six months.  She needs four different sets of tablets and two separate kinds of eye drops to make her condition liveable. The chemist offered me a 10% discount and began packaging my order. After swapping cash for a bag full of medication, I opened the door and joined the thousands of other shoppers, hawkers and merchants that line the chaotic streets of Crawford Market.

By 8:30 am the following morning, Ashley, my mother and I had reached Sameena’s home. We climbed the skinny metal stairs, knocked on the door and woke up Sameena and her daughter Muskan, but were immediately invited in. We told Sameena we only wished to drop off some medicine, but she told us we had to stay for a milky, instant coffee and wait for Fayez to come home from walking Fatima to school. We sat with Fayez, Sameena and Muskan, discussed her situation further, and told them about the six month supply of medicine that we had purchased.

As we filed out, and waved goodbye to Sameena and Muskan, Fayez walked us all the way to the main road thanking us for our help. When we said goodbye, Fayez placed both of his hands on mine and thanked me for helping his family. A few meters down the street I turned to see Fayez still standing there watching us go, and he waved again, a big smile on his face..

Fayez and Sameena have three beautiful children and despite the long list of medical problems they both have, they have amazing resolve and are moving forward as best they can.  With the help of child sponsorship by Janvi and Discover Urjaa, their children will be able to continue school and retain some sense of normalcy.

DWP purchased and filled every prescription Sameena will need for the next six months further reducing the financial stress on the family. I can not cure Smeena’s condition but I can offer comfort to Sameena, and a helping hand to their beautiful family.

To all the Dirty Wall Project supporters that make these moments happen, together we are truly making a difference in peoples lives…

Cost

• 3930 INR or $91 CAD for  a 6 month supply of medication.

Sincerely,

Kane Ryan

Share on Facebook