More Bood in Malaka

The Taoist elder was hospitable, and before we left he told to return at 8:30 PM for a celebration during which their holy man would sit on a chair of nails.  He eagerly indicated a heavy wooden chair at the side of the temple bristling with clusters of four-inch nails that emerged from the arms, seat and back.  

The evening soon arrived and as we entered from the dark into the ring of light around the temple, everything was bright red and bright yellow.  A puppet show was being staged across from the entrance.  Strangely, this puppet show continued throughout all that followed, as if it were a sub-plot that would not be denied; the oriental Punch and Judy continuing their abrasive dialogue in counterpoint to the main event.

Then, suddenly from within the temple, the cacophonous clash of cymbals beat in synchrony with big drums and immediately hit a pounding, savage rhythm that somehow seemed to echo the pumping of blood.  It was primitive and powerful and incessant.  Incense swirled thick out of the temple as if it were corded around the hammering beat, and the Tao masters began their ceremony.  It had at the same time a colourful, carefully choreographed progression of ceremony and a primitive savagery: it was mesmerizing.

Our senses were filled with reds and yellows and incense and the pounding drums. One agile temple elder capered a bowing and graceful dance to honour the food offerings, then, snapping a long rope like a bullwhip, ushered the priest to a smooth wooden seat. 

At first he sat, head bowed.  But after some time his body began twitching as if uncontrollably, then his bent head began rotating freely back and forth like a manic washing machine.  His thighs began to shake and he stood and faced the congregation, swinging a ceremonial sword above his head and staring into the heavens.  Then he swung the sword down between his legs, then up over his shoulder, faster and faster, flagellating his back – cutting incision after incision into the skin over his right should blade.

Holding the sword in his hand, he led the congregation out into the temple grounds and along a slightly elevated catwalk, before returning to the temple.

Then, as he stood before the table of offerings, the temple elders moved the chair of nails into position.  

Slowly he lowered his buttocks onto the bed of nails. Then he laid his forearms along the nails embedded on the arm rest, and sat back against the nails behind him. 

 

Then, sitting on nails, he then took the same ceremonial sword and held it to his mouth. Pressing his tongue out against the honed edge, he worked the blade up and down with his arms, slicing into his tongue to cause it to bleed.  As the blood ran freely from his mouth, he leaned forward and kissed a bright yellow script of holy paper, painting it with the bright red of his blood before adding some writing then sealing it with a large stamp.  Then he sanctified a second paper. And another. 

Whenever the flow of blood slowed, he would saw the sword against his tongue to freshen the wound and cause the blood to run freely.  All the while the percussive rhythm of drums and cymbals hammered on unabated through the thick drift of incense.  

I checked my watch and realized we had been standing for two hours, and – like most of the congregation – were quite fatigued by the huge sensory input as well as the high drama of the ceremony.  As the pile of holy papers requiring sanctification dwindled, things seemed to relax and wind down.  Attention shifted from the priest.

We edged out to the courtyard and chatted idly with a few members of the congregation.  Somehow the shared experience had created a bond and we were treated to nods and smiles as we slipped into the darkness at the perimeter of the temple lights.  

Walking back into the dark of the sidestreet, we could only look into each others’ eyes and shake our heads mutely.