The
95-year-old mambabatok, tattoo
artist, sets her tools in a soot-stained plastic ice cream tub, and wipes her
intricately-inked wrinkly hands on the sides of her shirt as she slowly stands up
from the rock she was sitting on in front of her decrepit wood-and-tin house,
which also serves as her tattoo shop, in the mountain village of Buscalan,
Kalinga.
She has
just finished working on a tourist’s arm kayyaman,
a centipede tattoo believed to bring the gods’ guide and protection to its
bearer. But the work is not quite done yet, for the client, a young lawyer and
previous tattoo virgin, wants another whatek,
another tattoo – a five-inch python slithering next to the centipede.
The
remaining job is left by Apo for her
teenage grandniece and only apprentice, Gracia “Grace” Palicas, to continue.
Sitting on
her grandaunt’s rock, the budding tattoo artist gathers herself and slips into
pure concentration. In a split second, the bubbly girl with the playful smile
is gone. Through her dark almond eyes, you might think her soul has drifted
somewhere distant. Yet, the way she moves tells you that she remains united
with her body, and allows the rustling of the trees and the sound of the wind
to take control of it.
She fixes
her eyes on the tourist’s bleeding bicep, and gently trails her fingers on his
skin. She takes one last deep breath before she finally starts drawing the
python with a bamboo strip dipped in whiyug,
a soot-derived ink.
It does
not take another minute after completing the snake’s outline for Grace to start
hammering the ink into her client’s skin by striking the gisi – a tool fashioned from a stick and pomelo thorn, which serves
as the needle – with a pat-ik, a long
and sturdy wooden rod.
Tick – tick – tick – tick – tick…
The sound
of wood beating wood beating skin is fast like a metronome on an overdrive. It
conjures a unique melody that joins nature and spirit. Above all, it is a
rhythm that reverberates an ancient Philippine tradition that has been
practiced for thousands of years, with a future now in the hands of a
bright-eyed 18-year-old girl.
Dubbed as
the most beautiful young woman in Buscalan, Grace has a silky black river of
hair flowing from her head to the middle of her back, enviable sun-kissed brown
skin, and an infectious smile. She is not tall, but her muscled arms and legs
speak for her strength.
Just like
most teenage girls, her toenails are painted. For this week, she chose a nice
periwinkle blue shade. An ornate half bracelet tattoo, a collection of thick
and fine zigzag lines, wraps the area just below her right arm’s inner elbow.
She has two other tattoos inked on her back by Whang-Od, including a kayyaman, her favorite design.
Grace
developed a keen interest in her tribe’s tattooing custom at a tender age, and
began learning the art of the whatek
through her apo Whang-Od when she
turned ten. The time she had away from rice paddies, school, and house chores,
she spent on polishing her tattooing skills, her little hands meticulously
mimicking the movements of her grandaunt’s, hoping one day, she’d be able to
perfect her talent.
“I am
confident that it is Grace who will take over my place as this tribe’s mambabatok when I’m already too weak to
work,” apo Whang-Od says in the Kalinga dialect.
Eight
years later, Grace has dropped out of college, completely ending her short-lived
dream of becoming a teacher and totally committing herself to the whatek tradition, carving a name of her
own – quite literally – in the rich tattooing scene one body at a time.
“Ipagpapatuloy ko pa rin ‘to kahit anong
mangyari,” the girl is steadfast in defending her duty as the only guardian of her
tribe’s vanishing custom.
While the
number of Kalinga’s mamababatoks has
gone down from a handful to two, people wishing to get a whatek are growing at a surprisingly fast rate, keeping Grace and
her apo preoccupied every week with
throngs and throngs of clients, Filipino and foreign, who hike for some two
hours from the main road in Bugnay, another village in the municipality of
Tinglayan, to reach Buscalan and get inked.
“Halos araw-araw may nagpapatattoo dito. Kapag
holiday, mas marami ang dumadayo.
Nagkakapila yung mga gustong magpatattoo,” Grace says.
The whatek gained popularity among thrill
seekers and tattoo aficionados, when it received coverage from mainstream media
in the 2000s, a result of the piqued interests of local and international documentarians,
including renowned American tattoo anthropologist Lars Krutak, who featured the
Kalinga tattoo in “Tattoo Hunter”, a series of documentaries about indigenous
body art forms aired on the Discovery Channel.
Although the
reemergence of the Kalinga tattoo is seemingly healthy for the region’s tourism
and the tradition itself, it is its true essence that’s gradually becoming
obsolete.
The whatek used to be reserved only for the
brave head hunters of Kalinga, who defend their tribes from intruders and
enemies, and Kalinga women, who wear tattoos on their bodies as marks of beauty
and to bring fertility. Inked Kalinga women accentuate the concept of ambaru, the concept of beauty.
Today,
however, the whatek is often treated
more like a souvenir or reward for making the dangerous trip to and from
Buscalan.
She also heavily
disagrees with people who call her apo
Whang-Od the “last” Kalinga tattoo artist.
“Siya lang yung last sa old generation. Ako na yung new generation
na mambabatok,” she explains.
In an
effort to keep the custom alive outside Kalinga and in sync with the beat of
the modern Filipino life, Grace takes part in the annual Dutdutan – a tattoo convention in Manila that exhibits the talents
of the finest Filipino tattoo artists – on behalf of Whang-Od, who is now too
weak to travel.
“Lahat sila, puro ‘bzzzzz’ yung tunog ng
pangtattoo nila. Sa akin lang yung maingay na tick-tick-tick yung tunog,” Grace
laughs, recounting her first Dutdutan
experience.
In a few
days, she will be setting out on another journey to Manila for her sophomore
stint at Dutdutan. Grace proudly says
that the event’s organizer Ricky Sta. Ana, himself, invited her to participate
in the two-day convention, which will be held on September 26 to 27, 2014. She obliged,
with high hopes of introducing her tribe’s culture to more people in the
country’s capital.
It’s a few
minutes past one in the afternoon on a Saturday, and the crowd at the Kalinga tattoo
booth near the entrance has grown once again. Bewildered eyes are fixed on the
chocolate-skinned teenage girl, who is hammering ink into the forearm of a man with
the use of sticks and a thorn. Some are snapping photos. Some are taking
videos.
This is
the kind of sight that even a heavily-tattooed man would stop to see.
But Grace
remains indifferent to all the attention she’s getting. She has slipped back
into her own realm that is not to be disturbed by anyone.
Tick – tick – tick – tick – tick…
Grace has
already tattooed dozens of people since the opening of Dutdutan 2014. Today is
the convention’s last day and business is still going strong. A lot of her
clients are foreigners and professionals, most of them driven by curiosity to
get a whatek.
In
Buscalan, Grace would take any amount, even a simple present like a box of
sweets, from tourists after inking them. But in Dutdutan, the prices of
exhibitors’ services are fixed. For a whatek,
one has to pay one to two thousand Pesos, depending on the pattern’s size and
intricacy.
Seated on
a black cushioned chair, Grace’s client watches the thorn play a painful game
on his skin. He chose to have a series of arrows inked underneath his
completely-healed kayyaman. He has
subjected himself to the same ordeal in the past, and yet, he still winces
every now and then as Grace hammers the ink
into his skin.
The ways
people deal with getting a whatek
greatly differ, and Grace has seen them all. There are some who have screamed
or pulled their bodies back in fear of the thorn, but most who find the ritual
painful often go through it in silence. There are also some others who sing,
just like how the tribal elders of Kalinga would, whilst getting their tattoos
back in the day.
Only a few
have described getting a whatek
“painless”, including a woman in her fifties who dropped by Grace’s booth to
have a centipede done on her back. “It’s not painful at all,” she kept saying.
The hint of disbelief in her tone never faded.
Grace is
down to the last arrow, and the crowd has begun to thin.
The
audience of the young mambabatok come
and go, but one can easily tell when she has stopped tapping. It’s when the
frantic ticking of an invisible bomb comes to an abrupt halt.
Beads of crimson-red
blood seep through her client’s exhausted skin, which Grace carefully wipes off
with a piece of fabric dipped in oil. She takes one last look at the fresh whatek, and leaves it to be admired by
its bearer.
It is
complete…
And it is
beautiful.