Deep in the Cordillera highlands, an 87-year-old Kalinga woman has tirelessly preserved a forgetten ritual: tribal tattooing. Seduced by its skin-deep mystique, a Swiss-Filipino traveler gets inked—indelibly

The backbreaking, 18-hour journey to Buscalan, Kalinga is overwhelming even for the most seasoned backpacker. Skirting through the countryside in an overloaded and decrepit jeep, the splendor of the Cordillera panorama is overshadowed by the need to be alert on the treacherous, fragile roads. The trek up to the village under the unforgiving Kalinga sunshine is exhausting, especially with all the gear on our backs. Had we not made a pit stop in Sagada, the trip would have been too physically tiring. It would have given us little time to recuperate and make the final trek and preparations for what was in store for us.

The inhabitants of this idyllic village were excited to see us, the exhausted tourists, and they hungrily fired away questions which, I can only guess, may have stockpiled since the last outsiders made an appearance. Visitors are rare in this isolated part of the country. The village is surrounded by mountains, and there is only a single way in and out of the area. Students would rather stay home than make the hour-long hike to the closest school. We city dwellers would describe this postcard scene as “backwards,” as the people here have yet to abandon many of their tribal ways, largely due to its inaccessibility and relative remoteness. Evidence of anything modern is limited to a couple of Marian Rivera posters and electricity for only a rice cooker and a single light bulb. There is no network signal here. No bathroom. No television and radio. In Buscalan, one is truly disconnected from the rest of the world.

The long trip was behind us on this Holy Thursday, and in a moment of suspended animation, there she was: Fang Oud. Her name translates into “the eldest of God’s children.” She is 87. This slender lady is covered in tattoos and looks like the toughest little woman on the planet. That’s the aura she exudes. She is a tribal skin artist—and I was to be her canvas.

Fang Oud’s name means ‘the eldest of God’s children.’  At 87, she is considered a master artist among the people of the Cordilleras.

As the “alpha female” of Buscalan, she looks intimidating—but she is not. Considered a master in her field and recognized internationally (she has a copy of a European skin art magazine in which she was featured, and the Discovery Channel recently came to film a story on her), she is the most humble human being you will ever encounter, despite her innate pride. By humble, I don’t mean the withdrawn persona that is so common among Filipinos—she knows her flair, but there is no need for any unnecessary ego. Maybe her confidence is a product of the wisdom she has earned in the near-century of her existence. The villagers reaffirm this absence of self-inflated egos, as it becomes apparent that the survival of the place depends on the unity among villagers and their relations with the nearby communities. The people of Kalinga are farmers. Many of the elder women sport hunchbacks developed from years of planting rice and vegetables and herbs. No chemicals are added to the soil here; fertilizers are too difficult to bring to this part of the Philippines and they’ve survived through traditional farming methods.

Fang Oud lets us stay in her house. She cooks for us. She gives us the best of what she has. We drink gin together. She makes sure we are always hydrated in this humid valley. Filipinos were always revered for their hospitality, and this famous trait is very evident here. She doesn’t ask for anything in return. Call it genuine kindness.

The truth about the people of Kalinga is that they no longer collect tattoos the way they used to. Tattoos were a right of passage for both men and women. The women would begin the process after they got their first menstruation. Today, however, the women don’t see the point of covering their bodies with permanent art, at least in the way their elders did. The men complain that the process is too painful and prefer the modern machine; and true enough, most of them do bear rather modern tattoos. Another truth is that the men traditionally had to earn tattoos by killing someone from a rival tribe. They would tattoo the face of the men they killed on their chest. I was reassured that headhunting had ceased about twenty years ago, and, fortunately, killing someone was not necessary for me to receive the tattoo. The only thing that would keep me from getting my tattoo was me chickening out. Weeks of planning (and mustering enough courage) had come down to this.

I was now staring at my soon-to-be tormenter, the woman who would administer my sacrifice the following day, which, by pure coincidence, happened to fall on Black Friday. While I consider myself to be deeply spiritual, I am not remotely close to being religious, at least not the religion we were taught. The invasion of Christianity has removed the need for some traditions, like skin art, to survive.

Fang Oud would giggle every time we made eye contact, as if to tell me to re-think what I was getting myself into. You see, traditionally, I do not deserve a tattoo on my back (also called the “Fiat Uk”). This was reserved for men in their forties. The Kalinga people believe that age is an accomplishment; and reaching 40 was a rare achievement. Skin art are symbols of milestones and accomplishments for them, or at least they were in olden times. Today, it is considered art and Fang Oud’s heart swells with happiness when people appreciate it.

There was a full moon on the eve of my tattoo ceremony, the perfect prelude to the big day. The silvery, moonlit valley—surrounded by rice fields and low rising peaks—made Buscalan all the more mystical. One does not even have to believe in the invisible energies of the world to feel the intensity of nature. Moments like these made me ponder why I was living in the city (for most of my life, I lived in a province in Mindanao), where life is often reduced to a rat race, blinding us from the immense bucolic beauty of our planet.

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