Luckily, they’re not the deformed dogs I saw outside, but Pomeranians. Some look just curious, others definitely more aggressive. They don’t stop barking at us for a second. I hope they don’t get too close in that threatening way, because I really don’t feel like having to kick one away out of fear of getting bitten. The Malaysian guy is very scared, and I can’t help but laugh a little… but they just keep barking, so we continue down the corridor until we reach a room. Without saying a word, the monk points at the armchairs in the middle of the room and tells us to sit. Then he leaves. No explanation. We stay there in silence like idiots for about twenty minutes, also because the Malaysian wasn’t very talkative, maybe still traumatised by the dogs.

Suddenly, a bald guy wearing a red T-shirt walks in. Without greeting us, he throws what looks like a binder onto the table and says in an annoyed tone, in English: “Choose your tattoo from the list and put the money in that container.”

The Malaysian and I look at each other, confused. I ask, “Are we in the right place? We came here for the Sak Yant.”

“Yes, I do it. Tell me which design you want, and I’ll do it.”
“But we thought it would be different. Doesn’t a monk handle these things?”
“That ritual is for believers only, on the other side of the temple, not here. It’s not for tourists. It’s a whole different thing. You don’t pay, you make an offering. You can’t choose the design, you can’t choose the placement. Once you make the offering, you can’t refuse to get it done. It’s sacred.”

That’s exactly what I was looking for. Something authentic, not some tourist bullshit. I ask the guy in the red T-shirt to take us there. Annoyed, he tries to convince us to let him do it, but after we refuse, he tells us to follow him.

On the other side of the temple, we enter a large hall, and I don’t know what shocks me more: the dirt in this place or the smell of piss mixed with incense and wet dog. It’s a big gray room, with walls that haven’t seen a fresh coat of paint since before I was probably even conceived. Streaks of grime everywhere. Small windows with filthy glass that don’t let you see outside. It feels like I’m breathing in dog hair.

In the centre of the room, a group of five or six people, judging by their looks, probably locals, are sitting on the floor in a circle in front of a brown leather sofa. On one of the armrests, there’s a glass with a dark liquid inside. On the floor, a large dark stain. I don’t even want to ask myself what that could be. The Malaysian guy and I look at each other again, saying nothing, but at the same time saying everything.

As I scan this place that looks like anything but somewhere I’d ever get a tattoo, I don’t even notice that the guy in the red T-shirt has disappeared. So I decide to approach the group of people who, without greeting us, size me and the other guy up from head to toe. I try to ask for information, but no one seems to understand English.

The awkward silence is broken a few minutes later by a monk entering the room. He’s not very talkative either. Being the classic Italian that I am, I suffer through all this silence. Everyone just watches the new arrival as he approaches.

The monk sits down on the sofa and pulls some tools out of the leather backpack he brought with him. A rod, a bottle, a few other things. He takes the glass from the armrest, empties it onto the floor without a second thought, then fills it again with the contents of the bottle, without even rinsing it first. Did I see that right? That would be… the ink?