cut from a different cloth

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.