The whole tribe immedietly surrounds the exhausted travelers and fires away their questions. It’s been months since the last visitors arrived.

The sunrise of the following morning was more proof of this endearing life the mountain people enjoy. The scenery is dominated by rice stalks that carpet the countless terraces, as they dance in the wind and absorb the rich golden rays of the sun. A nearby waterfall was the perfect venue for a final swim and some last-minute mustering of courage. There was no more turning back now.
 
There are a few guidelines to getting a tribal tattoo: I cannot drink alcohol (before, during, and two weeks after the tattooing) and my next shower would have to wait two days. Our guide Madrid offered another: “Don’t shit in your pants.”

It was now time. Fear was encroaching every fibre of my existence as the crude tools were brought out: a stick with a large pomelo tree thorn, a second stick that would be used as a hammer, a smaller stick with three smaller thorns to thicken the patterns, and a coconut shell filled with charcoal and oil. She pulled out a small stool for me to sit on and a lusong (rice pounder) to lean on. It was reminiscent of a scene from A Tale of Two Cities where convicts would place their head on top of a large log before the axe would come down and heads would roll into a basket. As circumstance would have it, my partner of four years (who is an adventurer herself) sat on the rice pounder and let me lean on her lap. It took a few minutes of frustrating translation—and endless sketching of the design, a traditional snakeskin Kalinga pattern which I wanted to be circular —before the eager artist voraciously hammered in the first blows.

“Why is she hammering it in so deep?!” was the first thing I said upon first contact with Fang Oud’s tools. “Because she has to,” came a sarcastic reply. Of course I knew that. My methods of distraction were inadequate, as the pain of the deep puncture wounds exacted out on my back were beyond anything I had ever experienced. I decided to place it on the upper center of my back. It wasn’t long before I would regret that decision, as I found that the shots to my spine and shoulder blades were excruciating. I was gasping for air. Talking, as well as any unnecessary expenditure of energy, was no longer an option for me. It was now evident that only pure willpower would get me through the ordeal.

The thing about being subjected to extreme pain for a long period of time is that it dulls the senses. It was easier to suck it up in the beginning because I could isolate the exact place the thorn was moving through. I could still judge its depth, intensity, and pace. In the beginning, finding a meditative state was attainable. But after a few trips through the bones, the pain just resonated with a shooting, burning sensation which starts from the directly affected area, then spreads throughout the body. I was in anguish. I lost all sense of time and place, and the only sensation still working was my sense of touch. All I could feel was the painful throbbing on my back. The unvarying sound of the sticks engulfed me in its vibrations, which drowned out every other sound. I still cringe today when I hear sounds similar to it. The punctures are perfectly placed in uniform depth, as her steady hands masterfully control the strength of each hit. If she hits too hard, she might damage a nerve; too weak, and the charcoal will not stick to the skin permanently. I twitched involuntarily every time she hit the thorn into my spine. It is said that when one gets a tribal tattoo, the bones underneath the skin also get tattooed.

This master tattoo artist did not tire despite her age. She was graceful and relaxed while she worked. Her eyesight must be 20/20 since she never missed her mark. Her endurance was unmatchable. It was I, the canvas of her art, who needed a break. Fang Oud just kept on going.

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