Bad to the Borneo

At the front of Ernesto’s tattoo design folio there is a A4 sized graphic of an indigenous elder in ceremonial dress, with added text which reads “Preserve Iban culture – Get Tattooed!”

This cheerful and yet devoted attitude typifies Ernesto’s approach to his art form. During our conversation he explains that when he came to tattooing some 15-20 years earlier, the traditional customs and designs of Borneo’s tattooed tribes people were all but gone. Had he been even a few years later in beginning his research, via travelling to longhouses and collecting stories from tattooed elders about the meaning and techniques involved in creating Borneo’s instantly recognisable strong black imagery, it may have been too late.
The infamous practice of headhunting was officially ended in 1963, with an agreement between the tribes of northern Sarawak that was commemorated in a ceremony known as the ‘sticking of the pig’. Many spears, different tribes, one luckless animal. From this point in time it seems that tattooing steadily declined, as tribes people became disconnected from their earlier practices of marking themselves and turned towards a more western orientated idea of the modern world. As such, Ernesto is famous for being a revivalist, and his folio and studio practice represent his approach to being the torch bearer of traditional Borneo tattooing culture. While discussing the tattoo I am to get here, he makes a clear distinction between a Custom design, that is made in the style and imagery of Borneo’s visual language, and yet is individually unique; and a Traditional design, which is something taken directly from an original source and unchanged. Ernesto himself has a Naga (Dragon) inked on his fore arm that came from his grandfather. “So no one else can have it” he says with a smile.

Scene from a contemporary Bidayhu longhouse

The questions of ownership, respect and cultural appropriation is something that I give a lot of thought to before getting tattooed with an image which is culturally specific, but when I attempt to open a discussion about this, Ernesto brushes me aside with an answer that is disarmingly simple. “Iban means people,” he says “so the designs are for all people. Unless you are an animal or a spirit of course!” He adds with a laugh. Later on, I broach the subject again, and he explains that for the people of Borneo, tattooing was a tradition that was shared between tribes . In this part of Sarawak, the Iban and the Bidayhu are the two main groups, of which there are numerous sub groups defined by their subtly different languages and more importantly by the river on which they live and subsist. Shared between them however, was the concept of a Belaji or ‘journey’ through life, as documented and represented by the tradition of tattooing.

Iban elder

As a coming of age ritual, young men (and sometimes women) around 14 or 15 would begin to get tattooed, often with the instantly recognisable Bouna Terueng tapped into the skin on their upper shoulders. This design contains both the representation of an eggplant flower, and the spiral seen through the translucent belly of a young tadpole, symbolising life, growth and the transition to adulthood. Once empowered with this initial marking, the young adults were free to gather other symbols of their progress through life’s great adventure, earning specific designs for achievements such as taking a head or being a great warrior, as well as collecting images from other tribes people and longhouses that they may have visited on their travels.

Robin. Note his Hannah Montana lip gloss.

Women also earned specific tattoos for different and important achievements. The weaving of sacred patterned fabric – that which represents the God’s connection to human-kind through dreams and rituals – was seen to be an accomplishment worthy of designs that decorated the back of the hands and forearms, while also making the wearer more attractive to marriage proposals. Ernesto’s apprentice Robin (who stretches the skin as the ink is hammered in) explains laughingly that without tattoos an Iban was considered ‘naked’. And we all enjoy Ernesto’s idea that one day in the not too distant future there will come a time when it will be impossible to get a job without having tattoos, as today’s generation of inked up 20-30 something’s turn into the owners and bosses of tomorrow.

The idea of the Belaji speaks strongly to my passion for getting tattooed as a way of recording and celebrating my own journey through life, and its exciting to chose a traditional design from Ernesto’s folio and know that it’s an image which has been used by people in this area for hundreds of years. And he makes it clear from his description of the Belaji, that to collect a Borneo tattoo as a Westerner, is considered no different from an Iban receiving a Bidayhu design, or Sailors getting tattooed while on their tour of duty, or even young Borneo travellers getting western designs while working away from home. Something that he’s passionate about is keeping these original designs alive, and the only way to really do that is the 3 Dimensional reality of ink in skin. As I settle myself down onto the floor to begin my hand tapped tattoo, Ernesto deepens the sense of tradition, explaining that his hand tapping tattoo tools are crafted from the handle of his grandfathers spear. This is an original tattoo experience that would be cheesy if it weren’t so fucking cool! Hand tapping is a new experience for me, but I’m surprised to find that its actually quite pleasant – less invasive than electric tattooing, the two handed technique of tapping a needled stick down into the skin with a weighted and carved hammer is relaxingly percussive, and the ink goes in quickly with 14 needles clustered together at the end of the tool.

As I’m being inked, I learn more about a traditional Iban society where tattooing was a familiar and regularly occurring ritual. Interestingly tattooing was not something reserved for a special class of people, nor was it only able to be practiced by a specially trained elder. In his nostalgic and slightly romantic description of the traditional longhouse lifestyles of the Iban, Ernesto paints a picture of an organically communist society, where tribes people live, work, farm, eat, drink and most importantly get tattooed together. Sounds like my kinda lifestyle. 4 hours go past, and just as it starts to hurt, we finish up. I’m now the proud wearer of a traditional Borneo tattoo – a stylised dragon with menacing teeth, the spiral of life in its belly, and a star flower in its mouth to keep it from getting hungry. As we walk home to the hostel, an old indigenous lady with a wrinkled smile and a shock of sharply frizzy white hair looks at my arm and nods knowingly. “Very nice,” she says. “By Ernesto?”