The first sound I heard upon arriving at Buskalan was a group of people panting and panting. A group of us completed a steep climb to a remote village hidden in the rolling hills of Kalinga Province in the Philippines.
But, like me, my travel companions didn’t make this 12-hour journey for the amazing views of the rice terraces – we were there to experience Apo Wang-Ot Oke.
At 107, Wang-Ot is the world’s oldest tattoo artist. Since he was a teenager, he has been practicing “Badok”, a traditional form of tattooing used by the tribes of the region.
For more than nine decades, he has been tattooing inspired by agriculture and the local landscape. He tattooed tribal warriors with elaborate geometric patterns, and Budpat tribal women with fertility symbols.
However, we are not tribesmen, but determined travelers. We drove for hours in the scorching sun, following road signs with printed photos of Wang-Od before boarding.
A sign welcomes visitors on the way back to the mountain village of Buscalan. Girly Linao/Image Alliance/Getty Images
The turn-of-the-century popularity draws daily tourists to Buskalan, leading to a thriving green industry in this farming village. On the other side of the hill, about a dozen (and noticeably younger) villagers sat with visitors hammering symbols of mountains, ferns and snake skin.
A local guide put our names on the Whang-Od waiting list and we wandered around all day, sipping hot Baraco coffee. We walked through the narrow alleys and saw the tattoo artist’s face on almost everything – from T-shirts to bracelets and coffee packaging – for sale in village shops.
As our time drew near, we returned to the waiting area and watched as the line slowly dragged. By this time, Wang-Ot had been tattooing like a machine for hours, and I was afraid that she was working too hard.
I was one of over a hundred tattooed by her that day. Some are foreigners, while others are Filipinos from different provinces of the archipelago. Many, like myself, are of Filipino descent who grew up abroad and tried to get to know their own culture firsthand beyond the stories their parents told them.
Just before sunset, it was my turn to sit across from Wang-od, who was crouched on a small bench.
Wang-Ot hammers in the hand of a spectator. Kathleen McCrameau/CNN
I admired her. She wore a loose, colorful shirt with a tie and boldly patterned pants, with her own tribal tattoos on display. It was my first tattoo and I was nervous. But his wrinkled, glassy face softened and his red lips smiled softly at me.
I gave him the tattoo tool I had bought as a souvenir – a needle made from a pomelo and attached to the top of a handmade bamboo stick. She dipped it in a mixture of charcoal and water. I quickly dabbed my forehead with an alcohol swab and pointed to where I wanted the tattoo.
Within seconds, she had the hammer. His knocks echoed — “Tak-tak-tak” — through the improvised shed outside his home. My arm bled and hurt like I was pressing the same spot over and over again.
A lasting stigma
Batok, or indigenous Philippine green, has been around for over a thousand years. Elaborate designs once adorned both men and women, symbolizing everything from courage to strength and protection.
But the traditional art form fell out of favor, in part because of its association with the illegal practice of headhunting (historically, men tattooed their chests after returning with the head of a dead enemy).
Buscalan is nestled between rice terraces and rolling hills in the Philippines’ Kalinga province. Courtesy of Emmett Sparling
Perched high in the mountains, the Kalinga region remained effectively independent during more than 300 years of Spanish colonial rule, when its tattooed warriors fought fiercely against outsiders.
In the 20th century, when American Catholic missionaries arrived to build schools, village women – often with tattoos to mark their maturity – were forced to cover their arms with long sleeves.
Tattoos were seen as a sign of shame whenever villagers moved to neighboring towns, as urban Filipinos often considered the practice “backward”. In recent decades, the popularity of tattoos among criminal gangs has further stigmatized the art.
“Growing up in the Philippines, tattoos were definitely frowned upon, especially in religious families, because of the negative connotations and criminal association,” said Kent Tonquins, Whang-Od, Filipino-Canadian director of the documentary “Treasure of the Rice Terraces” (“About the Rice Terraces”). treasure”)
Portrait of Wang-Ot in traditional Budbud dress. Courtesy of Emmett Sparling
As I can now attest, this stigma remains to this day. After seeing my new tattoo, my Catholic dad, who grew up in Manila, didn’t speak to me for a week. Indifferent to the story of my trip to Buscalan, he warned me that I was leading a “crazy life.”
But sentiments are changing — and that can be thanks to Wang-Od.
Although known locally for decades, Wang-Ott rose to fame after being featured in the 2009 Discovery Channel series “Tattoo Hunter” by tattoo anthropologist Lars Krudak. (Discovery Channel is owned by its parent company, CNN, Warner Bros. Discovery)
The news spread fast. Vloggers Travelers, news crews and Filipino celebrities all ventured to meet her. Wang-Ot graced the cover of Vogue Philippines in April 2023, making her the oldest person to appear in any issue of the acclaimed magazine. Earlier this year, Michelle Dee, a former Miss Universe contestant from Miss Universe Philippines, was tattooed by Wong-Ot after competing in a dress inspired by his tattoo designs.
Replicas of Whang-Od’s innovative Vogue cover are on display at Buscalan. Girly Linao/Image Alliance/Getty Images
The 107-year-old tattoo artist’s international fame has sparked a broader conversation about Filipino identity. Tattoo enthusiasts believe their work celebrates aspects of pre-colonial culture, rejecting preconceived taboos and honoring the tattoo as a sign of belonging.
According to folklore and Kruthak’s research, the practice was passed down through families, but mostly through males. Wang-Ott learned the art from his father, who was considered a master tattoo artist in the region and saw potential in his skills.
The symbols she tattooed – geometric lines, circles, animals and tribal prints – all had a specific meaning. Some maps are topography, local cultures (rice knives, etc.). Celestial symbols and representations of the sea were also added to the list of designs.
Over time, his tattoos became symbols of peace. According to Kruthak, who worked with Wang-Odin for decades, he also tattooed neighboring tribes, such as the Bontoc, who were traditionally enemies, in order to participate in their tribal ceremonies (often on foot along dirt paths, he said).
A black and white image showing some of Whang-Od’s own tattoos. Courtesy of Emmett Sparling
Changing traditions
Buscalan is still relatively untouched by modern amenities. There is no cellphone network, although some vendors sell Wi-Fi access to visitors (local tour guides use walkie-talkies to communicate). Most families still support themselves by growing rice.
But this rural area — for better or worse — is attracting more and more tourists to Wang-Ott and his coaches. During my visit, I passed a city council meeting that was taking place at the indoor basketball court. A provincial representative told a meeting of elders that the number of visitors should be recorded to determine how many new water tanks and garbage collection areas should be built.
Although village leaders often tell him not to forget that they are primarily an agricultural community, Kruthak said a growing number of local residents now rely on tourism for a living.
“Your ancestors shed a lot of blood to protect the mountaintop village, and they put it there for a reason,” Kruthak said.
Souvenirs dedicated to Wang-Od are for sale in the village. Girly Linao/Image Alliance/Getty Images
Wong-Ott often says that material possessions disappear when you die, but tattoos are the only things you can take with you into the afterlife, Kruthak recalls of many conversations with her.
Despite Wang-Ot’s amazing age, she is immortal.
The tattoo artist’s family prepared a crypt for her, hidden at the top of the mountain, surrounded by a large statue of her with photographs, awards and souvenirs from the thousands of visitors she tattooed throughout her life.
As Wong-Ot sat across from me, I felt myself panting, unable to find the words to speak, even though we were both Filipinos. I speak Tagalog, but she only speaks the tribal language and the regional language, Ilocano.
A sign hanging from the vaulted ceiling above us offered some help. After reading it, I thanked him and mumbled “Manjamanan”. Although decades separated us, I thought we were lucky to spend those 10 minutes together so that I could live this tradition passed on by our forefathers.
Photographs, ID cards and other souvenirs left by visitors on the roof of the hut where Wong-Od’s granddaughters (and apprentices) tattooed. Carly Linao/Image Alliance/Getty Images
The tattoo he gave me is now his signature design: three simple dots. Due to his poor eyesight and the number of daily customers, Wong-Ot had to simplify his tattoos to serve everyone.
“(My tattoo friends) are all dead,” Wong-Ott told CNN in a 2017 interview, “and I’m the only one who’s still alive and still tattooing. But I’m not afraid that the tradition will end. Because (I’m) training the next tattoo masters. “
The three dots represent you and your two granddaughters, Grace Balikas and Eliang Wigan.
For many, including myself, the dots are also seen as ovals, a symbol that symbolizes that the art and stories of their village will live on – even if it dies, this ancient art will be shared by future generations.