Once he’s arranged his tools, with a simple gesture of his hand he invites one of the people from the circle to come forward. The man takes the offerings out of a bag and places them on a small table. Two others stand up and move closer to the monk. The first guy takes off his shirt, revealing a body almost completely covered in tattoos. The monk seems to think for a few seconds, then, after rubbing what looks like sandpaper on the man’s skin, maybe to remove the hair, he dips the rod with the needle into the liquid. The two men hold him still with their hands. And the work begins.

The Malaysian guy, seeing this scene, starts gagging. I want to point out that I haven’t seen even the shadow of a disinfectant, a glove, or anything. The glass, which just a minute ago contained who-knows-how-old ink, hasn’t been cleaned at all.

Driven by curiosity, I stand up to get a better look at what the monk is doing. I can’t resist. He’s tattooing with the rod what looks like a vertical script, filling an empty space on the lower back of the guy. No stencil, no guide. Just his experienced hand drawing perfectly straight, steady lines. The monk’s skill is impressive. At the same time, I see the pain in the man’s eyes as the monk punctures his back.

During the “session,” I take a closer look at the people around me. It might sound harsh to say, but they don’t look like they’re in great shape. Tired faces, worn-out expressions, red eyes, and some missing teeth. One man has strange stains around his mouth.

Then I look back at the “patient” and notice drops of blood coming out of the wounds. Before they run too far down his skin, the monk wipes them away with a filthy rag. What if the dirt on that cloth is nothing but the dried blood of previous “patients”? Once he’s done, he takes a small golden leaf from a container and sticks it onto the fresh tattoo while murmuring what I assume is a prayer, then he slaps the skin. After the slap, the man stands up, nods at the monk, puts his shirt back on and sits down on the floor again.

The Malaysian guy can’t take it anymore. It’s too much for him. He says he can’t stay, that he’s changed his mind, and he leaves. So now I’m alone in this whole situation. What sane person would agree to get tattooed in these conditions? But I’m already here, and at least it costs me nothing to watch the show.

After the first man, the next one steps forward. It’s a woman who, as she opens her denim jacket, I notice doesn’t even have a single tattoo. The monk, still working freehand while two people hold her, draws what I think is an eagle on her skin. Unlike the first one, this design comes out a bit crooked, and the eagle looks kind of ugly. Not exactly something I’d want permanently on my body. That convinces me even more that getting tattooed here is a fucking terrible idea.

Then the third person, and so on, until I think it’s my turn. Everyone is staring at me, and I try to explain that no, I don’t want to do it anymore. So I turn around and start walking toward the exit. Just before stepping through that door, I don’t know what rotten side of my brain tells me to stop. And to think.

Why not, Ricky?