Dirty Wall Project

[Show as slideshow]

[View with PicLens]

It’s finally here!!!

After 3 years of work which included assistance from numerous people who donated their time to taste test recipes, offer editing expertise and the time-consuming work of designing the book, (huge thanks to Nicole Sims (Coley Sims Creative) who donated hours and hours and hours…) Kerosene Curry has arrived. The book’s journey began in the slum community of Saki Naka, Mumbai nearly three years ago. My mother (Cindy Ryan) spent a very hot and cramped couple of months inside tin shacks huddled over kerosene burners in the lane ways of the community madly trying to decipher the hindi/marathi language using hand gestures as she penned the women’s recipes. The women, who come from all parts of India to attempt a better life in Mumbai, were  humbled, excited and proud to show off their traditional styles of cooking passed down through generations. Leaving Mumbai with a small book filled with wrinkled pages of notes and hundreds of photographs she arrived back home. Three years later, which included multiple trips straddling India and Canada, the crumpled note book has morphed into a beautifully designed book with the women’s stories, recipes and photos of the community they call home. This book has been the ultimate labour of love and we are so excited to bring their recipes to life for all of you.

The women of Girls Can Be (also from the Saki Naka community) spent hours sewing reversible aprons made from 100% cotton sheeting to be sold as a compliment to the cookbook or alone. The colourful, bold patterned sheeting is used in slum homes as bedding and can be seen drying in the sun on bamboo poles, hung on wire lines on the backs of tin huts, and used as curtains in ragged doorways offering colour and pattern to bleak surroundings.

DWP’s new partnership with Lost + Found Cafe in Vancouver has given DWP a new home base here in Canada where you can purchase your very own copy of Kerosene Curry! All proceeds from the sale of the book go to the Dirty Wall Project.

Kerosene Curry Cookbook: $29  

Reversible Apron: $20 

Combination Kerosene Curry cookbook + reversible apron $45 (shipping/handling $5 per book/per apron (within Canada)/ $9 (USA)/ International rates differ depending on country.

To purchase a copy of the book please email: dirtywallproject@gmail.com or call Lost +Found Cafe 604-559-7444 (Vancouver)

Below is the story of how this book came about…

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 deep fried 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

[Show as slideshow]

[View with PicLens]

12►

Written by Cindy Ryan

Maya is so tiny. Still under 80 pounds and she is six months pregnant with her fourth child. But there has been progress (She has gained almost 20 lbs in the last 7 weeks) and the sustained hope that with four women watching over her she will deliver a healthy child from a healthy body.

For a poor woman in Mumbai to deliver a baby in hospital and receive a modicum of care, she must register with a municipal hospital. This will ensure her baby has a record of birth, the first step in being counted. Maya, in her early twenties, and already a mother to three children, is one of millions of poor women, pregnant, malnourished and frail who must rely on inadequate maternity care at a municipal hospital or remain at home foregoing any prenatal care.

Maya’s home is a tiny cement box just off the lane way, near the bridge where the traffic flows day and night and the bad kids from the slum gather to lounge, spit, and pass time. Standing in her home I have to be mindful of the fan just above my head. Maya turned it off and giggled as she rummaged through the plastic bags hanging on nails, looking for her past medical records. Her husband, Pramod, sat slumped against the wall, sleepy from a night of work at a powder coating company. He made a comment in Hindi to Maya and her eyes glossed over with tears and her face became tight. Reluctantly, Maya left her home with me to go to a municipal hospital to register and get the first check-up for her pregnancy. Once in a rickshaw, Maya let the tears flow and I anxiously asked Indu, who was accompanying us, to ask what was upsetting her. Maya told Indu that her husband told her she was to return home within two hours or she should not come back. Hoping this was just a sleep-deprived man talking nonsense, we continued on our journey to the hospital.

We arrived at the hospital and took our place in a line-up outside in a cement courtyard to wait over an hour for a clerk to open a window to process maternity patients for one hour only. There were at least 80 women in front of us, and soon, over 100 women behind us.  Maya perched on a ledge wet with spongy green moss while Indu and I kept our place in the line. The women waited, tolerant and patient. The hems of their sari’s wafted in strong breezes, fluttering and falling with each gust of wind that suddenly came and went. There were burka-clad women chatting in tight groups and women sitting cross-legged on the ground continuously wrapping the end of their sari’s over their heads for shade.  A few husbands littered the crowd. I was envious for Maya that some of these women had husbands by their sides.  When the rain started, the chatter became more animated, and the wait became more frustrating.

Once inside the hospital, Maya was separated from Indu and me, and made her way upstairs to sit in rows of a few hundred pregnant women for her turn to be weighed, measured, have her blood tested, talk to a doctor, and then return downstairs for a tetanus shot and supplements which, in Maya’s case they were out of. This was a four hour process. Indu and I took turns sneaking up the stairway to peer in at the waiting women, trying to spot Maya in the crowd, trying to determine when it would be her turn. The public area of the hospital has two benches for hundreds of people coming and going, waiting and worrying. We eyed the benches, waiting for a turn to sit if only for a few minutes.

Municipal hospitals are for the poor and are run by the government. The services provided are barely adequate and anyone who could afford to go elsewhere would not enter this place. The interior of this hospital had moldy, smeared walls and large rooms with numerous beds and no privacy. Rusted iron tables sat beside sagging iron beds covered with dirty pink pieces of rubber laid over stained sheets. The staff seem burdened and sluggish. The cleaners mopped lazily over large swaths of floor, moving dirt around in concentric circles.

For the poor, the alternative to having their baby in a municipal hospital is to have a home birth. Maya, who is from Nepal, had her first daughter, Suman who is now six, in a field in a remote village where she lived.  Her second child, Prem, now four years old, came suddenly while Maya was in her home. Her third child, Nandini, was born in a hospital in Mumbai, just over a year ago. Maya and the many poor, pregnant women like her, need much more care than what a municipal hospital can provide. Thankfully, Mumbai has a Foundation for Mother and Child Health clinic (www.fmch-india.org) which provide mothers free information on nutrition, health care, hygiene, as well as necessary supplements and personal attention from Dr. Rupal Dalal and her team of social workers and nutritionists. When we first took Maya and her children to Dr. Rupal a few months ago, she weighed 70 pounds at four months pregnant. Suman and Nandini were malnourished and Prem had calcium deficiencies. Watching Dr. Rupal handle her caseload of women and children is inspiring. A pediatrician and a mother, Dr. Rupal is devoted and dedicated to their care. She requires the women to be pro-active with the health of their children and themselves and to visit the clinic on a regular basis. It is a struggle to keep these women, many of whom are illiterate and abused by husbands, to maintain the regimen Dr. Rupal and her team aim for, but the success stories, of which there are many, are worth the fight. Months ago, we took a family of six kids to Dr. Rupal, all of them malnourished, and they are now healthy, active and energetic.

Since our departure from Mumbai in August, we have enlisted the help of two wonderful women (Jaita Guhu and Aarti Kalro) who had volunteered with DWP in the Saki Naka community, to ensure that Maya and her family continue to get the care they need to become healthy. Jaita and Aarti have kept Maya and her children on task with supplements, hospital visits and visits to the Foundation for Mother and Child Health. This is no small favour. Maya can’t manage any of these trips on her own and her husband has so far not accompanied her, so Jaita and Aarti must take hours out of their day to ferry her back and forth through the thick of Mumbai traffic to ensure she gets to the clinic and the hospital. Because Maya can’t read, they must also help her to understand instructions for medication and supplements. Her health and the health of her children count on them.

Aarti and Jaita report that both Nandini and Prem are now healthy and Suman is progressing, but not quite there yet. Maya is now almost 90 pounds at 6 months pregnant, but still needs more nutrient rich food in her diet. Dr. Rupal gave Maya some food bars containing essential nutrients as well as some health bars for the children. She has instructed Maya to include eggs three times a week in all their diets. Aarti is suggesting that she take Maya to register at a municipal hospital much closer to the community which will make it easier to get to when the time comes for Maya to give birth.

With the expert care, and loving attention that Maya and her children are receiving from all of these selfless women, we are hopeful that she delivers a healthy baby while improving her own fragile health. The problem Maya and most poor women in India face is the lack of knowledge regarding basic nutrition and the lack of quantity and quality of food they can afford. One out of every three malnourished children in the world live in India. Many kids in the slum live on glucose based biscuits, sugary tea, watery dal and white rice. As Dr. Rupal has pointed out to me, malnourished kids have stunted growth, lower IQ’s, and higher rates of infectious diseases. Cramped living conditions, open sewers, and not boiling drinking water leaves them at risk for constant illnesses. The Foundation for Mother and Child Health (FMCH) is taking the necessary steps to educate those who come to their clinics. Kane and I met with Dottie Wagle, the Chairperson of the India Branch of FMCH. In our short meeting we understood how determined she is to continue this initiative in other areas in Mumbai, making this amazing, free service for the poor accessible to more communities throughout Mumbai.

We are hoping that Maya and her young family can be the example of what quality care, education and a community of caring women can do for the poor, the illiterate and the abused. Maya is becoming less shy and more capable and is already showing signs of a take-charge attitude to her children’s health-care. This is progress. We had a chance to talk to Maya, Suman and Prem on the phone while they were with Jaita a few days ago. Though the conversation is limited to the little Hindi we could understand, it was great to hear Suman’s raspy voice and Prem’s constant chatter. And sweet Maya was as happy to hear our voices as we were to hear hers.

Share on Facebook

[Show as slideshow]

[View with PicLens]

12►

I felt a light tap on my shoulder. My eyes blinked open slowly, my mouth was dry and I stared up at the woman. She told me to put away my tray table and prepare for landing. Rubbing sleep from my eyes I opened my window shade and looked outside. Harsh sunlight filled the cabin and when my eyes adjusted I saw beautiful Vancouver materialize in stunning greens and blues just outside the little square window.  I’m home.

The last couple of weeks in Mumbai went by in a blur. The end of every working trip in India is difficult, but this one seemed even harder. As families learned of my departure, more problems became apparent, and individuals and families came forth looking for help, knowing this may be their last chance for months. In the remaining two weeks of this trip, DWP focused heavily on finishing off the last of our school sponsor cases while meeting the individual medical needs of several families, including Usha, our kindergarten teacher, and our dear friend Maya and her children.

DWP paid for Usha to receive physiotherapy on a daily basis for two weeks at Seven Hills hospital, hoping to alleviate her back pain and get to the root of her back problem. Sonograms, an MRI, and meetings with several doctors and surgeons all pointed to the same thing; rest. This is not an option for a poor single mother living in Mumbai who desperately needs to keep working to feed and house her two teenage children. While these daily treatments started to ease her pain, I bundled up my mattress from my apartment, along with pillows and a chettai, (Indian sleeping mat) stuffed it into a rickshaw and surprised Usha at her home one evening. We unrolled the thick mattress and laid it out on her cracked cement floor. Usha, who is in her early 40′s, quickly exclaimed that tonight would be the first night in her life that she would get to sleep on a mattress. We chatted over chai and discussed her family. DWP paid the final amount owing on her medical bills, the tuition fees for her very bright daughter and her son’s school tuition for the year, in full. Her back is better but will never fully heal unless she takes rest for months on end. While DWP could not solve her back problem we have been able to make her life a little easier and she can be assured that her children will get the education they deserve.

While I focused on Usha and DWP sponsor cases, my mom spent her days with Maya (Cindy will be writing a full post about her work with Maya) monitoring her and her children’s health daily, all the while becoming a surrogate mother to every wandering child in the community.  My mother and I would often be separated for hours throughout the day. When I arrived back to the community I would simply ask the first child I saw where she was? A grubby little hand would point me in a direction down the pipeline and soon I would see a huddle of laughing children hanging off my mother, sweat rolling down her brow and a smile from ear to ear.

With less than a week left in Mumbai I started to really think about the next year and what that means for both DWP and me. The past year in Saki Naka has been incredibly difficult and emotional for many reasons. This thought consumed my mind daily as I watched children run along the pipeline; children I have watched grow and change over the last three and a bit years. I know I need to move on eventually, but this place feels like home. Reflecting on the legacy that DWP supporters have left for this community is a way to cope. Besides paying for medical care, tuitions, teacher’s salaries, and individual school sponsorships, DWP has funded the addition of the second floor of the school which is used every day for kindergarten classes, art classes and dance classes as well as community drop in space.DWP paid local community members to clear tangles of weeds, bags of their own garbage, thick tree roots and broken glass from an area used as a dumping ground. The final result of their efforts is a large, clean space to play, run, hold events, and a place to sit outside of their cramped homes. It is called the ‘new’ garden, a scruffier version of the garden space that Janvi Trust created at the other end of the slum. A year ago, funds from DWP were used to renovate a small room beside the school that, until recently, we used as the Girls Can Be centre. We are hoping that this beautiful, light, clean space will continue to be used as a women’s centre, or a much needed health clinic targeting nutrition and basic hygiene, stemming the tide of malnutrition and illness. These large projects will endure and continue to enhance the quality of life in this slum community.

Two days before we left, we visited Ashwini once more at the girls’ home where she now lives. We met with Sister Annie to let her know I will be leaving and they asked how long until I return. It took me a second to answer and then I told them that I’m not sure yet but it will be awhile this time. Priyanka, who DWP hires to tutor Ashwini, as well as other students at the home, needs to be paid monthly. I organized her entire years salary in cash and gave it to Sister Annie so she will be able to pay Priyanka. One more thing done. We hugged Ashwini and said our goodbyes. Ashwini is a major success story and every time I visit the home I smile to myself at what a wonderful life she has now because of these caring, compassionate Sisters. DWP has set aside 100,000 Rupees ($2000 CDN) in a separate DWP account that I will hold until Ashwini turns 18 in four years and is eligible to leave the home. Our hope is that this money will help Ashwini get on her feet and start her adult life. I can’t wait for the day…

My eyes blinked open, weary from a terrible, sleepless night. It was well before 7 a.m., but I felt anxious. The night before, my mom and I cleaned and organized the apartment that has been DWP’s home base for the past 2 years. I entered the bathroom and looked down at the little blue bucket that has been my shower and watched as the tap slowly filled it. My reflection in the mirror looked weary. I have lost too much weight over the last year, dark circles and bags show prominently around my eyes. I let the the last bucket of water wash over my face and wondered what my last day in the community will bring. Somber, but ready to face the day, we marched down the six flights of stairs and into the chaotic morning rush of Marol and headed to the community. My mother and I hate goodbyes and over the last week we had said too many. Today would be worse.

We had ordered 6 massive pots of vegetable biryani (veg rice) and raita (yogurt/curd) to be delivered to the school by 10 a.m. The rice arrived just after 11a.m. and with the help of a few strong boys we moved the heavy pots into the GCB centre. Covered in sweat, I picked up the first pot and moved it upstairs to the kindergarten class. Usha, Priyanka and my mother organized the children and began to serve the meal. Soon 80 kids sat cross legged, covered in rice. We had four more huge pots of rice to deliver yet and with my mom’s help I was able to get the massive and heavy pot onto my shoulder. I walked down the lane way over broken railway ties, garbage, mud and open sewers, towards the Nepali section of the community and set up in the new garden on a makeshift platform. Behind me, 6 year old Dinesh carried a ten pound pot full of raita on his head, while my mother balanced his 4 year old sister Noorsaba in her arms and Suman and Prem chased after her. When I peeled back the tinfoil on the pot, the spicy aromatic smell curled in the morning air and children climbed the platform to get a better look. Slowly people emerged from their tin huts sending their childen to see what Kane Sir was up to. I motioned for them to bring bowls. After the first few bowls were heaped  with rice and raita, people started to come in droves. Dinesh, and my mother and I filled whatever container they brought us, small or big. In thirty minutes the pot was empty and we returned for another load walking to a different part of the community. We repeated this 4 more times until we had served well over 3oo meals to 4 different sections of the community. My shoulder was sore, Dinesh’s head was hurting, my mom’s hips hurt from carrying Noorsaba, and our arms were tired. We retreated back to Ranjana’s home where she treated the rag tag team to chai and a home cooked meal. We have known Ranjana’s family for the past 3 years and they have never needed our help in any significant way. Her tiny home has always been a refuge for me and for my mother and we consider her a  good friend.

Leaning against the pale yellow wall, staring into our empty cups we wanted to linger in Ranjana’s home, but we knew that we still had so much to do at the apartment. We called Maya to the GCB room and I gave her a mobile phone and explained to her that Jaita and Aarti (wonderful volunteers/friends from Mumbai) would be in charge of helping her during her pregnancy. She looked confused and I slowly began to tell her that we have to leave and we might not be back for awhile. Her eyes welled up with tears and Suman hid her face in her mom’s sari. Ranjana joined us in the room and we all hugged . We cling to the thought of seeing them all again in the future.

We kept lingering but knew that it had to end and we grabbed our stuff and walked single file out of the room. We gathered outside in the light rain. Other families noticed the tears and goodbyes and wished us well. Saying good bye to families in the slum sometimes means we will never see them again. It is heart wrenching for us.

With heavy hearts, we reached home and climbed the six flights of stairs to our apartment. The GCB ladies were inside waiting for us and had been given strict instructions to take anything and everything they needed or wanted from my apartment. We opened the door and the girls giggled; they needed encouraging to take stuff. In the next six hours, the 5 women had completely stripped the apartment, leaving little left except the fixtures and the landlord’s furniture. The hotplate, bed, mattresses, plates, cutlery, shelving, bedding and anything else they could unscrew or carry was piled into the living room awaiting help from their brothers. The women were paid up to date, plus a bonus. After more tearful goodbyes, my mom and I were left sitting in a nearly empty apartment.

I began to pack my own belongings, filling my 12 year old backpack with 3 years worth of memories. Dirty socks, ripped jeans, shorts with splashes of every colour of paint I have ever used while working in the community, worn out shirts, and crumpled children’s drawings filled my bag. Our dear friend, Jaita, arrived just after 9 p.m. to hang out and say goodbye. Shashi brought her brother back and they dismantled the bed, anxious to take it home. Shashi exclaimed that the whole family would use the double bed. Just before 11 p.m. my bag was packed and my passport was tucked into my front pocket. My mom was flying out the next morning and stayed behind with Shashi while Jaita accompanied me to the airport.

The short rickshaw ride to the airport seemed even quicker than normal. After a quick goodbye to Jaita, I watched her rickshaw pull away from the curb. All around me the airport hummed with activity. People milled in crowds, bags were shifted and security guards yelled in Hinglish. I stood silently for a moment in the humid air and thought about my arrival to Mumbai three years before. I was naive and scared, but excited and eager to start helping someone, somewhere. Three years later, with generous funding from DWP supporters, we have helped thousands of people in little ways and some big ways, in India and especially Mumbai. DWP has accomplished more than I ever imagined and I’m not finished yet.

Thirty-one hours of travel over, I disembarked in Vancouver and was met by my smiling father. We caught the Skytrain, my dirty backpack sat wedged between us, and I had the same feeling I felt three years ago when I landed in Mumbai. Everything is about to change and I’m scared and more than a little naive as to how I’m going to manage. For the first time in 12 years of travel, I’m touching down on Canadian soil without a return ticket to anywhere. I’m ready for a change.

DWP is undergoing some changes, I have some new ideas and some interesting projects in the works so stay tuned…

Sincerely,

Kane Ryan

Share on Facebook