An Act of Balance: Street Artist Tüfujeger

Living in a hostel, some pretty diverse types of people run into you. I've met Scottish Red Cross Workers, American English teachers, a Polish couple with a kid who have been on the road for a year, some random Iranians, a Latvian man who is finding himself, and German foresters.

However, meeting the Swiss street artists, Tüfujeger, exposed me to an underground world of street art.

Tüfujeger (his street name) has been on the road for almost a year. Starting in his home of Switzerland, he biked through Austria, Croatia, Bosnia, Montenegro, Albania, Greece, Bulgaria, Turkey and finally Georgia. Never taking planes or buses, he insists on sleeping in his tent and living cheaply. When not biking, he is painting. Check out the website of his work here.

When talking to Tüfujeger, you get a real sense of a man embodying the idea of "Everything in moderation, even moderation." He is truly, as he says, "an act of balance." Having studied Art at University in Switzerland, getting a teaching degree to appease his father, Tüfujeger realized that he was not cut out for galleries or classroom, but rather the more deviant underground world of street art.

Ever since youth, he has been "playing soccer and painting" to fill a need to express himself in a public forum--whether you want to hear/see him or not! He likes going to the streets because its a public space that challenges the right to speech and also what we perceive as acceptable or beautiful. Working both slow and fast, he has trained his body to move with the environment that he paints within, adjusting each work not to some preconceived plan, but to the environment, the stories, and the people in each area. If there is something Tüfujeger does not like, its a white wall. He much prefers stories to layer, to interact with.

While he says he does not like to philosophize about his art, he told me that one should not go into street art with the expectation of analyzing or judging. You should just feel what you see. He told me when writing this blog, "Don't write about me, write about the paintings!" Such a fascinating man deserved some recognition though! That said, his works usually feature twisted figures that interact with the surfaces upon which they are painted. Here, in the hostel courtyard we see a figure with a bottle of chacha, some tomatoes (someone was eating them during this), some dice because of a common game played here, and more. There is something fluid about his thought and work. It may seem deviant and even a little creepy, but there is a flow that makes it beautiful, or at least very much Tüfujeger!

The Autonomous Republic of Adjara

As I walked past her in Batumi, one woman carrying a shopping bag stopped in front of me and gazed at my tourist map, and then my eyes. The hopeful and excited look on her face said, "THEY'RE HERE!"

This seemed to be the trend during my time in Batumi, a Black Sea-side resort town in the Autonomous Republic of Adjara, the Republic bordering Turkey that is officially part of Georgia. Batumi and Kobuleti, two tourist destination cities on the coast, have been eagerly awaiting tourists from the West for many years, but it really hasn't been until this year that it had any attraction that would bring Western tourists en masse. While investments are rolling in and construction is 24/7, the signs of what Batumi once was are everywhere. The delay in development was not helped in that it was governed by an authoritarian dictator for many years who treated Adjara as his own country--not part of Georgia. It also did not help that for many years before that it was barricaded from the Western world by the Red Wall that was the Soviet Union.

By the looks of Batumi today, you would not guess that even 5 years ago, electricity was rationed off to only a few hours a day and most homes around the city still had straw roofs. Yet, as I was boarding the Mashrutka (minibus) to return to my 8 hour overnight sleeper train (for a trip that would take 3 hours anywhere else) back to Tbilisi, an old Russian man explained all of this to Misha and myself. Batumi had come a long way, and I'll tell you why.

For the longest time, Adjara, like Georgia, had been under Soviet Control. When the fall of the wall came around, a new fellow, Aslan Abashidze, came to power. Because of Georgia's general lack of a strong and cohesive government, and its desire to appease its separatist provinces so long as they stay part of Georgia, Abashidze could rule Adjara as if it were his own country. He collected taxes on the border with Turkey, had a standing militia, and was essentially distinct from Georgia. Naturally Abashidze was not the best ruler (later, he was charged with embezzling over 98 million lari and murdering a civil servant). When the Rose Revolution happened in Georgia, deposing long time leader Shevardnadze and putting in Sakashvili, it wasn't long before the new leader tried to get Adjara under control. Sakashvili eventually got Abashidze to flee to Moscow. While military tensions were high, not a single shot was fired.

So finally, this beach town long a favorite of Soviet tourists could open itself up to the world. The lonely Sheraton there had long been a symbol of the potential for tourism, but it wasn't until this very year for anything substantial to be built, including a new chic Radisson and a Kempinski hotel. Boardwalks, restaurants, attractions, and renovations that make the city look like a tropical, Parisian, St. Petersburg-ian paradise, juxtaposed against the relative poverty surrounding such new buildings make Batumi a very apt location to study budding development in a post-Soviet zone.

Last year when Misha went, most buildings were either mossy unfinished skeletons of a time when development was more prominent and promising.

Today, development is a reality and the skeletons will not be skeletons for long. While most tourists come from Turkey, Iran, Armenia, and Azerbaijan still, there is a slow trickle of French, German, British, and Americans backpacking in.

During the day, an old woman stopped Misha and I--not wanting to give us a homestay surprisingly; she just wanted to know where we were from and it we were enjoying Batumi. When I said I was an American, she blessed me and "spat" on me in that my Big Fat Greek Wedding kind of way. I was welcome in Batumi.

8 Proud Hours in Warsaw

When I think of Warsaw, I think of something like this (Photos are my own):

After getting off of a rickety Polish airlines flight (LOT)-- (they lost my baggage even before I got on the plane, and just told me so), my suspicions were confirmed: Catholic, elements of post-Soviet architecture and broad avenues, European in the center. Sure, I stereotype.

What I did NOT expect, right as I was visiting one of the last synagogues in Warsaw, was a lot of loud, a lot of rainbows, and a lot of pride in this thriving "young" country.

The Spaniards gone wild. (Reminds me of my first pride in 2006, Madrid)

Whatever you are, you can be proud. (The rest of the sign reads, "Proud by choice")

SRSLY

This one is for a special friend. Notice the flag.

Warsaw was hopping with pride. Announcers, men "dressed" as priests, drag queens, lesbians, gays, straights, purples. We all marched together with the support of the police (who were thanked, by the little Polish I could understand). We marched together to the armory (I think?) towards Old Town where dancing, chanting, laughter, and love ensued. Balloon (wo)man, my favorite.

Of course, Poland is a traditionally ethnic country, and at the fringes of every Pride, there is always some not so proud people, held back by police (don't let this picture fool you, those police are just getting off duty).

Anti-Gay posters.

One man was even sprinkling holy water on the crowd.

As I was being shoved around by lenses much larger than mine, I decided to get some lunch before I starved to death from lack of food for almost 12 hours (or edible food). In the process of getting some perogies (sp?) I stumbled upon a movie set, WWII something:

Lord knows today, I was both in front and behind a lot of pictures...

For a country that went from communist to European Union capitalist (and the president of the EU is polish this year) in only a span of about 15 years, I am really impressed at how far they have come and the amazing direction they are going. I AM PROUD!

The Rent is Too Damn High

Oh leader of the "Rent is too damn high "party, Jimmy McMillan. How right you are.

Don't know what I'm talking about, click here.

The Rent or the Deficit is too damn high. Walking around Natrona Heights Pennsylvania today, I saw some things that I witnessed in some of the poorer towns of the Black Sea region where I have traveled:

1) Pawn Shops and Cash for Golds (I have counted FIVE new ones during my time at home)

2) Empty buildings to be rented

3) Small tobacco stores

4) Banks I have never heard of

5) Buildings falling apart and not kept up

Naturally, of course, these things could be anywhere. It was just the uncanny parallel of aesthetic and visual likeness that threw me a curveball.

Of course there was more to all of this, but you get the idea. Basically, what I know is the United States of America is matching up with some of the poorer towns in the world. Stop into a makeup store nearby, and they tell you they haven't sold anything in a week. Walk into certain grocery stores and they make you check your big purse at the door because of excessive amounts of shoplifting. The economy is bad and getting worse. As my astute mother pointed out, many people are just finishing up their unemployment benefits (which began at the crashes in 2008 and 2010). As people have no money to spend and no one else's money to spend, it only gets worse and worse.

I don't think most people in the cosmopolitan circles one usually frequents in the Ivy League see the effects of this poverty and how harsh of a toll it is really taking on parts of America. It is honestly frightening to see how derelict parts of what I must call my hometown have become.

If there is one thing people cling to, it may not be their "guns and bibles" but definitely the victories of the American military. A victory that happens thousands of miles away, that certainly did not resuscitate the dying businesses surrounding the super market where I took the picture of this t-shirt.

How is this helping us?

Seeing Robert Gates tear up in front of Diane Sawyer sparks many questions in me about the nature of war, economy, morale, and morality, just as it does in, dare I say it, Gates himself?

A few thoughts. Not developed, obviously. More importantly, observations.

21

At 12:01 AM on June 4th, I ventured to the local dive bar to get my first legal six pack in the United States of America.

Previously, I had backpacked alone through the Balkans, the Middle East, and other parts of the world. I had shot guns. I received military recruitment mail. I drove across America. I have been attending an Ivy League institution. I drank legally in Muslim countries and five continents. I had driven many motorized vehicles. I voted in a presidential election. I drank legally in Canada.

I had not, however, drank legally in the USA.

So I go in. The place smells like aged beer and the people look like part of the furniture of the place itself. The beer refrigerators were dark. My thought was that they stopped selling beer after 9 PM! Oh No!

I ask, in perfect non-Pittsburghese English, the barmaid with big boobs: "Excuse me, do you sell liquor in this state after 9 PM."

She stares.

"Yea. Go get 'un."

I retrieve the only thing I could find palatable amongst the Buds, IC Lights, Natty Ice, and other brands: Sam Adams.

I go to the cashier of the silicon bra: "How much?"

"You are not from here, are ya?"
"Kind of..."

"Well enjoy. $13."

I pay and she turns around. I'm insulted. After all of these years, I could have just waltzed in here and gotten a six pack, just like that? I say, "Don't you want to see me ID??"

"No. You are old enough."

I pause.

"Well I just want you to know that I have been 21 for 10 minutes!"

She motions me to show her the ID, tries (and fails) to get the bar goers of ancient times to sing Happy Birthday. I leave, with a sense of pride, accomplishment, and perhaps a little bit of sadness.

I am no longer a "kid" but a bonafide woman. When did that happen? Oh wait. 11 minutes ago.