The Indigenous Tattoo: An Expression of Culture by Chi Luciano Pellos, photos by Ruel Bimuyag
While all human beings experience pain, I am not one who seeks it. Since pain inevitably comes at various times in life and in myriad forms, I try to savor the pain-free days and make them last. That’s why I was never attracted to tattoos or any other form of self-inflicted, aesthetic mutilation. However, a recent experience has made me see tattoos in a different light.
I was fortunate enough to witness the last remaining traditional and indigenous tattoo artist at work in the Philippines. Untouched by what we describe as civilization, progress, or any form of modernity, the art of tattooing is deeply imbedded in the indigenous Filipino culture. Centuries ago, head-hunting warriors who captured and killed members of the enemy tribe were awarded special tattoos, usually placed on the chest. Considered badges of honor, these tattoos signified great strength and courage. In more recent history, the last surviving warrior to be awarded this tattoo successfully subdued a marauding Japanese soldier in World War II.
However, tattoos were not reserved only for warriors. Researchers attribute the tattoo as a symbolic rite of passage for both males and females. Adolescence, marriage, pregnancy, and birth all warrant specific tattoos which add depth to aesthetic adornment, signifying an expression of the tribe’s cultural norms and a successful passage from one stage of life to another. My husband, Rey, recently received a tribal tattoo to represent his culture and serve as a reminder of his surviving heritage as we made our way back to America.
Rey was a U.S. Peace Corps volunteer who worked with Igorots, an indigenous, ethno-linguistic tribe in the Philippines. After numerous projects and term extensions, he dreamed of getting an authentic, traditional tattoo to take back to the States with him. Being Filipino-American, it was a way to stay connected to his roots. The tattoo would also signify the end of a significant phase of his life and the beginning of a new one. Being curious, I tagged along.
The grueling six-hour trip from the mountain capital of Bontoc to the tiny town of Tinglayan took us on a road not meant for vehicles of any kind. The province is populated by Kalingas, known to be the fiercest and the most aggressive of the Igorots. However, they all seemed very nice to me. Our guide, Francis, welcomed us to his home and served us supper for free. There are no restaurants or grocery stores, just a small canteen that opens for lunch for truck drivers delivering supplies. Francis led our six-hour hike across rice terraces and crystal-clear springs to the remote village of Buscalan, home of Fong-od, the last known surviving and practicing Kalinga tattoo artist. The village was comprised of raised wooden huts, wild pigs and chickens lived underneath. There was no electricity or running water; the water source was a pump in the middle of the village. The residents still lived off the land, raising livestock and planting rice and vegetables.
Many adults and almost all of the elders wore their tattoos proudly on their arms, chests, and faces. For the women, the tattoos looked like articles of clothing, covering their arms all the way to their shoulder blades and backs. Most women wore colorful antique beads passed on from generation to generation, some pieces dating back to the first Chinese traders who reached the Philippines by ship centuries ago.
Fong-od, 87, was a frail-looking woman, but she could make any grown man cry. After a lunch of rice and watercress, she quickly started on Rey’s back, gathering soot from the bottom of a pot and collecting it on a coconut shell to serve as ink. With a big thorn from a pomelo plant, she slowly tapped out his tattoo, one painful dot at a time. The pomelo thorn was attached to the end of a stick, while another stick served as a makeshift hammer, pounding the thorn into Rey’s back. The whole process took almost four excruciating hours. The result was an image of ferns and a centipede, which, according to researchers, provides protection from illness. Fong-od’s skill and strength were evident in the strikingly beautiful tattoo. Best of all, it was free from infection, as it healed within days. Fong-od was so shy that she hesitated to charge us, and would giggle when asked about the fee. We negotiated with Francis to give her 1,300 pesos, which is around $25. This would cover our meals and an overnight stay in her hut (for me, Rey, and Ruel, our Igorot friend/translator/photographer).
It amazes me how the entire culture survives to this day. I asked some of the kids in the village if they were interested in tattooing, since Fong-od never married and has no children to pass her art down to. All of them shook their heads adamantly; they thought tattoos were old-fashioned and reserved for the elderly. How ironic—the village continues to exist without the comforts of the modern world, yet people’s basic needs are met; they seem happy and healthy, uncluttered and unburdened by over-consumption. Still, it may be only a matter of time before the younger generation decides to pack up and move to a bigger town.
The indigenous tattoo goes beyond the expression of artistic talent and aesthetic form; it is a repository of culture and a symbol of a centuries-old tradition that is threatened by extinction. Luckily, I have my husband’s back to look at daily as a reminder that such a place, such a people, and such a way of life still thrives to this day.
Chi Luciano Pellos was a college instructor for seven years, writing part-time for lifestyle and travel magazines and invites you to visit her holistic health column. Chi would like to hear your questions and comments at chichi_luc@yahoo.com.