Whang-od Oggay is a Filipina tattoo artist from Buscalan, Tinglayan, Kalinga, Philippines. She is considered as the last mambabatok from the Butbut Kalinga people and the oldest tattoo artist in the Philippines.
The wind whistled past my face as I sat atop the jeepny, my eyes stretched wide to take in the plunging landscape whipping past me. Electro-swing pumped through my headphones as I held on tight to the metal roof-rack, my fingers white from the biting wind.
I was on a mission.
I had been conformable in Sagada, happy to be in a small mountain town with a cool climate and numerous hike. I had caved, swam, climbed and trekked to my hearts content. I had snacked on local delicacies, made friends with a couple of chaps in the village and enjoyed chilling out for a bit.
This was not why I was here. I was here to get inked. I was here to find Apo Whang Od, a living legend and the last Kalinga tattoo artist to hold the title of Mamababatok – the tattoo master.
For nearly fifty years, Whang Od has been keeping the traditions of the Butbut tribe alive by tattooing with thorns, soot and a bamboo hammer. Occasionally, if she liked you, she would tattoo a westerner. I was turning up blind, hoping she would like me, hoping she would tattoo me.
I had no idea if she would.
I waited in the dusty frontier town of Bontoc, half expecting tumble-weeds to roll past at any moment and an impromptu cowboys versus indians shoot-out to begin.
I sat there waiting for Pot Pot, a local chap who had offered to take me to visit Whang Od.
For decades, Whang Od has kept the traditions of the Butbut tribe alive by tattooing with thorns, charcoal and a small bamboo hammer. Now, I hoped to join the privileged few who could say that they had been tattooed by the last Kalinga tattoo master. First, I had to get there.
Pot Pot eventually arrived, apologising again and again for keeping me late. Pot Pot was constantly smiling and somewhat resembled a small buddha with his shaved head and twinkling eyes. He urged me to climb atop yet another jeepney and with a belch of exhaust fumes we left Bontoc behind us.
We raced further into the country, taking hair-pin bends with reckless abandon, bouncing along on top of the Jeepney as we climbed into the mountains. We passed deep ravines and soaring hills, countless paddy fields, farmers carrying goods to market, children playing in the road, herds of hogs snuffling in the undergrowth and tiny hamlets, clinging to the tiny space between the road and a vertical drop. The jeepney took us as far as possible before the road dwindled to nothing and we got out to continue on foot.
I shouldered my pack and set off into the jungle, following some kids with some extremely unhappy chickens tied to sticks. Slowly but surely we traipsed further from the road and higher into the hills.
An hour later, I could see ahead a small village perched atop a particularly steep-looking hill. I turned, catching the last rays of the sun as they slipped across the valley, and decided I better hurry up. It was going to be dark soon.
I arrived at the village without warning, one minute I was still on the lonely path, the next moment, I burst from the jungle and was standing next to a wooden shack with a tin roof. Animal skulls and chicken feet hung from every square inch of a nearby house.
Ones and twos, the villagers came out to greet us, they spoke only limited English but luckily Pot Pot acted as a translator and before I knew it I was whisked away by a friendly family and shown a place where I could lay my pack and sleep for the night. I crashed almost immediately, exhausted and all too aware that tomorrow I would finally be meeting with Whang Od.
Whang Od didn’t look like she was in her nineties. She was sprightly, humorous even, and smiled from beneath a heavy black hoodie – the kind of thing a teenager might wear. I had spent most of the morning agonizing over what tattoo to get and had, in the end, decided upon a fern; a symbol of rebirth and, I later found out, fertility.
Whang Od carefully outlined the tattoo upon my arm using charcoal and a small stick.
Next, she picked a sharp thorn from a lemon tree and placed it carefully within another stick before glancing at me, checking that I was ready and preparing her hammer.
I sat on a hard block of wood, watching with grim fascination as she lifted the stick and began. Whack, whack, whack. I felt nothing. I watched as the thorn punctured my skin again and again, forcing the charcoal inside the wound, five times a second. The musical noise of the hammer drifted across the village as a crowd of interested villagers watched to see if I would reveal any sign of pain. I did not, for in truth, it really did not hurt.
I had waited years to meet Whang Od, a truly incredible woman. I had traversed valleys and hiked through jungle, ridden atop metallic-death vans and endured belching fumes; what was a few pin-pricks to mark the successful completion of my journey?
Practicalities of visiting Whang Od:
I strongly recommend that you bring Whang Od some gifts, we bought her some basic food stuffs – soft bread (she doesn’t have that many teeth left!) as well as some other goodies.
Be sure to bring food for your entire stay in the village, buying food here is very expensive. Bring bottled water or purification tabs.
You can arrange to stay in one of the villagers houses relatively easy, it will only cost around $5 but be aware that it is very basic.