July, 2024
Buscalan, Philippines - The main sound I heard after arriving in Buscalan was that of puffing and gasping. A group of us had just finished a big move to the remote town, tucked deep in the rolling hills of the Kalinga Territory of the Philippines.
But, like me, my kindred explorers made this 12-hour trek not just for the stunning views of moving rice fields - we were there to meet Apo Whang-Od Oggay.
At 107 years old, Whang-Od is the world's most proven tattooist. She has been practicing "batok," a conventional method of inking used by the indigenous clans of the region, since she was a teenager.
For more than ninety years, she has been tattooing by hand, driven by horticulture and the neighborhood. She has inked ancestral warriors with intricate mathematical examples and ladies of the Butbut clan with images of fertility.
We were not clan members, anyway, but dissolved travelers. Before ascension, we had driven for a very long time under the blazing sun, following street signs with printed pictures of Whang-Od.
The centennial's fame is drawing a wave of daily vacationers to Buscalan and creating a growing tattoo industry in this generally agricultural town. Across the mountain, about a dozen other (and mostly younger) locals sat with guests tattooing images of mountains, plants and snakeskin.
An assistant nearby added our names to Whang-Od's list and we wandered around for the rest of the day, toasting pretty hot barako-espresso. We walked through narrow backstreets and saw the tattoo artist's face on almost everything - from shirts to bracelets to espresso bundles - on special on delays around town.
As our time progressed, we returned to the waiting area and watched as the line slowly crept along. Whang-Od had been machine tapping tattoos for quite some time now, and I emphasized that she was exhausting herself.
I was one of over 100 people inked by her that day. Some were outsiders, others were Filipinos from different regions of the archipelago. Many, like me, were Filipinos by descent who had grown up abroad and hoped to encounter our own way of life directly, beyond the stories of our parents.
Not long before dusk it was my chance to sit in front of Whang-Od, who was slumped on a stool.
I looked at her in bewilderment. She wore a free, gorgeous tie-kick-the-bucket shirt and strikingly designed pants, while her own ancestral tattoos were on full display. This was my most memorable tattoo and I was worried. Either way, her crumpled, bespectacled face relaxed as her red lips grinned generously at me.
I gave her the inking instrument, which I had previously bought as a souvenir: a needle designed from a pomelo and connected to the highest point of a handmade bamboo stick. She dipped it in a combination of coal and water. I wiped my forearm with a drink wipe and marked where I wanted my tattoo.
Within seconds she was pounding incessantly. Her taps repeated – 'tak-tak' – around the emergency shed outside her home. My arm deflated and ached as if it had been continuously pinched in a similar spot.
Batok, or native Philippine ink, has been around for more than 1,000 years. The elaborate plans once graced all kinds of people and signified everything from courage to strength and security.
Yet the conventional artwork becomes undesirable, especially because of its relationship to the forbidden scouting (generally men would get chest tattoos after recovering the top of a dead enemy).
Landlocked high in the mountains, the Kalinga region remained truly free for more than 300 years of Spanish border rule, as scarred heroes furiously fended off outcasts.
When American Catholic preachers finally showed up to convene schools in the twentieth century, young urban ladies – who often sported tattoos indicating they were old enough – had to cover their arms with long sleeves.
Getting inked was seen as a mark of shame at whatever point locals went to local urban communities, as metropolitan Filipinos often thought the training was "reverse." In recent years, the fame of tattoos among groups of criminals has led to even more shame about the craftsmanship.
“Experiencing tattoos in childhood in the Philippines was certainly not fun, especially for strict families, given the unfortunate underlying meanings and criminal ties,” says Kent Donguines, the Filipino-Canadian overseer of an impending Whang-Od story. the rice portals.”
As I can now confirm, this shame lives on today. After I saw my new tattoo, my Catholic-raised father, who grew up in Manila, didn't speak to me for a whole week. Apparently unaffected by the story of my trip to Buscalan, he warned me that I was living a 'crazy life'.
Be that as it may, the awards are in flux – and this may well be Whang-Od's fault to some extent.
Although she had been known locally for some time, Whang-Od rose to prominence after tattoo anthropologist Lars Krutak highlighted her in the Disclosure Channel series "Tattoo Tracker", which circulated in 2009. (The Revelation Station is possessed by CNN's parent organization, Warner Brothers Disclosure)
Word spread immediately. Travel vloggers, news crews and Filipino VIPs usually flocked to meet her. Whang-Od graced the front cover of Vogue Philippines in April 2023, making her the most seasoned person to ever front any version of the critically acclaimed magazine. Recently, a previous Miss Universe Philippines contestant, Michelle Dee, got inked by Whang-Od after participating in the event in an outfit excited by her tattoo plans.
The 107-year-old's global fame has sparked a wider discussion about Filipino character. Tattoo fans say her work celebrates parts of pre-pilgrim culture, demystifies preconceived limitations and views batok as a mark of place ownership.
As shown by ancient stories and Krutak's research, the training was passed on to families, but often only to the men. Whang-Od acquired her craft from her father, who was considered an expert tattooist in the district and saw the potential in her abilities.
The images she inked – ranging from mathematical lines, circles, creatures and ancestral prints – all had special significance. A few plans involved the scene, nearby yields (such as piles of rice). Celestial images and images of the ocean have also been added to the overview of the plans.
In the long run, her tattoos also become images of harmony. As pointed out by Krutak, who has focused on many years of Whang-Od's work, she even inked neighboring clans such as the Bontoc, who were generally enemies and journeyed (no doubt on foot along country roads, he said) to get to their ancestral lands. functions.
Buscalan is still somewhat impeccable due to its current comfort. There's no cell phone meeting, but a small group of vendors prefer to sell Wi-Fi access to guests (local escorts nearby use walkie-talkies to relay). Most families actually support themselves by developing rice.
Still, no matter what, this provincial region is making progress as Whang-Od and her disciples attract an ever-increasing number of vacationers. During my visit, I passed by a community event conducted on an indoor ball field. A rank-and-file delegate told a horde of seniors that the city expected to monitor guest numbers to decide on the number of new water tanks and waste disposal regions to be fabricated.
Krutak said a growing number of local people are currently earning enough to pay rent through the travel industry, but urban pioneers regularly tell him not to forget that they are essentially a farming area.
"Their predecessors shed a lot of blood to protect the city at the highest point of the mountain, they put it there as an explanation," Krutak said.
Whang-Od often says that material possessions disappear when you die, but tattoos are the most important things you can accomplish after death, Krutak added, recalling his numerous conversations with her.
Furthermore, regardless of Whang-Od's advanced age, she is not doomed.
The tattoo artist's family has set up a grave for her, hidden on the mountain, with a monster sculpture of her surrounded by photos, grants and memorabilia of the many guests she inked throughout her life.
As Whang-Od sat in front of me, I felt myself stop breathing and struggle to find the words to convey, despite both of us being Filipinos. I communicate in Tagalog, but she only communicates in her ancestral language and the provincial language, Ilocano.
A sign waving from the tiered roof above us provided some assistance. As I went through it, I mumbled “manjamanan” as I thanked her. I reflected internally that despite the long time between us, we were lucky to spend those ten minutes together so that I could encounter this custom somewhere near our predecessors.
The tattoo she gave me is her specific plan these days: three basic spots. With her blurred vision and the large number of customers on a daily basis, Whang-Od had to enhance her tattoos to be able to see everyone.
“(My companions who gave tattoos) have all died,” Whang-Od told CNN at a meeting in 2017. “I am the last remaining straggler who gives tattoos so far. However, I am not afraid that the practice will do that.” end since (I'm preparing) the next tattoo aces.”
The three dabs address herself and her two second cousins, Effortlessness Palicas and Elyang Wigan, both of whom she is preparing as students.
For many, including myself, the spots can also be seen as circles, an imprint indicating that the craftsmanship and stories from her city will live on – that at least when she dies, this ancient craftsmanship will be shared for a long time into the future.
References.. vocal.media & other media