guess what. my balikbayan box from
china came through yesterday. new
cloth coming soon! i got me about
120 shirts worth of new fabric.
iamdeerhunter@gmail.com if your curious.
7:30 a.m.
it was a fine, brisk morning.
the coffee was hot, and the
breakfast tasty.
the rooster's were crowing,
the pigs were still asleep,
and our neighbors were up
and at it with their morning
chores.
amidst the pounding of rice...
...kids, laughing and playing
as they sharpen their bolo's...
amidst an endearing father,
carefully grooming his son...
...the distant and faint bouncing
of a basketball...
amidst this serene scene that defines
daily life in the village of buscalan...
i couldn't help but ask myself,
"why am i doing this again?"
(rewind to my first three hours)
look at me, all smiling and shit.
i was thinking, "i got this. this is cake, son."
then she started digging in my inner
thigh. that's when the fun started.
so on my second day, whang od's niece
happened to be loungin' nearby, peepin'
her work.
whang od -- who's been tatting us for three
straight days, at eight hours per day --
must've been tired and needed a break.
she tells her niece to take over for a bit.
the idea of a sixteen year old with barely
any experience with tattoos would make
anyone feel a little uneasy about the
situation.
so i'm thinkin' to myself,
"uuummmm... yyyeeah... should i,
should i say something?"
after a few hours -- your body's exhausted and your skin
starts to pull away from the needle -- your mind begins to
think "out of the box." it redirects its focus to a point far,
far away, in an attempt to overcome the pain.
my mind said,
"i'm not here, i'm over there... i'm workin' the fields...
yes, i'm workin' the fields with the 100 year old lady...
tending the rice terraces. i'm not getting a tat right
now, i'm tending the rice terraces."
after twelve hours and two days, i was finally done.
(for now)
a successful trip calls for a celebration.
at the discretion of celebrating in our room,
we basked in our last meal of ant eggs and
a bottle of tanduay.
the following morning, with a pat on the back and
many thanks, we bid whang od and friends farewell.
along with a pack of peanuts we were given a gift,
from a nearby plantation, that we enjoyed before
our bus ride home.
we took the only bus bound for tabuk,
and from tabuk went straight to manila.
(i left a present for the cordillera, in
a bush, a few minutes before we
departed.)
'till next time.
the end
meet whang od
(pronounced as fang-ud)
so the story goes like this:
she's been doin' tats since she was fourteen.
she started practicing on herself by tattooing
her legs until she felt comfortable enough with
the process. at eighty-six years old she's the last
of her kind that practices this ancient method.
(at least, as far as "original-gangster-straight-
from-kalinga-you-need-to-take-a-seventeen-
hour-trip-to-the-bundok-for-this-shit" goes)
i'm sure there are filipino's out there keeping
the tradition alive. but, i don't believe they're
as gangsta as my lady, whang od, over here.
so, once she's dead, authentic kalinga tattoo's
die with her.
why, you ask?
one: everyone else that knew it passed away.
two: she has no successor 'cause she's never
had any kids. she's been single -- and ready to
mingle -- since her husband died when she was
twenty-five years old.
three: the new generation of kids aren't interested.
they all prefer to get college degrees so they can
one day move to god-forsaken manila.
moving along now... watch her work.
homie clocked in at five hours plus
one fifteen-minute cigarette break.
let's not forget, ladies and gents, the
three hour hike? what about the rice
and ants thirty minutes before he
started?
and i forgot to mention.
this is homeboy's first tat.
the "needle" she uses is actually a thorn -- plucked
from an orange tree. as you can see, the thing's
pretty thick (that's what she said). but, she doesn't
completely stab you with it. otherwise, if she did,
homie wouldn't be lookin' so cool right now. she
actually sets the thorn in at a mere eighth to two-
eighths of an inch beneath the surface of your skin.
so technically, it "pricks" you.
but, don't let that term mislead you. imagine about
one-hundred "pricks" a minute, for about five to six
hours a day, for two straight days. the shit hurts, okay?
especially when she starts tap-tap-tapping at your bone,
or, any tender parts (like your inner thigh). the pain
feels so good it makes you wanna slap yo' momma.
for those of you freakin' out right now,
that black stuff on his arm isn't blood.
it's a mixture of charcoal and water.
she uses it to coat the open wounds.
so chill out.
day 2
after breakfast and a hot cup
of native joe, we clock in for work.
spectators of all ages come to see the show.
homie put in a solid six hours his
second day.
in the two-and-a-half days and
fourteen hours she worked on
his arm, she was able to cover
three-quarters of its upper side.
bring on the ants. (again)
bring on the pain.
"wu style is immensely strong, and immune
to nearly any weapon. when it's properly
used, it's almost invincible."
"doo-haa, doo-haa...
doo-haa, doo-haa...
doo-haa, doo-haa..."
"raw imma give it to ya, with no trivia..."
(wu-tang saved my life)
to be continued...
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