Ben Hopkins travels to Thailand’s temple of tattoos, Wat Bang Phra, to witness a festival where devotees become imbued with the protective spirits etched into their skin

In the mid-1970s the charismatic abbot Luang Phor Pern, be­gan administering Sak Yant tattoos and activating them in the Bang Phra temple 50 km’s west of Bangkok. More magical than intellectual, his special skills drew a following that grew to the point where thousands of mostly young men from all corners of the country would bring gifts for the monks to be imbued with protective tattoos. The abbot died in 2002 but is today re­vered annually at the Wat Bang Phra Tattoo Festival.

The roots of Sank Yant tattoos can be traced back thousands of years to Hindu legend and were later adopted and developed by the Khmer as Buddhism spread from India into South­east Asia. At Wat Bang Phra the tattooists are the monks themselves and the images repre­sent powerful amulets of protection against evil spirits, car crashes, knife thrusts and gun
shots. For example, Hanuman – the monkey god – is supposedly a great and clever fighter, dragons are brave and wise, geckos are loving. Not surprisingly the tattoos attract a sizable following from the lower echelons of the Thai underworld and those whose lives are constantly under threat. Since the empowering spell wears off over time, true believers like to recharge their talismanic batteries at least once a year at the Tattoo Festival.

When I arrive at 6am a pale sun is diluting the sky and a steady stream of people are emerging. In one of the temple’s outbuildings a score of men are waiting to be tattooed. A roly-poly monk in ink stained robes is etch­ing a portrait of a lizard into a teenager’s back using a 20-inch needle with split ends. The ink, I’m told, is a secret recipe of snake venom, herbs and cigarette ash. The prods are short and rapid and every couple of min­utes he soaks up tiny droplets of blood and ink with a strip of toilet paper. The process is swift, about 15 min­utes and once administered the skinny and watery eyed teenager bares his chest to join the swelling number of tattoo devotees in the concourse.

Though the monks administer tattoos throughout the year devotees in­sist the etchings done on this day carry the most potency. For many, it’s regarded as the only time to get tattooed.

By 7am the numbers swell and the temple comes to life. There are count­less stalls selling amulets that span the centuries, monks giving blessings and children running wild between the ubiquitous food vendors.

Back on the concourse the atmosphere is theatrical. One by one people work themselves into a trance to become supposedly possessed by the creatures represented in their tattoos. According to occult tattoo theory, the spirits of the men’s tattooed images are calling out to their monkish creator embodied in the wai khru deities on stage. Some will leap up, flap their arms and pirouette toward the stage, screeching like birds. One regular attendee is a wild-eyed hulk who roars like a prehistoric behe­its balls in a clamp and rips out chunks of hair as he bolts toward the gauntlet of security guards who’ll wrestle him into submission before releasing him from his trance by rubbing his ears.

For a nation where expressing passionate emotions is frowned upon the op­portunity to freak out in public must come as a welcome release for those who struggle to tip toe through life with an inane smile on their face.

As the morning wears on and the heat rises the numbers of those purport­edly possessed increases. At times a Mexican wave of wild-men jolt toward the stage, falling over one another and overwhelming security before finally succumbing to a good ear rubbing – sensibly, no alcohol is sold during this festival.

When the abbot finally comes on stage around 9:30 am, the packed arena re­sembles a religious mosh-pit with soldiers, volunteers and many exhausted trancees covered in dirt and grazes.

After quieting the crowd, the abbot will give a short speech. Then, using hose pipes decorated with bamboo stalks, his acolytes power-bless the ec­static crowd by spraying them with water. By 11 am, the only remnant of the morning’s melee is the debris blowing across the hot dusty arena – and of course, the statue of the beloved abbot, Luan Poh Perm, looking out serenely as if nothing had happened.