Travel Tip 10- Turn a T-Shirt into Shorts

Turn a T-Shirt into Shorts- Travel Tip #10

This travel tip comes from the highly resourceful nomad Wanderjahr Jill. Read on, and you will be sure to learn how to turn a t-shirt into a pair of shorts. I cannot predict when you will need to use this tip, but, I must say, there will come a day when you look into your rucksack and realize that your articles of clothing are not appropriately diverse to fully clothe a human body. For sometimes on the Road you just have a few too many t-shirts and not enough shorts, sometimes the clothes in your bag just do not match the climate, and sometimes you just need a change.

This travel tip is about making use of what have. This tip is about getting your self out of a jam.

This tip is about how to turn a t-shirt into a pair of shorts:

First, place the t-shirt on a flat surface and cut the sleeves off along the seams.

Take the sleeves and cut them along their seam so that they are flat pieces of fabric rather than “rings.” Place them on top of each other and off to the side.

Cut the top of the t-shirt along the seams like in the photo.

Lay your parts in front of you. You will use all of this fabric.

Position cut up t-shirt upside down so that they look like shorts. The top of the t-shirt is now the bottom of the shorts. The bottom of the t-shirt is now the top of the shorts.

Cut the “crotch” of the shorts up approx. four inches. Be sure to leave room for your butt. May want to measure up against yourself.

Now take the two pieces of fabric from the t-shirt sleeves and sew them together at the short edge. Refer to photos.

Now that the two t-shirt sleeve fabrics are sewn together you can put them inside of the “shorts” with the sewn seam of the sleeves as the center crotch of the shorts.

Sew down the edges so that it looks like the above photo. Do this on both sides of the shorts. The t-shirt sleeves are now the inside crotch area of the shorts.

You have now just made a t-shirt into a pair of shorts. Now it is time to add a drawstring!

To make a drawstring use an old piece of cord, string, or shoelace and poke two holes into the natural seam of the old t-shirt.

Now trim up any loose ends and hem the bottom legs of the shorts and you are finished.

There you go, Travel Tip #10- How to turn a t-shirt into shorts. As always, take this travel tip or leave it.

Walk Slow,

Wade
www.VagabondJourney.com

Cafe Abroad Article on Graffiti

Cafe Abroad Article on Graffiti

The Spring 2008 issue of Cafe Abroad magazine is out, and it contains the article that I wrote about Portuguese Graffiti. To read it, please go to: http://www.cafeabroadinprint.com/pages/page_12.html
and http://www.cafeabroadinprint.com/pages/page_13.html

$50 in a travelers pocket can never be refused. Thanks Dan, for allowing me write for my food!

On Song of the Open Road:

Graffiti in Portugal: The other side of the wall





Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
Heredia, Costa Rica
February 5, 2008

To subscribe to the Vagabond Journey Newsletter send a blank email to VagabondJourney-subscribe@topica.com

Tattoos in Chile and Friends

Tattoos in Chile and Friends

"No hay mal que por bien no venga."

There is no bad from which good does not come.
-Old Latin American adage

I have not been with my Chilean friends since those fateful days I was tramping around South America. In Santiago, goods and amenities are divided into their own towering buildings by their particular attributes. Therefore, if you want underwear you just go to the building that only sells underwear and you will find hundreds of stores vending the same pairs of panties. These buildings are kind of like small shopping malls where all the shops only sell the same type of good.

A very simple way of shopping, I say, for people who are just out to buy underwear.

Well, the tattoo studios, underground record stores, and heavy metal t-shirt shops in Santiago are divided along these same lines and, likewise, have their own little mall. It is in the district of Providencia, and entering it is like coming into some kind of heavy metal roost of the underworld. Tattoo parlors upon tattoo parlors are only interrupted by the occasional record store.

I entered into this dark pit of Santiago’s sub-culture a young, long-haired, sapling of a traveler. I was in the market for a tattoo and was told that this was the place to find an artist. As I walked through the doors, I realized that I had been directed to the correct location.

So I began walking past the tattoo studios trying to get a feel for the quality of tattoo art in Santiago, Chile. The shops were arranged around a square around a central corridor and a ramp winded the way up past the storefronts like a screw. As I walked by these tattoo studios I looked at all the photos of the artist’s work that hung on display in the windows. The first five tattoo studios did not seem to do very good work, so I walked on up the ramp to the second and then the third floor of the building. At this point, I did not find a tattoo studio that stood out as being particularly good or inviting.

I soon found myself at the doorstep of Pablo Barrios tattoo shop. The photos displaying his work passed my inspection criteria, so I walked in to talk to him. I found a bald guy inside tattooing some stupid design on the lower back of a blond with big tits, tiny waist, and a big ass. She could have stepped out of a bikini magazine and I would not have been the wiser.

It was more than apparent that Pablo Barrios was far too interested in his rather sexy client to bother with some chump 21 year old gringo. I stood there for around ten minutes staring at him before he looked up from the blond’s rather plump rear section to notice me.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“A tattoo.”

He then flung me one of his portfolios and promptly went back to the ass.

I realized then that I was not beautiful enough to be tattooed by this dick.

So I slipped unnoticed out of his studio and was just about to give up my tattoo hunt, when I noticed that there was one last tattoo parlor a little further up the ramp. I stood in indecision for a moment, but then figured that it would not hurt to check out this last shop.

It was called Cuerpo Orgulloso Tattoo, and it seem to have something about it that was a little different than the rest of the tattoo studios in the building. I looked at the tattoo photos in the window for a moment and, please at what I found, entered upon a scene that was far different than the other shops. People were all sitting around joking and laughing with each other, smiles greeted my entry, and the happy hum of tattoo machines resounded over this jovial setting. I was immediately meet warmly by the receptionist as she quickly engaged me in some in-depth conversation about politics or something. I was made a friend in an instant and the artist agreed to tattoo me after he was finished with his other clients. This was how I met Sergio Villagran and his wife JessieAnne.

Small plastic cups of chicha soon began falling first into my hands, and then into my belly. Friends were made and a new tattoo was stamped upon my hide. We celebrated.

I then left the studio and returned to Cuerpo Orgulloso Tattoo a month later with Erik the Pilot for another bout of tattooing and friends . . . Chilean style.

Over the five intervening years since I said farewell to these friends on a daybreak Santiago city bus after a long night, I have not forgotten them for an instant.

I have been visiting them at their home in the South of France for the past month.

And now, good readers, you know how I met these friends from Chile, so I can carry on with my yarn.

Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
Anduze, France
December 29, 2007

Wood Carvers in India

Sitting with the Masters

A Day with a Family of Master Indian Wood Carvers

I was picked up in the morning by the master wood carver, Umesh Singh, and we rode off on his motorcycle through the busy Jaipur streets to his home in a little neighborhood near the public commodities market. Umesh is a traditional Indian wood carver and makes his living from carving and selling little statuettes and motifs of idealized Asian spiritual figures as well as the animals that once roamed the region freely. He is a very stoic, proud man and he carries himself with that particular authority of a man who has perfected his craft. I had met him the day before at his little stand of sandalwood carvings in the art district of the city palace and he invited me to come to his home so that I could watch him as he went about his work. I was very curious to learn if the contemporary Indian craftsman continues to utilize the riches of ancient tradition and folk-knowledge or if his art has also been gentrified by the impervious weight of “modernization.” I hoped that this meeting with Umesh would resolve some of my questions.

We arrived at his home after about fifteen minutes of holding on tight to the back of his motorcycle. Umesh lived in a rather modest, sort of run down building that was directly connected to a plethora of other organically stuck together households. The neighborhood was traditionally Indian and seemed to be as old as time itself. Upon entering his home, he sat me in a little reception room in the front of the house and served me a little cup of chai tea. I sipped it gratefully, as it provided me with an object to which I could direct my wavering attention, and just looked around at the carvings that lined the walls. I was soon introduced to his brother, who was a carver that gave up the family trade to become a computer consultant, and we had the initial small talk that comes with entering someone’s home for the first time. I found out who is married to whom, who lives in the house, and a little about their family’s carving history.

I was then taken into the house proper and walked into a small courtyard that opened up to the sky. The walls would have been real grateful to take on a fresh coat of paint and the entire place was in a state of satisfied, comfortable neglect. I sat in a chair that was placed in a kind of hallway area that adjoined the courtyard. On the floor next to me were a few toolboxes, an unidentifiable home-rigged machine, and a square blanket that distinguished the workspace from the rest of the courtyard.

Umesh soon entered the hallway area that I was in and sat cross-legged upon the blanket. He was ready to begin the lesson and opened the tool boxes, removed a handful of elongated metal tools, and inspected each of them intensely. He handed the tools to me; which consisted of steel rods with sharpened blades shaped out of each opposing end. He also showed me chisels of various sizes, files, drills, and the collection of sandpaper that he uses to scrape and carve the negative spaces away from the blocks of wood that he transforms into beautiful statuettes.

He then gave me a lesson on the types of woods that the carver shapes his wares from. Umesh placed specimens of teak and ebony into my hand, but it was sandalwood that was the prize material of his trade. He pulled out a half finished tiger figure from a bag and instructed me to smell it. I did; it smelled like fresh sandalwood. I stroked and rubbed its smooth, woody sides and I could feel the superiority of the sandalwood as compared with that of teak. Umesh was very fond of sandalwood and it was obvious that this type of wood served to define his role in the world.

Umesh then began working and I sat and just watched him scrap away at a chunk of sandalwood. He shaved off pieces here, pieces there, with controlled and precise strokes of a file. His movements were exact and done with complete confidence. He had been carving since he was a small child and it was beyond evident that he knew each move that he made from deep down in his being. He had probably carved the same piece that he was making hundreds of times before and its blueprints seemed to be indelibly etched into his psyche.

Carving was Umesh’s family trade and his father was a carver as was his father before him. He told me a story of how, when his father was a young carving man, he would walk down the street covered in sandalwood dust and everyone would be able to smell him coming from far away. Umesh then pushed together a little pile of sandalwood dust and put it in my hand. “Smell, smell,” he said. I did so. “Good smell,” he spoke with a smile. “It smells like incense,” I commented. “Yes, like incense,” he said, relishing in his story and the pure joy of his craft. Umesh was certainly a proud craftsman from time’s past, a relic of what humans were once capable of.

We made small talk during this time and he would occasionally look up from his work with the curious smile of a child and ask me a question. “Are you married?” he asked. “No, I’m not.” “You should be married,” he stated. “Do you have a girlfriend?” he continued.

“Yes, I do,” I told him, and then went on to describe her a little. “Will you marry her?” he questioned. “I don’t know,” I said, a little taken aback. “I think that you should marry her,” Umesh said with a slightly sly, mischievous grin.

Umesh continued working on the figure that he was shaping into a tiger until his father walked into the house. I was promptly introduced to him and we shook hands. Umesh then had to go to the palace to attend to the family carving stand and I was left in the charge of his father, who was the master carver of the family. His name was Shyam Singh and, like his son, he was also taught the carving trade from his father and had been making sandalwood handicrafts since he was a small child.

Shyam then took his son’s place on the work blanket and promptly began carving out little animal decorations on a pre-sculpted figure. I, again, just sat silently and watched. I was transfixed by the ancient movements of his hands as he scraped and cut the wood with the steel blade. He worked with as much precision as his son but he also held an incredibly high degree of absolute sureness about him that was obvious in each of his blade strokes. He seemed to be a part of the woodblock that he was carving and he worked with meditative concentration for a couple of hours. He would occasionally show me his progress and I would touch the figure and wipe the fresh dust from it, nod, smile, and then hand it back to him to carve a little more. The carving process was almost unbelievably time-consuming and two hours of solid work left one with a piece that was scarcely any nearer to completion as when one began.

Curiosity soon struck me and I picked up a piece of sandalwood scrap and a blade and tried to carve something into it. It took a good degree of strength to even get the blade to bite into the wood and I could not make any cuts with the slightest degree of precision. I laughed at myself and Shyam also giggled at my feeble attempt. I knew then that this art takes years upon years of constant practice to get a handle on, and a lifetime to perfect.

I knew that I was in the presence of ancient tradition while I was with these master craftsmen. I truly felt in those hours of silent carving that there was nothing in the world more honest than a craftsman’s working hands. I now know that some degree of traditional artistic spirit has so far survived the influx of modern brevity and triviality. But it will probably not endure. In the presence of Umesh and Shayam Singh I sadly know that I felt the last residual breaths of the ancient Indian artistic tradition. Umesh’s children will not carry on the family trade and he knows that the generational chain of folk knowledge will end with him. “There is not enough money in wood carving,” he told me sadly. This is the story of our monetarily driven times; there is no longer any room for tradition, patience, and heartfelt handiwork. We now live in a world where price-tags determine value and money directs the course of our attention. No longer will we know the mastery of Umesh and Shayam Singh; goodbye ancient craftsmen, goodbye.

*Written in the Autumn of 2006 in Southern India

Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
Anduze, France
December 17, 2007

The Tattoo Apprentice- Wanderjahr Jill

The Tattoo Apprentice- Wanderjahr Jill

Mira from the Wanderjahr Jill travel blog found herself in the shoes of the tattoo apprentice here in the south of France. My friend from Chile that we are visiting is a well established tattoo artist and, after looking over Mira’s drawings, agreed to teach her a little of the trade. So Mira goes to work with him, asks loads of questions, flips through tattooing magazines with a newfound exuberance, and- under supervision- has even tattooed a small piece on my leg.

Mira was a little nervous as she approached my leg with the oddly weighted tattoo machine for the first time. She had a little difficulty getting use to its odd shape and its oblong heaviness, and I must say that the machine really did look awkward swimming around in her hand. But once she put the buzzing needles into my skin I had full confidence that she would do a decent tattoo.

The Master showing Mira how to fix a tattoo stencil with a skin pen

And she did. Mira took that machine with the ingrained skill of a third generation artist and tentatively skipped through the tattoo in bursts and starts. She was learning, and my friend guided her along the way without hesitating to give her real criticism. When she did a poor line, my friend told her, when she learned a new technique, he just nodded silently like an old time scholar. “I do not want to give you too much information now,” my friend ominously stated, “because you are not ready for it.” With that he eased her into the very basics of putting ink into the skin.

The stencil of a Tibetan Om that Mira tattooed upon my leg

Mira is doing well and, if she can keep running, will soon carry the title of “tattoo artist.” Tattooing is another traveller’s trade that can be plied on almost any corner of the earth. But it seems to be a lifestyle that requires a great amount of skill, dedication, and an iron-will to learn. Mira has the talent- I can sense it in her very gait- and I know deep down that if she sets herself to learning how to tattoo that she will flourish.

I just think that I have a tendency to encourage my friends a little too much, and I fear that my exuberance about Mira tattooing may turn her off to it a little. I just hinted to her that she may want to practice drawing today and she nearly bit my head off. Seriously. I almost had to write this post a headless man. That would be no good.

Wanderjahr Jill at work tattooing me in France

I encourage Mira to tattoo not only because I like tattoos and I know that she really enjoys it, but because it will give us another way of making up bean money on the road. We now have Archaeology and English teaching in our bags, I have had a little success with getting a few articles published, and Mira may one day be able to tattoo professionally. I think this handful of trades will keep out bellies full and our feet a walking. On with it!

Things are going pretty good here in France. We are with friends, learning new arts, eating good meals, and doing lots of dishes. France is alright.

Mira smiling about her first completed tattoo

Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
Anduze, France
December 13, 2007

Drinking in Lisbon- Bairro Alto

Drinking in Lisbon- Bairro Alto

I walked out of my hotel in Bairro Alto on a Sunday morning and could only wonder about what had happened the night before. There were bars, beer, wine, a funny Russian, funnier Portuguese, a foosball table, Mira being really drunk, and thousands of people in the ancient stone streets just partying. I smiled to myself as I realized that everybody who stumbles out of into these streets after a good long Bairro Alto night wonders the same thing- “what happened?”

I suppose I was not that drunk, as I somehow managed to drag the stumbling and drooling Mira through the graffiti mazes of the old neighborhood back to our room in the hotel. It was a night. We had fun.

Pic of Barrio Alto Graffiti

Screaming over a mad game of foosball, Mira and I jumped up and down cheering on the Portuguese kids (who were way too good at foosball to be normal) to up the level of competition and get louder and louder as they knocked the silly little ball back and forth across the beaten up and battered wooden table with the stiff-ugly little soccer men. A gigantic Russian who spoke English in a nearly incomprehensible Hunter S. Thompson sort of way got into the fray and began buying drinks for everyone. Soon, the room was going crazy with fooz-ball and a flaming haired Portuguese gal began dancing real drunkenly and the bartender scolded all of us for having too much fun. We piped down a notch and a kid that we befriended a little earlier in the evening turned to me and asked if I had any drugs.

Oddly, I did.

Tattoo studio in Bairro Alto

An American chic dropped a chip of hash off on me at a previous bar- she was worried about being caught with it or some such story- and I took it just because it was free. It also was not my impression that the Portuguese police were really regulating the flow of drugs in Barrio Alto either, as every Moroccan within ten blocks was standing on every street corner propositioning all passerbys with offers of “hash, hash, cocaine, no buy, just have a look.”

I am not joking. A Moroccan who was cocksure that I was a drug addict because of my beard and tattoos followed me down a street trying to pawn some cocaine off on me by saying:

“No buy, just have a look.”

What, did he expect that I would simply enjoy the thrill of appreciating the appearance of his drugs? “Oh, your cocaine is so milky white, I am so glad that I just had a look.” The Moroccan character has really begun to interest me . . .


But anyway, against my usual travel habits I took the hash off of the American chick that somehow ended up with it. It was her first day in Portugal. I found no real risk attached to lightening her load . . . and it was free. I had no idea that it would come in handy.

So, mine and Mira’s Portuguese fooz-ball playing friend wanted some drugs, and I could not have wanted to oblige him more. So I handed it over to him and smoked it in the bar’s back corner while talking about Bill Hicks and telling jokes.

Then Mira went cross eyed, and we stepped out into the drunk strewn streets. Thousands of people were pooling around and clogging up every alley of Bairro Alto. We fought our way through the sea of drunken Portuguese and made it back to our cheap hotel. Mira stepped into the room and collapsed.

It was a fun night.


The neighborhood of Bairro Alto in Lisbon is a really interesting- dare I say unique- place on the planet. It is a massive, old neighborhood on a hill in the center of Lisbon, that is just chock full of bars. It is probably 10 blocks long and 6 wide, and has hundreds upon hundreds of pubs that almost solely make up the first floors of every building. On the second and third floors are the residential quarters of old people (I am not joking). By day the Bairro is a quiet little neighborhood of hobbling old ladies, and by night it is a booming party district for Lisbon’s underground and youth culture.


I must say that I have come and gone through many of the world’s party and youth cultural centers a touch disappointed. But Bairro Alto simply amazed me. It was oddly ungentrified- it was real, genuine, unspoiled. The walls of every building are scrawled with graffiti, and the district appears to be the very visualization of my long lost anarchy dreams. People begin to arrive in Bairro Alto at 1:30 AM and the party goes on until five or six. My impressions of this district are of smiling, drunken faces, drug dealers, art, soccer, beer bottles breaking, and drunk girls puking. All without the gut-wenching wails of police sirens. These streets have been privy to all-night parties for many years, and the chorus of drunken wails goes on as it has always had. Barrio Alto always had a bad reputation, and I hope that I add to it.


Bairro Alto refreshed me to the world in some regards. It sparked me to again realize that the substance of the earth has not been completely bought and sold; that there are places where you can live real culture free of make believe shows and hawkers hanging off of you like barnacles This is an area for locals, for the Portuguese- the drinks are cheap and plentiful. Bairro Alto is here because people want it. It has not succumbed to the thorough of commercialism or tourism.

I like Bairro Alto.

Photograph of the graffiti strewn streets of Bairro Alto

From the Wikipedia:

“Bairro Alto (literally upper quarter in Portuguese) is an area of central Lisbon, Portugal. It functions as a residential, shopping and entertainment district. Bairro Alto is one of the oldest districts of Lisbon, and it used to have a poor reputation until not so long ago. However, it was always a popular place. Dozens of fado singing clubs animated the area. All the major Portuguese newspapers had their offices in there. Prostitution was visible and considerable. Lisbon's dirty underground culture was based here.

Since the 1990s, the Bairro Alto went through some major changes. Lisbon's city council made extensive repairs, dozens of new restaurants, clubs and trendy shops were opened, and many young people moved in. Cars were banned (except for residents and emergency vehicles) andstreets are now pleasant. Today, the Bairro Alto (or just the Bairro) is the heart of Lisbon's youth and of the Portuguese capital's nightlife. Lisbon's Punk, Gay, Metal, Goth, Hip Hop and Reggae scenes, all have the Bairro as their home, due to the number of clubs and bars dedicated to each of them. The fado, Portugal's national song, still survives in the new Lisbon's nightlife. During daytime, the Bairro is still a traditional district where old people go shop their groceries, while the younger generations visit art galleries . . .”

Photograph of the streets of Bairro Alto

Bairro Alto

More photos from Lisbon: Lisbon Portugal Photographs
Article on Portuguese graffiti: Graffiti in Portugal: The Other Side of the Wall
More photos of Portuguese graffiti: Graffiti in Portugal



Wade from www.VagabondJourney.com
Anduze, France
December 10, 2007

Graffiti in Portugal: The Other Side of the Wall

Graffiti in Portugal: The Other Side of the Wall

“I write graffiti because my head and my heart demands me to write. Because I wake up and I go to bed with graffiti in my mind. Because it's the only thing that makes me forget my problems and my sadness completely. Because it makes me happy.”
-Mister Dheo, Portuguese Graffiti Writer.

Portugal: home to ancient ports, ornate cathedrals, old-time cobblestone streets, and some of the most amazing graffiti in the world today. I stepped off of the bus into Lisbon on a sunny day in autumn, and I was immediately absorbed into the grandiose scene that spread out all around me. I felt as if I had stepped back in time, everywhere I turned I saw the amenities of an ancient stone world, but covering it all, was the luminous shout of the modern age- bright, bold, and extremely well done- graffiti.

All through Lisbon, bright tags emblazon 400 year old porticos, magnificent contorted faces dance upon the high white walls of ancient ports, and highly artistic three dimensional action scenes are spray-painted within the ebb and flow of old-time Portugal. As I walked through this living museum- which concurrently had on display historic relics and modern street art- I realized that I wanted to dig deeper into this contradiction and excavate the world of the Portuguese graffiti artist. I wished to learn how they transformed a cold, stone city into a living, breathing work of art, as well as discover the inner motivation which drives the graffiti artists to risk liberty and limb to display their art so publicly. My mission was to find these silent painters of the night, so that I could hear- in their own words- what graffiti means.

To hear the unspoken messages which scream inaudibly from every piece of graffiti in Lisbon, I met with a writer who goes by the name of Odeith on a brisk Saturday afternoon. He picked me up at the front gate of a giant shopping mall in a shiny black BMW. We were able to identify each other without difficulty, as we both have tattoos that creep out from our clothing and cover our hands, fingers, and necks. We shook hands jovially, and I immediately chided him about his seemingly prestigious choice of vehicle. He laughed and then quickly assured me that his BMW was over 15 years old and worth more separated into spare parts than in its present drive-able condition.

“So, what are you doing? What do you want to know about graffiti?” he then asked me as we jumped into his car and right into the content of my interview.

Odeith's Hall of Fame

“I want to know about the philosophy behind graffiti; I want to know what it means and what it communicates.”

“Alright, man,” Odeith then said with a deep smile and a nod of his head, “I will show you my Hall of Fame.”

At this, we turned a corner and drove on through the outskirts of Lisbon. As we rode passed a few middle class neighborhoods, Odeith taught me a little about the social circumstances that he grew up in. “I live in the ghetto,” he said, and then continued to tell me how he had to leave school when he was fifteen to help his father with his furniture business. Odeith told me that his neighborhood, called Cova Moura, is similar to the slums of Rio de Janeiro. I had a difficult time accepting this, as my previous travels in Portugal did not reveal many abject signs of economic disparity to me. But as I listened to Odeith speak, I got the feeling that I was being taken through a gate to the other, darker side of Portugal.

I then asked Odeith how he began doing graffiti, and he told me that his first tastes of the art was, like most graffiti artist, through bombing- illegally painting in various public spaces. “Every weekend we just painted three, four cans on the lines [corridors where the trains run], you know. . . For two years I was dedicated to the silver . . . Then I began thinking about bigger pieces.” And likewise, Odeith’s Hall of Fame- a collection of graffiti murals on a large wall- was born.

Graffiti by Odeith

As we approached the area of his Hall of Fame, which is on a towering stone wall that surrounds a grade school, Odeith explained that we had entered the frontier between middle class Lisbon and the slums. On one side of this colorfully painted barrier was a pleasant seeming urban suburb, and on the other side was the hill that harbors the infamous ghetto of Cova Moura. Odeith’s graffiti wall- his Hall of Fame- essentially acts as the gateway into the under-side of Lisbon; a warning sign and bold declaration of the horrors that you will find on the inside.

Another piece of graffiti from Odeith's Hall of Fame

Odeith parked his car on the brink of this frontier, and we approached his masterpiece on foot. The shear magnitude of this stone canvas was behemoth; it was more than 12 ft high and stretched for over 150ft in one direction just to turn a corner and go on for at least 150 more. Most impressive of all, was the fact that this mammoth structure was covered from bow to stern in bright, highly detailed, and immaculately well-done graffiti. I was overcome with shock as I got closer to this surreal monstrosity. It was alive, the paintings moved and breathed harsh tales about the daily struggle for existence. There were wildly painted, cris-crossing letters, realistic faces of women crying and men with big cigars, and illustrations seemed to jump off the concrete to pull you into the stories that are perpetually acted out upon the wall. Odeith was proud of his creation, and he excitedly explained to me how he painted it and what it all means:

“What I like about graffiti is the message. If you enter into the ghetto you see things that most of the people do not see. They are just roaches. Most of the people are just roaches. I try to give a message. If an MC can say something into a mic to the people, you can paint it on a wall. You paint on a wall to show something.”

Graffiti by Odeith

In his Hall of Fame, Odeith shows us a window into his life on the other side of the wall; of life in the desperate, covered up and ignored ghetto of Lisbon. He then directed my attention to a section of the wall that stands directly above the path up the hill to the Cova Moura ghetto.

“As Baratas Alimentam-se Dos Nossos Restos Nós Dos Restos Do Planeta”- The Cockroaches feed themselves on our leftovers, we on the leftovers of the planet- was written in big letters above a scene of frightening urban decay. “The roaches feed on our leftovers, we feed on the leftovers of the earth. What makes us less disgusting than the roaches?” Odeith ominously restated. He then told me how he wants to paint a large cemetery in the middle of his Hall of Fame, “because no matter what side of the wall you are from, we all end up in the same place.” Odeith then reflected for a moment before continuing,“You know what is a shame, man, for most of the people they only see the corner and what colors I use; they don’t see my feelings, they don’t see the ghetto, they don’t see the kids with drugs.”

Look at this closely! This is the graffiti work that gives justice to the name: Odeith the Illusionist

So I asked Odeith if we could walk together through the ghetto, so I could get a better idea of what he was talking about and where he came from. He seemed pleased with my interest in his neighborhood, and led the way passed his wall and into the world on the other side. Here the streets were merely dirt-paths, and were lined with shabbily made, discordant houses, broken down cars, and drug-addicts buying fodder for their maniacal habits. Odeith took me around this beaten down community and showed me a few of his graffiti pieces. One was a mural of the rapper Tupac, and served as a memorial to nine kids from his neighborhood who were either shot by the police or other kids. This truly was a world apart from the clean and orderly city of Lisbon, which stretched out in all directions below us. Odeith’s wall was really the gate between two separate realities, and he, the gate-keeper, was treated here as the King of this gutter.

But many people in the city have a difficult time realizing the beauty of graffiti, and it is illegal in Portugal. In lieu of this fact, artists either have to do hurried, quickly-done bombed pieces in the cloister of night, find obscure places to paint where they will not attract attention, or work with the communities that they wish to display their art to obtain permission from land-owners. The Porto based writer, Mr. Dheo, says that, “In Portugal, city councils don't support graffiti, they don't care about graffiti artists, they just want to stop graffiti vandalism. So the only way for you to grow up as an artist and have opportunity to work is to try to legalize walls for your own. I use to knock on doors with my portfolio and try my luck.” Odeith’s Hall of Fame was also done with the permission of the land-owner and the enthusiastic support of the local community. “The people love it,” Odeith says in reference to his masterpiece, and this sentiment is reflected by that fact that the people who live immediately adjacent to his wall donated over $350 so that he could purchase paint and supplies. Eskema, another Portuguese graffiti artist, would often take a different route to finding space to paint, and says that, “Most of them [his murals] are illegal, but I always manage to find a quiet, semi-abandoned place where I probably won't be bothered.”

There are obviously very mixed feelings in Portugal about graffiti. The old Lisbon neighborhood of Barrio Alto is almost 100% covered with bombed, illegal graffiti, and many people in the city want to clean it up. “Graffiti is considered vandalism and destruction of property,” Eskema explains. To this point, Mr. Dheo adds that “. . . it's obvious that a lot of people don't like it [graffiti]. Those are the older ones, who don't understand it, who are not open minded and can't even separate art from vandalism.”

Another presentation of corner illusion by the King of the Gutter: Odeith

I pondered these points as I was talking with Odeith, and I asked him what the common people of Portugal think about graffiti. “Do you know Barrio Alto?” he asked me, “Everybody hates it [graffiti] there. But to me it is a newspaper on the walls. Most of the people hate that bullshit. ‘That graffiti, that graffiti’ [they say] . . . To me it is a newspaper. I am reading right now who is in the town, who is more up, who is down. . .if I go to drink some beer in Barrio Alto, people there are talking about football or soccer or something on the TV and I am reading . . .you can tell who is more patient, who is more crazy, it is like a newspaper.”

As I returned to my room in Barrio Alto later that night, I took a detour so I could walk through the graffiti strewn streets and really think about what it all means. I tried to read the walls as if they were a newspaper, and I found that there are hidden stories told through each piece of graffiti that the general populous- who only sees scribbled lines and vandalism- could only conjecture. These are the stories of a people without a voice, and a can of spray paint is the only way they can make their feelings known. Their shouts cannot be heard, but the potent images of their art is forever thrown into the face and scrawled upon the city walls of the status-quo that keeps them entrapped in the nameless gutters of society.

Portuguese graffiti is a deep form of art that serves as an ominous reminder that we are walking in the dawning days of the twenty first century- a reminder that we live in a world that is still full of problems and disparities. Graffiti is a message that cries out for us to venture through the gates to the other side of the wall: to realize that we live in a world that is raw, unpolished, and beautiful. Graffiti also delivers potent messages which rise up from the gutters of Portugal and demands to be heard. In essence, graffiti is the voice of the of the streets.

For more information on Portuguese Graffiti and the artists mentioned above, please visit the follow websites:

Odeith the Illusionist
Mr. Dheo
Eskema Stage 3
Art Crimes
Photos of Graffiti in Portugal

A special thank you also goes out to the artists- Odeith, Mr.Dheo, and Eskema- and Susan from Art Crimes for their invaluable help. This ragged vagabond thanks you from the bottom of his heart.

Thank You,

Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
Lisbon, Portugal
December 3, 2007

On Portuguese Graffiti- Interview with Mr.Dheo

Interview with Portuguese Graffiti Artist- Mr. Dheo

This is an interview that I did with the Porto based graffiti artist, Mr. Dheo. It is part of my story on Graffiti in Portugal that I wrote for Cafe Abroad magazine. If you would like more information about graffiti in Portugal or would like to check out some more of Mr.Dheo's work, please visit his website at www.mrdheo.com.


What attracted you to the art of graffiti? Why did you start writing?

I was drawing before I even know how to speak fluently. When I was 3 years old I was already drawing my own stuff and I used to copy every font of the newspaper just beacuse they were visually attractive to me. Ever since I have never stopped and I did it every single day, even though there's a curious thing: I absolutely hated to draw with pencil. All my life I used just a pen, to fill, to outline, to do shadows and the 3d effects and specially due to the fact that I couldn't erase. I guess this explains why I've always rejected to paint with oil, acrylic or other ink, it just wasn't my thing. Plus, I've had always rejected as well to have any type of art classes.

When I was 15 I've seen an Hip Hop videoclip on the tv, where all the backgorund was graffiti. For the first time I felt connected to something, mainly because it was different. It was the unique art form in years that really gave me that special feeling inside.

So I've grabbed my pen and a sketch book and Íve started to practice. A few weeks later I got my first cans and did the first piece, without knowing anyone who even liked graffiiti. That came with time and with it I was able to paint in so many times and in so many different spots that graffiti turned the biggest virus in my life. It was 7 years ago and nowadays I keep so active and still hungry for more.

Why do you write graffiti? What does it mean? What are you trying to communicate?

I write graffiti because my head and my heart demands me to write. Because I wake up and I go to bed with graffiti in my mind. Because it's the only thing that makes me forget my problems and my sadness completely. Because it makes me happy. Because I couldn't be more addicted to something as I am with graff. And I could go on and give you so many reasons why I do it.

I do it for myself, just as simple as that. Even when I do a graffiti job I still do it for myself, but adapted to the client. Doing it for myself means that I just communicate what I am. I usually don't have an explicit message, I don't like it to be that way. I don't like people to look at my piece and understand it so quickly that they will not look twice. I want people to be glued and stuck to it. I want them to understand what took me to do that specific artwork, or at least to make them think. If they do, I've made my day. And if they follow my work they'll start to get to know me, maybe understanding me, maybe agreeing with me and maybe feeling close to me. The most amazing thing is that if they try to imagine how I look like they have no idea. That makes me feel how strong can be an artwork placed on the street.

How do you do your big graffiti pieces? It seems as if they take a long time, do you get the permission of land owners?

I only paint with permission, so I can take all the time in the World, even though I work fast and a day is usually enough to do a medium size piece. In Portugal city councils don't support graffiti, they don't care about graffiti artists, they just want to stop graffiti vandalism. So the only way for you to grow up as an artist and have opportunity to work is to try to legalize walls for your own. I use to knock on doors with my portfolio and try my luck.

What is the graffiti community in Portugal like? Do the artist work together? Or are they in competition with each other?

The graff community here is similar to almost every country. We are a small country but we have amazing artists here, who work together many times. But there's always competition, you can not avoid it. Mostly between bombing / train writers, who buff each other and keep little wars . It's normal, you have your own spots, your risky pieces, you want to keep your name and fame and in the ilegal side it's a race, a constant race. I see competition as a good thing, if healthy. Without it you have no one to push you, to make you be a better artist, you see what I mean? But when competition means violence I'm completely against it. Graffiti is the opposite of violence.

I was in Lisboa one month ago (I am in Milfontes now) and I was really impressed by how much really good graffiti writing there was all over the buildings. How do you think most people in Lisboa feel about graffiti? Do you think they like it?

Well as you know I live in Gaia (Porto), in the North side of the country, but I know Lisbon graff scene very well and have painted there a few times. I couldn't agree more with you in the quality you've mentioned. Lisbon is actually the most advanced graffiti city in the country because there are more writers there and the graff scene in Portugal actually began there. So Lisbon cityzens are now used to it, and accept it more, but it's obvious that a lot of people don't like it. Those are the older ones, who don't understand it, who are not open minded and can't even separate art from vandalism. For them it's all the same and it sucks. But of course there are people who like it, otherwise there wouldn't exist graff job opportunities.

Interview by Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
November, 2007

The following are photographs of Mr.Dheo's graffiti:

Portuguese Graffiti Artist Eskema- Interview

Interview with the Portuguese Graffiti Artist, Eskema

The following is an interview that I did with the Portuguese graffiti artist Eskema. This is a part of the rough pieces of a larger article that I wrote for Cafe Abroad magazine about graffiti in Portugal. To find out more about the artist, Eskema, or to look at more photos of his graffiti please go to his website Eskema Stage 3.

What attracted you to the art of graffiti? Why did you start writing?

I don't know exactly why, I was around 11 - 12 years old (1994 - 1995)
when I really took conscience about graffiti, I was living in
Switzerland at that time and in Geneva graffiti was everywhere. I just
started tagging. It was a way to be someone, to be knowned I guess,
but I don't think I was thinking that back then. I was just doing it
because it felt good. I bought some graffiti magazines and there was
one that really influenced me. I think it was StyleWars #2 Frankfurt
issue and I stumbled upon the early works of Daim, Delta and Loomit
who definitely influenced me the most because they were doing
something completely different beyond just letters or characters, they
were creating dimensions.

At 13, I came back to Portugal for good, and I was living in the
middle of nowhere where graffiti didn't exist so I was stuck with
sketches and random tags because in a portuguese little town everyone
knows what everyone does and messing with neighbours walls would have
me put in big troubles. It's only at 17 when I moved to Évora that I
met people who was into graffiti, especially Puto who soon became my
best friend and graffiti buddy. We mostly painted everytime together.
He had a car accident 3 years ago and died, he being no longer here
was very hard for me and was probably the main reason for me to put
graffiti on hold for a time, it just wasn't fun to paint anymore.

Why do you write graffiti? What does it mean? What are you trying
to communicate?

I write because it's my way to express myself and just don't give a
shit about what others think about it. It's probably the only thing
that I do and only care about what I and only I think of the final
result. I only did one commissioned job and I didn't like it because I
was conditioned to do something for another person, for that person's
approval, and for me graffiti is not that. I don't mean that people
who does commissioned jobs are wrong, not at all. What I mean is that
I chose graphic designer to be my career and kept graffiti as my
refuge to my true expression. It is something that makes me feel good,
if other people like it I'm pleased but if they don't I couldn't care
less either. It's not a job for me or a career, it's not stressful,
it's just calm and quiet. I don't think that I'm trying to communicate
something when I paint, I just paint for my own pleasure.

How do you do your big graffiti pieces? It seems as if they take a
long time, do you get the permission of land owners?

I never was into graffiti for bombing (yeah I did it too but it's not
really my thing), I really enjoy to spend an afternoon doing a piece.
Most of them are ilegal but I always manage to find a quiet semi
abandoned place where I probably won't be bothered.
Most of the times I go straight to the walls, no sketches, just
improvise and see what comes out.

What is the graffiti community in Portugal like? Do the artist work
together? Or are they in competition with each other?

The graffiti community in Portugal is quite big, and very talented.
There's always competition but I think it's a very united community
with artist always working with each other more in a friendly way than
a competitive one.

I was in Lisboa one month ago (I am in Milfontes now) and I was
really impressed by how much really good graffiti writing there was
all over the buildings. How do you think most people in Lisboa feel
about graffiti? Do you think they like it?

Only the youth mostly, Portugal is still a very conservative country
and most aged people still look at it as pure evil vandalism.

What are the legal issues that the graffiti artist faces? Is it
difficult to avoid the police?

Graffiti is considered vandalism and destruction of property so you
probably need a lawyer if you get caught. The police is manageable
depending on where you decide to paint but it's always a good idea to
be prepared for a quick run...

Could you tell me a story from your experiences with doing graffiti?

Don't really have a story to tell here... One thing that always make
me laugh was back then, I was painting for a year or so and I met Uber
who was one of the biggest writers at the time (he retired painting a
while ago) and he invited me to participate in Oeiras graffiti contest
2000. It was huge to me, you know being a newbie and coming to Lisbon
for a graffiti contest was scaring. I did the piece, it didn't went
bad actually but I completely fucked up with my tag afterwards. I made
a huge signature tag that wrecks the whole piece (heeheheh). It's
funny to remember that I putted so much work on the piece and paid
attention to tiny details and ruined it with a big ugly newbie tag...
But it was a fun experience and after that I learned to manage my tags
more carefully.

Eskema

Interview by Wade from Vagabond Journey.com
November, 2007

Photographs of graffiti by Eskema:

Graffiti in Portugal

Graffiti in Portugal
Vila Nova de Milfontes, Portugal
November 1, 2007
Wade from www.VagabondJourney.com

One thing that struck me right off about Portugal is the quality of the graffiti. The following are some photographs of grafitti that I took around the Lisbon area of Portugal.

• Graffiti
• Graffiti in Portugal
• Graffiti in Europe
• Portugal
• Lisbon

For more information and photos of Portuguese graffiti please go to:

Graffiti in Portugal: The Other Side of the Wall
On Portuguese Graffiti: Interview with Mr. Dheo
Interview with Portuguese Graffiti Artist Eskema
Drinking in Lisbon- Barrio Alto
Photos of Portuguese Graffiti