Kalinga then Manila

I'm on a bus...again. But this time, the landscape is dramatically different. Up up up in the mountains, where clouds and pine trees meet and dwarf the shining South China Sea below, we are slowing making our way towards a place called Tinglayan in the Kalinga region of Luzon.

Though I could barely find the place on a map, Tinglayan is home to a mountain tribe whose tradition include tattoos done by fearsome women who tap ink made of coal into the skin using a stick with a thorn insert. Though I was not getting a tattoo, the three others I was traveling with from San Juan were. So off we went. 

We went up into the mountains bus bus, further into different mountains by van, and finally 12 hours later, (Did I mention that everything takes forever to get to in the Philippines? The good news is that it affords me the opportunity to read, a ton.) we were there...but not exactly. A guide met us upon our arrival-5:30 am- and we began to walk. 

I know where the sun meets the mountain tops, cause I've been there. We walked and saw the sunrise over a mountain called "sleeping beauty" and then we climbed, up steps, over waterfalls, up up up, until finally, we made it to a tiny village filled with smiling children demanding candy, dirt floors, and Whang-Od, the last Kalinga tattoo artist.

At 95 years old, Whang-Od is a sight to behold. She's beautiful and maybe it was the thin mountain air, but that woman had an air of grace, wisdom, and power that's palpable. She's a celebrity. She's a hard ass, and she still works creating tattoos one tap at a time, whenever a pilgrim makes his or her way up the mountain pass. 

So I spent the next 24 hours talking with townspeople and watching Whang-Od work. 

She now has two apprentices- her granddaughters Grace, 19 and Elywan, 16. Seeing people come and sit through each painful tap was both gruesome and inspiring. And no, it did not inspire me to get a tattoo. But it did inspire me to learn more about the lives of the women there. They were hilarious.  They were tough. They told me the secret to their happiness: fucking and kids. No joke. They said that's what keeps them happy. And it must be true, because that village boasted more kids than I could count- and they all asked me for candy- their favorite English word. 

 Once they'd torn through the peanut M&Ms I brought, they interrogated me. Where was I from? How old? Why am I not married? Where were my children. When I informed them that I have neither a husband nor offspring, they were shocked- how could someone with skin so fair and legs like mine (no one has ever complimented my legs, but ok) not have a husband. "I'm picky," I respond. "Ah, that's good." And with that they stopped probing.

After my fellow travelers completed their tattoos, we went back to our host family- which was actually Whang-Od and her daughter. We bought them a chicken, and they cooked up a feast. We slept on hard wood floors, we pissed in an adjacent outhouse, and in the morning, walked back down the mountain.

Down, down, down, and many hours later- with a few sight-seeing pauses along the way, we made our way back to Manilla. The road was long, again, of course, but what I could not get over was the contrast. We had booked an apartment via air B&B at the Grammercy Residence, which was as fancy as it sounded. With two doormen, multiple security guards, a rooftop pool, laundry and concierge services, this was as white glove as a building gets. And there we were in a bustling city whose traffic is so bad, Waze is utterly useless. You just expect to sit and wait a while to get anywhere. We napped a while (cause who the hell can sleep on two overnight busses and a wood floor with roosters crowing every ten minutes), then we made our way to WildFlour, a patisserie/brunch stop. We ate like fat kids, we ate decadently, we kept eating, then took pastries for the road. We enjoyed our very western brioche French toast, and wild mushroom salad, our Mac and cheese, Nutella croissant, and coffee. Hadn't we just been walking down a mountain? Hadn't we just been in a village so remote that cell phones didn't work and women worked to separate their rice in order to prepare meals? S didn't seemed fazed. But I just couldn't get over how little they had up there in Tinglayan, and how content they all seemed. While Manila boasted everything one would expect from a wealthy city, and everyone seemed weary, and the air so dirty. 

We spent a few hours wandering the city, managed to have our laundry done, ah white glover perks, and with fresh and perfectly folded attire, we packed our bags and headed to Denpasar.