Hell’s bells, its been like ten trillion days since i’ve written. Since then, much has come to light, many things have gone down, blah blah.
The work has been extremely, insanely challenging. The rains subsided earlier this week; the heat rolled back in, the sun beaming down irately in a vain attempt to sunburn the 16 million melanin-enhanced residents of Mumbai.
It’s been hot. Haydes fire and brimstone hot. Anyway, given the fortuitous change in weather, we decided to sample like mad. Since Tuesday, we’ve sampled 11 homes and run all the blanks – somewhere around 48 or 49 samples total. Remarkably, there have been no real mechanical problems – one pump went nuts, one family disconnected the monitor, but nothing too insane. A typical day of sampling kicks off around 7:30 or 8:00, when I hump 50 pounds of equipment over to the bus stand and wait for Magic Bus 85, which whisks me away to Sion Hospital. After a short walk to the slum, the work begins in earnest. We identify two homes, get consent, and set up the monitors for a four hour run in the morning.
Potters are on a schedule that lends itself to monitoring – they prepare pots in the morning, let them sit in the sun during the day, and kick off the firing process around 3. We monitor both inside and outside homes in the mornings from 9:30-1:30, before the kilns begin. Then, i swap out monitors and we monitor inside and outside again, while the kilns are running.
Two days ago, I encountered hands down the worst air quality i’ve ever witnessed. You could see/feel the pollution three blocks away; in the slum itself it was nearly impossible to get around due to the smoke. Imagine taking hot peppers, sprinkling them with acid, mashing them up, and then pouring them on your eyes; forget about breathing; plan on showering asap – the fires burn hot and dirty. The last home i visited was a disaster – when i stepped inside, i almost doubled over from the smoke; they had shut the doors and windows in attempt to keep the smoke out, but instead were preventing any air circulation. Smoke crept in through cracked windows, gaps in the doors, poor roofs. The indoor air was like pudding. Bad, burning, caustic, smoke pudding. The two matriarchs were just kickin’ it in the kitchen; one little fellow who’s been tagging along/helping out took one step inside the place and had the good sense to get the hell out of there. The air inside was a thousand times worse than the air outside, surprisingly. To make things more trying, the temperature inside was easily fifteen to twelve million degrees higher than outside. I’m doing no justice to the situation – it is awful. Its a miracle the children can breathe at all; many have a perpetual hacking cough and runny nose. Today, two of the older chaps involved in the co-op talked openly about a number of folks in the community with cancer.
How did Dharavi come to be?
As a result of becoming more familiar [or numb, take your pick] to my surroundings, i’ve been getting curious. How did Dharavi, sandwiched between moderately high income parts of town, arise? And, perhaps more significantly, what allows it to keep sitting there? My first, instinctual answer to the latter question revolves around simple economics Â the place churns out goods sold throughout Mumbai and India. It is economically self-sustaining; like in other places throughout India, the division of labor is phenomenal. Everyone has a job and pays some fee for people to do nominal things for them. A tremendous number of the goods produced cheaply in Dharavi Â including textiles, leather, pottery, the like Â are exported to other regions of India for sale. The economic impetus for keeping the people there is present Â especially when, by vacant land tenant law, the government does not have to officially recognize or support squatters with infrastructure. There’s an open window for folks to be booted from the land at any point.
History tells an interesting story of Dharavi. Originally, as far back as 1909, it was one of the great koliwadas of Mumbai Â a great fishing village, flanked on one side by a bustling creek that fed into the Arabian sea. British reclamation efforts dammed up the creek, redirecting it prior to simply eliminating it – spelling the end of the thriving fishing community. The area fell into extreme poverty and slowly grew into the modern day slum of Dharavi.
That’s it – that’s all i’ve been able to glean from reading and research. There are some folks in the slum – two elderly couples in particular – who have been there for 40 or 50 years. I plan on picking their brains once the monitoring is finished.
Bedtime. more to relate later on: women’s group meetings; kids, cricket, and caram boards; politics; video scheme; supplies for the school.