Dirty Wall Project

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Paintings on display at Lost + Found Cafe. ( 33 West Hastings st, Vancouver )

Cindy and Todd Ryan (Dirty Wall Project), visited Colombia in March/April as one part vacation and one part DWP mission. Wanting to dedicate at least part of the trip to finding ways that DWP could help in Colombia, we researched charities and NGO’s in the country. The following post is about our success at finding a charity DWP was excited by and happy to support in a barrio in the city of Cartagena.

Dodging the equatorial sun, visitors and citizens of Cartagena, Colombia zig-zag down cobblestone streets, seeking shade under carved wood balconies draped with vines and pots of flowering plants shedding petals with the slightest breath of air.  Like watching a romantic movie that transports you to another time and place dazzling with possibilities, Cartagena seduces visitors with historic buildings, their original colour faded into soft shades of turquoise, amber, gold and coral. Losing ourselves in this splendid city, walled and protected from ancient marauders and modern beggars is easy. We lose hours sitting in squares shaded by large trees harbouring lazy lizards, drinking sugary thimble sized cups of cafe tinto sold by vendors from carafes. We watch beautiful, abundant creole women dressed in bright colours and flowing skirts, their hair hidden under neon turbans, slice fruit into delicate spears to sell. Horses pulling sleek, black, open carriages stuffed with happy tourists prance by, the sound of their hooves making quick melodies on the hard cobblestone. Cameras click and whir while the fruit-ladies pose for pesos. This version of Cartagena is exceptional, tourist brochure worthy and ready for a close-up with a camera.

Getsemani, a neighbourhood a short walk away is a shabbier, bohemian version of the walled city, a neighbourhood with numerous hostels, less splashy hotels and streets where people live and work. The sheen is different here. Graffiti becomes art, bar patrons spill out on to the street, children run barefoot while parents sit on plastic chairs in spots of shade near crumbling doorways. As the area widens the poverty becomes more apparent. Eyes are adjusted to the reality of the living conditions for most of the population. Most Colombians are poor and live in communities where violence is normal, where housing is makeshift and education is not available for everyone. But here in Getsemani we found a couple who are making a huge difference to one community a 30 minute taxi ride from the fabled walled part of the city.

Nathalie Rietman came to Colombia from her home in the Netherlands years ago to continue her environmental studies. The poverty that surrounded her, the children who were not in school, who were begging and not being cared for littered the streets of Cartagena. Devastated by the sight of children in circumstances that would keep them poor, undernourished and uneducated like their parents, Nathalie decided she needed to do something about it. In 2005, she left her studies and her Environmental Career behind and with funds from the Netherlands and a committed partner in her friend Gerard van der Haas,  the duo embarked on a mission to address the lack of education available to the poor living in barrios surrounding the city. Their devotion to this educational initiative in Cartagena has resulted in a school in La Boquilla, (a barrio where men fish for a living and women sell trinkets or massages to tourists 45 minutes away on the beaches of Boca Grande), where children receive a solid education from kindergarten to Grade 8 and a nutritious daily meal.

Gerard gave us a tour of the school in April. The daily meal comes from a clean, well equipped kitchen run by mothers from the community who follow meal plans set up by a nutritionist. Over the years, the school has grown to two buildings. Run with expert efficiency by Nathalie and her paid staff and occasional volunteers, the children, in full uniform, are expected to come to classes daily. There is a curriculum, tests, a nutritious meal for each student, and expectations to be met by the parents and the children.  This no-nonsense approach to education, discipline and mandatory compliance from parents to see that their children attend school, has resulted in a school that gets results and is a stable influence in an otherwise bereft community.

Leaving the school, Gerard led us on a walking tour of the surrounding community. Located in a fishing village, the houses are a shamble of wood, tin, cardboard and plastic. This community is not serviced by the city, leaving no place for garbage disposal, no potable water, no serviced roads, and unlike the heavily policed tourist area of Cartagena, there are no police to solve problems in this community or keep the area safe. “La Vecina,” the name Nathalie and Gerard gave the school,  means “the neighbour”, stands alone as a positive influence in this community of poor fishermen and their families.

Nathalie and Gerard operate this school with incredible efficiency and a thorough awareness of the problems of the community. A psychologist is on staff to deal with personal problems brought on by poverty, abuse and despair. While the focus is on education up to grade 8, there is always time for outings and physical fitness with an emphasis on fun. The students are happy to have a place to go, and the families, for the first time in this community have a place where their kids might find a future full of possibilities. Once regarded as foreigners with a crazy idea, Nathalie and Gerard are now well regarded and respected members of the community. Living in Cartagena full-time and depending on the fund-raising efforts of a team of dedicated professionals in the Netherlands, their devotion to the school and the children is steadfast and honest and compelling. This is their home and they have given up a life in the Netherlands to assure the school is successful and the students have a permanent place to access a quality education. Their devotion to this community is a testament to the Dirty Wall Project mandate, “see a need and fill it”.

The Dirty Wall Project donated $600,000 COP ($330 CAD) to La Vecina on April 1, 2013. Check out their website: www.fundacionlavecina.com where you can read about the school, donate and be inspired.

***We brought back four beautiful mixed media paintings on canvas mounted on wood stretcher frames (16.5″ x 16.5″) created by four of the children of La Vecina. A minimum $200 donation that goes right back to La Vecina, will get you a beautiful painting that makes you feel good every time you look at it knowing your cash is buying school supplies, food, paying hard-working teachers or fixing the generator. Muchas Gracias from Nathalie, Gerard and the incredible children of La Vecina.The paintings are on display at: lost + found cafe/33 W. Hastings St. Vancouver, B.C. V6B 1G4/604-559-7444 All proceeds from the sale of these paintings will be donated to La Vecina.

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Brand new baby Radha

by Cindy Ryan (with Aarti Kalro) (photos by Aarti Kalro)

Maya’s howling, healthy, full-term baby girl, born in a cramped, low-ceilinged home the size of a small bathroom in North America arrived not in a hospital as we had hoped, but in her home with the help of neighbours. Prem, Suman and Nandini have a new sister named Radha. The news of Radha’s birth was given to us by Aarti Kalro who, along with Jaita Guha, has been helping Maya keep her appointments with the Foundation for Mother and Child Health. Dr. Rupal and her excellent caring team were responsible for giving Maya the much-needed advice to keep her healthy during her pregnancy and give hope to all of us that she would have a healthy child.

Just before I left Saki Naka, I helped Maya register at a municipal hospital with the thin shred of hope that she would manage to give birth there when the time came. While municipal hospitals are in need of scrubbing and staff with more time to give, giving birth in one is possibly cleaner and safer than giving birth in a slum home. A hospital birth ensures the baby will have paperwork, a leg up on the system of becoming a bonafide person in India.We can only speculate as to why Maya gave birth at home. Her husband may have been at work when Maya’s labour started and Maya may not have had time to make it to the hospital or she decided she wanted to give birth at home. Radha was born without benefit of doctors, nurses or bureaucracy, as well as being a girl, all a possible recipe for poverty in the mired caste system. What she does have is a loving mother, a father who seems to be excited by her birth and two sisters and a brother who have managed to live through malnutrition and stunted growth to become healthy, active, very smart children. Given a chance in India’s complex social system they could live a fruitful life. Maya is about 25 years old and is a strong, yet physically very tiny woman who is able to stand up for her children and herself and do what’s best in very difficult living conditions. Since Radha’s birth about  6 weeks ago, Maya’s family has chosen to move from Saki Naka to a different community in Mumbai where they will have some help from her husband Pramod’s relatives and a larger room to live in. For that we are all grateful. DWP will continue to assist Maya’s children and support the family with much help from Aarti and Jaita.

Below, in Aarti’s words, are her thoughts on Maya and her involvement with the family.

Maya. 

More than words I am overcome with emotion when I think of Maya.  
While many who don’t know her, might make the assumption that she is shy and a victim of her circumstances, I think differently.  
Maya has been a positive influence in my life. Rather than me giving her anything she has given me a lot. Maybe (it’s my hope) that we give each other strength. I know that Maya has become more brave now that she has DWP’s support. In return, she is an inspiration for me and a reminder that your circumstances do not dictate your happiness.  With her perennial smile, and her innocence, she lifts my spirits when I feel low. 

The last nine months have been exciting and also fraught with worry. Maya calmly left it to us, accepting help and suggestions with full faith. We all hoped at DWP that Mayas pregnancy would go smoothly and the baby be born in a hospital with a birth certificate. We tried. It was not to be so. The baby was born at home with the help of the neighbour . However the baby is healthy and that is most important.  She has an aura of calmness about her and beautiful curious wide eyes like her older sister Nandini. Will she be mischievous like Prem ? Or bubbly like Nandini ? Will she be blatantly truthful like Suman? I don’t know.. She will be loved without doubt.. By 5 wonderful people-her family-and then many more. While she may not grow up with the chances that a lot of us are fortunate to have, I know that she will grow up into a loving individual and have a vibrant life.I hope we can give her a chance to study and a chance to dream. 

Aarti was given the honour of naming the baby which required her to think passionately about what she hopes for this new life. Below is her reason for choosing the name Radha.

Radha was Lord Krishna’s advisor and friend. He was in love with her but she was married. However they are always depicted together, and some say she was even more important than Lord Krishna himself. She is also supposed to be the original goddess of Shakti ( power/energy ).

It is a beautiful name and just has a loving feeling , and softness to it…   Aarti.

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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

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