The third chapter of my year has taken place in the Philippines. My first stop on the international portion of the current journey, my original plan was to explore Manila, staying there while I adjust to the jet-lag and re-immerse myself in the hosteling lifestyle once again. This plan started off well enough until, as so often happens, I hard about something really cool. But I’m getting ahead of myself. 

Manila is a writhing, squeezing city. It seemed to me that not an inch of space has gone to waste. The story of growth, from seed to mighty tree of a city is long, but it seemed to me that, if the city were to spring into  existence in its current form today, it would have been designed thusly. First, the big pieces would fall into place: the big bus stations, the airport, the old town (Intramuros, an old primarily Spanish fort and walled city, which I toured, hungover from drinking too many time zones, on my first morning), and the big, shiny, rich cities, and the rivers dashing through the city. Then would come the residential areas, Gerrymandered into odd shapes to fit between these bigger pieces, brimming with eateries ranging from fine Asian cuisines to the neo—bazaar of convincere stores, to the finest fast food the world’s factories have to offer. Then, filling the city like sand poured into a jar full of rocks, would come the lives of majority of people, flourishing anywhere and everywhere possible. Intricate, dense communities. Each and every site and area swells proudly, squeezing each other, at times seeming going so far as to seem to suffocate.

I loved it. The busyness, the chaos, the heat, the smells that change every three steps. Having been in the US for a while, I was granted the gift of vision that takes nothing for granted; I was not used to anything yet. Like many Asian cities I’ve seen, the grandiosity of the wealthy stratosphere of society is pressed cheek to cheek with the often harsh, unglamorous realities of the many. This spectrum of life and comfort is at once completely individually segregated, with almost no mobility for many people, and geographically intimate, creating a stark contrast that, like all contrast, makes a stirring ccharactature out of what would otherwise be much less upsetting, if still jarring. Another shared characteristic of many Asian cities that Manila demonstrates is the incredible capacity to support businesses and livelihoods. How is it possible that there are so many tens of thousands of stalls selling every piece of clothing imaginable, every kind of fruit, how can so many people make a living hawking belts, or sunglasses, or ice cream, how many taxi rides must be taken around the city in order to support all of those drivers? The seemingly infinite redundancy of niche livelihoods astounds me, their only explanation for their sustainability, their survivalists, lying in the sheer quantity of the demand. There are simply so so fucking many people that all of those stalls are not only able to survive, but be a providing source of income for those working them, and to answer what is likely a real need.

One of the biggest needs in Manila, and all over the Philippines, that I saw was the need to get around. In Manila I saw for the first time a Jeepney, something like a sort of stretch limo in the shape of a jeep that functions like a hybrid of a taxi and a bus. Each Jeepney is privately owned, elaborately decorated with a little persona, and follows a specific round trip or point-to-point route. They can be hailed at any point and, upon boarding, the rider simply passes 13 Pesos (about $0.20 US) up to the driver’s right hand, often relayed by fellow passengers, with change delivered back to them. To get off, just shout “para po”, or slap the metal roof, and he driver will pull over as soon as they can, anywhere you want. I was a little intimidated but incredibly curious, so after reading a little article, I hopped on a Jeepney at random, wondering where it would take me. I was headed in the general direction of the National Museum of Fine Art (amazing, inspired me to pick up a sketchbook and some markers), and I was able to hop off when I was pretty much close enough. 

On one of my last days I felt like getting out of Manila. A little googling told me that the mountain- and lakeside town to Tagaytay is an excellent day trip from Manila I took a Jeepney to a light rail to a bus to head south for a few hours. I didn’t have much of a plan, which was just fine because as soon as I hopped off the bus, a guy named Lloyd told me that he could take me to a place where I could have a boat ride on the lake. Awesome! Since I was alone, it was a bit of a splurge, but whatever, it was almost the end of my time in the Philippines and I hadn’t done anything other than explore the main city, so I decided to send it. After a tricycle ride down a windy cliff side road full of landslide debris (makes a guy feel right at ease), we got to the shore. I hopped on a boat and, alone with the driver, took a tour of the volcanic lake of (Research) for an hour, zooming past tilapia farmers feeding their hordes of fish by the bucket and hearing about the most recent eruption in 2020(?). It was a brief day trip, but thrilling and really signified my first step into blind adventure, going some place I heard a good rumor about and trusting in the ability for cool things to just happen. 

This pattern continued well, so well, in fact, that it swelled and spilled over my planned flight to Bali (upon which I now sit, typing. I pushed it back a handful fo days to make this adventure happen). The morning of Tagaytay, I heard another traveler mention something about a tattoo village. I, having just broken the seal on tattoos with a memorable dead mouse nailed to my leg (another story), have been hungry for more ink, especially from cool places. I had pictured rural mountainous villages, old wise monks and artists only accessible by a full day or two of travel, remote, legendary, arcane. My fantastical vision could not have been more thoroughly fulfilled. 

The Buscalan Story

In the mountainous provinces of Northern Luzon lies the village of Buscalan, home of 107 year old Apo Whang-Od, who has been tattooing in the traditional Kalina style for almost a century. Customarily, women received ink as a status and beauty symbol, and men in Kalina culture received a tattoo when they killed someone. While headhunting is no longer common or practiced (since 2000, a bus seat Neighbour later told me with  unverified reliability), the tattoo art form has been carried on, and Whang-Od still tattoos visitors to the village with her signature: three dots. HEr advanced age makes it challenging for her to deliver other traditional designs, but her apprentices who have trained with her for years (although when you ask how long they have been tattooing for, they say that they just started, a very funny joke while they are in the middle of giving you a tattoo! But I get ahead of myself) still can create a wide range of traditional designs. 

It took some research about how to get there, so I’ll lay out the itinerary here for anyone who found this blog in their search for Whang-Od, starting their journey in Manila. I’m sure there are easier, cheaper, and faster ways to get there, but this is what I did. From Manila I took a Victory Liner bus to Tabuk, overnight, leaving around 5:30p and arriving in Tabuk around 6:30p. From Tabuk I got directions to a jeepney (yay!) station with jeeps running from Tabuk to Bontok. I simply told the driver I was going to Buscalan and he dropped me off (after about four bumpy hours on some of the most terrifying and beautiful roads I’ve ever been on. One side is green-gray cliff stretching up, the other is a gorgeous valley, scuplpted with rice paddies in delicately layered terraces, gushing coppery water, and mist slithering through the tiny villages). The Jeepney dropped me off in Bugnay, and form there I took one of the many waiting taxis. The taxi ride stops at the tourist registration office and ends at the hub for tour guides. Guides are required to enter Buscalan, either individually in groups. I met Rosita, a kind veteran of the guide game with a drab sense off humor. She teased me for saying “super” so much, saying it was “my expression”. Well, super! I can’t help that that’s how I feel. 

From the guide office we began the foot trek into the village, down a valley some ways, across a huge, swaying bridge, and up into the mountainside village. Rosita took me to the home stay I would be spending my night in and introduced me to my host. Also there was Creselda, one of Whang-OD’s apprentices. Together, the three women asked if I would be getting any tattoos other than Whang-OD’s signature. I had not planned on it whatsoever until that moment, but the second I heard their offer, I had a gut feeling that it was the kind of thing that I would regret not doing, not regret doing. I had read earlier about a traditional centipede design that symbolizes protection, and it was also the first one that Creselda mentioned. She brought over a few sheets with images of the designs. I was already too deep in saying fuck it to back out— not that I wanted to, or have a single morsel of regret—- and I said alright. I asked where the studio was (we were sitting around the well worn kitchen table in my home stay), and they all laughed and told me to hold tight. Creselda left

A minute later she returned with a basket of tattooing supplies. I realized it was happening right there, right then! reseda used a folded stalk of wheat dipped in ink to draw on the straight lines of the design and proceeded to begin without any fanfare or delay. I can’t lie, it hurt. The needle they use is essentially a large, sturdy thorn connected to a handle which is banged with a stick (actually, a drumstick), creating dots over and over until the design is completed. At the end of 90 minutes and a substitution of Creselda for Uday, another of Whang-Od’s apprentices, the tattoo was done. I was oozing blood and pus, each wiped away with a baby wipe, and choosing to not worry about the hygiene of it all. I had newsprint and alcohol wipes, after all— essentially the stuff of immortality. 

Despite the pain, swelling, bruising, and bleeding, I was ecstatic, thrilled. The design was amazing, well-placed, meaningful, and an insanely cool souvenir from a true adventure. An hour or so later, after Rosita gave me a little tour of the village, I got in line to receive Whang-OD’s signature. I had no clue where to ask for it and only decided at the very last minute to get it right above my right knee cap. I stand by it! Watching her work was fascinating and not a little bit hard to observe. It is hard work. Her signature takes about 2 or 3 minutes per person. She sits on a squa stool under a covering in the middle of the village while tourists queue up in a little array of plastic chairs, all watching her work. She probably inks up about 100 people a day, mechanically delivering the same design to people who can’t speak a word of her language, who come and go, thanking her earnestly but not deeply enough to overcome the transactional dynamic. That’s how I felt at least. 

The village bustles with tourists. One guy I met, a local who runs a food goods store out of the ground floor of his house, said that the tourism is good for business, he doesn’t mind that it changed. He told me that the village has only really been an on-the-map destination for tourists, domestic and international, since around 2010. HE showed me a centipede tattoo he got from Whang-Od herself, one of her favorite designs, he said. I made a couple of tourist friends, a pair of buddies living in Singapore, both expats from English speaking countries. They asked me not to share their names, an understandable request— between Singapore’s drug policy and the locally grown, fresh picked Mary Jane we sampled. The real star of the night, besides the hours of awesome 50–something shit-shooting was Red Horse, a Philippine beer that racks up around 7 percent, also the approximate number of liters the three of us polished off. Woof.

A bit masochistically, I was inspired to drink by their description of the hell of a hungover jeepney ride through the mountains. It sounded like a real way to travel, gritty, painful, a good workout. And I got what I asked for, and more. I had heard a few recommendations for the town of Sagada, a tourism hotspot known for hiking and interesting customs. It was easy enough to get there, just two jeeps with a transfer in a charming regional hub town called Bontoc. I was indeed hungover but managed to hold myself together, grimacing through the self-inflicted gruel of two hours on chilly, bumpy roads, distracting myself with the stunning views. 

(End of The Buscalan Story)

Upon arriving in Sagada, I secured a room at an in at the center of town a minute walk from a touring office. Bag dropped, I consulted the kind desk manager who recommended a tour of the (name?) cave. Joseph the tour guide, two friendly guys from Baguio, and I formed the group and we entered the cave after a brief drive. Equipped with bright spotlights we descended, reaching deeper and deeper alcoves, each with their own curious and distinct formations and shapes. One looked like a draped curtain forty feet wide and ten feet tall. Another area was smooth and bulging, like strong muscles on an oddly shaped beast. Another section looked like a bunch of grapes that had all swollen until they merged. Joseph guided us deftly, navigating traverses that I thought seemed unsafe until he easily scampered down them.

Joseph was a real rascal—- he told us that he prefers groups of boys only because it means he can be more naughty. His naughtiness abounded, mostly in the form of him pointing out “pepes”, or rock formations that look like butts, boobs, and vaginas. TO be fair, fucking funny, and usually very accurate. At one point he had me crouch down to peer under an outcropping halfway across a large cavern to catch a glimpse of a very lifelike pepe. Joseph was also my guide on some of the other tours I did. Sagada has probably the only instance of hanging coffins. When some people die, their coffins were suspended from cliffs or put into caves instead of buried. The result is a striking grid of coffins hanging from a rock face. Joseph told me that they stopped the practice because it was too odorous, drove away tourists, and attracted dogs. Joseph also took me on a lovely hike through the Marlborough Hills and to the site of Blue Soil, a copper—rich mineral deposit with (well named) blue soil. 

The adventurous portion of my time in the Philippines wrapped up with a brief pitstop in Baguio, the biggest city between the northern mountain province and Manila, where I was flying from. It is a squat, wide city splattered across a large hilly area. The center was absolutely buzzing every moment I was there and the city had an electric hum and aura of strength. I liked it a lot. I spent only one night there but in the morning I, alerted to the event by one of my caving partners, got to watch an amazing parade that kickstarted the Fiesta of Flowers, a whole month-long celebration! Amazing marching bands, traditional dance, military displays, community groups, the whole nine yards. What a treat, especially before boarding my last Philippine bus back to Manila for the rest of the day. 

My time in the Philippines was a perfect ramp into what may well be a moving, challenging, and fun chapter. With a calm start, it kicked into gear quite quickly. It was also a dive into the deep end of East Asian urban life, Manila being one of the largest cities in the world, as well as ranking as the most congested city I’ve ever been to. More than anything my time there was characterized by kind, warm people. On the bus from Baguio to Manila, my seat mate offered me chicharonnes repeatedly. In the tricycle from Bugnay to Buscalan, a couple I shared the ride with recommended Sagada and upon running into me there by chance the next day, gave me hugs and said they had been wondering where I was, if I had ended up taking their advice. Countless young people and kids gave me “hey bros” and “what’s ups” passing me on the street, smiling widely. A woman I met on a ferry in Manila told me I should say with her when I come back, asking if it’s okay she calls me son. A guy I shared a hostel dorm with on my last night brought me out to try Balut, fertilized duck embryo, when he heard I hadn’t tried it yet and wanted to before leaving. So many people gave me thoughtful recommendations, asked what I liked when I asked for suggestions, laughed, smiled, and gave a warm welcome. I’ll just have to come on back!