marks, mementos and memories earned during travels

The pomelo thorn struck a nerve. The pain was white hot and my world stopped for a sec.

No turning back, I thought.

I was in Buscalan village in the province of Kalinga to meet Fang-Od, the last "mambabatok" or traditional tattoo artist of the Butbut tribe.

A day before, I packed my bag and rode hundreds of miles to this place. Alone. I was lost and confused and I needed an escape.

It was planting season; the rice terraces were a palette of green hues. Crystalline waters gushed out of the springs. Clouds hung low and kissed the roofs of the tribal houses. I hiked for 2 hours and was welcomed with a cup of brewed Kalinga coffee by Fang-Od herself.

I felt at home.

Then it was time to get inked. Fang-Od tapped a thorn dipped in charcoal paste into my skin. The piercing pain was brief but rhythmic, humming with every tap of the black wood stick. She was precise, like how she’s done it since she was 16.

She was 94.

I never realized that a woman barely five feet tall, with tattoos all over her shoulders and arms, could inflict a lot of pain. She tattooed the tribe’s warriors, who once had a reputation as headhunters. The tattoos were marks of courage. A rite of passage for men. A rebirth into adulthood.

I chose my design: a moon shining over the waves.

The women and kids gathered around me, watching this visitor wince with each needle strike. Black pigs roamed freely and Fang-Od slapped one when it walked nearby. On the ground were red stains, spat by the women chewing nga-nga. I looked at my shoulder and saw blood oozing out of the needle wounds.

After an hour, the tattoo was finished. My left shoulder was swollen red. I was in pain, but I felt strangely at peace.

Later that night, I shared a room with a group of travelers who arrived in the afternoon. I didn't know their reasons, but I was happy to share a cup of coffee with these kindred spirits. We stayed at the home of our guide, who treated us like we’re part of the tribe.

Above us, the full moon hung like a giant pearl. Beneath, the mountains lay silent like colossal sentinels. From where I sat, the rolling peaks and valleys looked like waves.

I touched the fresh tattoo on my left shoulder. The cool mountain air stung a bit, but it was fine. The pain reminded me that I was alive. Again.

Life leaves us marks to remind us about the choices, stories, and memories we made. Some marks are visible, some are not. But all are the same: they’re here to stay.

And I have the tattoo to prove it.