(Editor’s note: This article was first published in The Point, the publication of the Association of Professional Piercers. Since part of BME’s mandate is to create as comprehensive and well rounded an archive of body modification as possible, we feel these are important additions.

Paul King, the article’s author, has given BME permission to publish a series of articles he wrote for The Point that explore the anthropological history behind many modern piercings. This is another in that series.)

In Sulawesi it was called Kambi or Kambiong; in the Philippines, Tugbuk. In southern Borneo it was called Kaleng and, while the Kenyah called it Aja, the Kayan called it Uttang or Oettang. A few anthropologists made the Iban’s name for it the most famous: Palang, or ampallang. An Indian scholar gives a description of it and calls it apadravya. First of all, the reader will come to know that what we have all called the ampallang and the apadravya piercings are, historically, one and the same. This article will cover origin, practices and mythology around this very extreme and ancient piercing.

As to the exact origin of this piercing, nobody knows. Scholars have devoted their careers to dissecting trade patterns, in particular in South and South East Asia. The complexities of trade influence over time can most simply be described as the overlapping of cultures, like waves crossing from different directions. Based on the knowledge that all known occurrences of this custom are recorded on the same trade routes and the intense nature of piercing and healing the glans of the penis, one can safely deduce that this piercing custom did not spontaneously originate in various locations, but was shared.

The only known reference of the apadravya is the sixth century Kama Sutra. I know of no other mention or art depictions of the piercing in India. If the practice survived until substantial European contact, in the seventeenth century, then surely there would have been some recording. One can only speculate that this piercing was probably neither widespread nor lasting in the Indian culture.

According to Vatsyayana, the author of the Kama Sutra, apadravyas are any one of a number of devices which a man

puts on or around the lingam (penis) to supplement its length or its thickness, so as to fit into the yoni (vagina). The people of the southern countries think that true sexual pleasure can not be obtained without perforating the lingam, and they therefore cause it to be pierced…now when a young man perforates his lingam he should pierce it with a sharp instrument, and then stand in water as long as blood continues to flow. At night he should engage in sexual intercourse, even with vigor, so as to clean the hole. After this he should continue to wash the hole with decoctions and increase the size by putting into it small pieces of cane… and thus gradually enlarging it.

There should be some debate on the definition of the term “southern countries” used in the Kama Sutra, It could mean Southern India or it could mean SE Asia. If it means SE Asia, again, this would argue that the origins of the piercing are probably not in India.

The first known depiction is on a bronze dog from SE Asia, fourth century. The earliest record in European literature of the piercing on a man is from 1588. The explorer, Cavendish, is said to have been to the island of Capul, Philippines. “Every man hath a nayle (nail) of Tynne (Tin) thrust quite through the head of his privie part (glans of his penis)…” ¹

Though the Indian culture was extremely prolific, there is another good argument against Indian origins: Statuary predating Hindu influence in Bali depict possible penile piercings. One anthropologist has cited the visual influence of certain indigenous rodents and the rhinoceros on the island of Borneo (that naturally have barbed penises) as the original inspiration for the piercing.²

The only traditional practice of this piercing still known to exist is on Borneo, with the Kayan people believed to be the oldest practitioners of the Palang; all current tribes practicing the palang give credit to the Kayan. This is interesting, considering they are inland and thought by anthropologists to be the most isolated and oldest inhabitants. Current history dates the palang to other tribes only about 100 years.³

Just as interesting as the mysterious origins are the variations of materials, practice and mythology around this extreme piercing.

Other than the mention in the Kama Sutra, the oldest accounts of this piercing come from the Philippines. Popular in the region was a device called Sakra, which is believed to be a derivative of the Indian Sanskrit word chakra: a center of force or energy. The apparatus could be a round wheel with projecting points (like a spur held in place by a pin), stars, rings, fine twisted wire, pig bristles, bamboo shavings, seeds, horn, coral, agate, hornbill ivory, beads, broken glass and, in one case, an object that looked like a snake head. Quills, as well, were used as nonfunctional retainers. The early explanations from the Codex say the women insisted upon the piercings to discourage the men from sodomy. The Spanish quickly set about eradicating the behavior, referred to as “a custom invented by the devil.”⁴

Certainly the greatest volume of documentation for this piercing, however, is from the Iban in Borneo, who would sometimes tattoo a rosette (or, occasionally, a fishhook) to show they had a palang. Palang in Iban means “cross” or “cross bar,” and, in the region, the Pins would be made of gold or brass. Often, a sleeve insert to reduce friction (a “bushing”) was put in place so the pin could be removed as desired,⁵ with up to three palangs sometimes worn at a time.⁶ The Iban also refer to the ampallang as “burah palang” or “tanduh duri,” which translates to “spout thorn” or “point.” The ends of the pin could have been smooth, or may have been “little pins, coins, discs, brushes, rings/rowels.”⁷

On Borneo and Sulawesi, a splint is used to hold the penis for the actual piercing procedure. It varies in length from several inches to a foot, approximately a one-and-a-half inches thick with a hole in both sides.⁸ The slats are placed on either side of the penis and then tightly secured, flattening out the penis. After sufficient time has passed for the lack of blood and cold water to decrease sensation, the penis is pierced⁹ – sometimes, a pigeon’s feather anointed with oil would be inserted and taken out each day. The piercing takes about one month to heal.

There are many myths of origin for this piercing. The Kayan say a woman complained of a man’s penis size, saying it was no better than a rolled leaf used to give herself satisfaction, and the insulted male ran off to the woods and pierced himself. The Kelabit say a visiting Kayan warrior used his piercing on a woman causing her death, but she was so satisfied the Kelabit continued the practice.¹⁰ Another story goes¹¹:

In the mid 1970s, Doug Malloy labeled the vertical piercing of the glans an “apadravya” and a horizontal piercing “ampallang.” Doug passed this folklore onto Jim Ward, founder of Gauntlet and editor of Piercing Fans International, Quarterly.¹² For posterity, it’s important that the piercing community knows the historical origins, however, continuing the practice of differentiating the same piercing as two, honors our own western traditions.

________________
1 Male Infibulation by John Dingwall

2 Tom Harrison is an anthropologist from the 1950s and 60s. He wrote several articles, a book and collected artifacts on the Palang for the Sarawak Museum, Kuching, Malaysia. This author was able to go there and obtain photocopies of his work.

3 Tom Harrison

4 The Penis Inserts of Southeast Asia Donald E. Brown, James W. Edwards, and Ruth P. Moore

5 The Sexual Relations of Mankind (SRM, per researcher Von Graffin) by Montegazza

6 A Stroll through Borneo by James Barclay

7 Tom Harrison

8 Tom Harrison

9 SRM states they will sometimes leave the device on for eight to ten days. (!) An Iban personally told this author, “2-3 hours.”

10 Tom Harrison

11 SRM

12 Per telephone conversation with Jim Ward, August 3, 2002.

My usual disclaimer: I am not an anthropologist. From time to time, there will be errors. Please be understanding and forth coming if you have any information you would like to share.

Please consider buying a membership to BME so we can continue bringing you articles like this one.

(Editor’s note: In addition to Paul King, APP President James Weber will also be contributing to BME on what will hopefully be a regular basis. As a means of staying abreast of and maintaining healthy relationships with various spheres in the medical community, APP members can often be found at conventions and conferences that may not ostensibly relate directly to piercing itself. In this piece, James visits two such conferences.)

Thursday, June 19

6 a.m., Philadelphia, PA: My alarm goes off. My lover/ride-to-the-airport doesn’t even move. I have to get up now to make my 8:20 flight. I wonder why I agree to do these conferences.

8 a.m., Philadelphia International Airport (PHL): My flight is delayed one hour. Shit.

11:15 a.m., Tucson International Airport (TUS): Since my first flight was delayed, my one-hour layover is now a 15-minute layover. I grab a disgusting chicken sandwich from the only food counter without a line, grab a bottle of water and run to my flight. I’m so hungry I’m angry, and I’m really wondering why I do these conferences.

Crystal

Photo credit: James Weber

2 p.m., Albuquerque International Sunport (ABQ): I finally land. The chicken sandwich sits like a weight in my stomach; I managed to sleep very little on either of my flights; it feels wonderful to get off the plane. Crystal’s employee, Angela, picks me up at the airport, curbside. In her silver Honda Civic she has the huge box with the booth and a second large box with the art for the booth filling the back seat, pushing our seats forward. The trunk is filled with nine boxes of brochures, posters, magazines, pens, stickers and everything else needed to set up the APP booth. We have three hours to get to the convention center and set up everything for the exposition at the American Dental Hygienist’s Association (ADHA) conference, which starts tomorrow.

It’s hot as hell. It was light jacket weather when I left Philadelphia, and it’s in the mid-nineties here now. Angela and I drive around and finally find a place to unload. The boxes, while not too unwieldy in moderate weather, are unbearably heavy in the heat. I wait on the sidewalk in the hot sun with the boxes while Angela parks the car.

The booth set-up is easy; I’ve done it often enough, and air conditioning makes anything easier. We escape by about 4 p.m. and head to Evolution, where Crystal warmly greets me in the parking lot in back — I feel a lot better. We head to her house — it is very red — and then go out to eat. She goes out, and I stay at her apartment to check my email; I’m soon asleep on her sofa.

Photo credit: James Weber

Friday, June 20

6 a.m.: I’m awake. My body still thinks it’s in Philadelphia — actually, I don’t think my body knows where the hell it is.

9 a.m.: Crystal and I arrive — a little late — to the convention center. The expo is already overflowing with people as we make our way to the booth and hastily set up the APP material: brochures, including four new Spanish-language ones; posters; procedure manuals, both hard copy and disc; pens and stickers; and about ten different issues of The Point. (The back issues of The Point are always eye-catching, and make me very proud.) As we set up, we’re swamped with people asking questions, wanting information, thanking us for being there. I remember: this is why I love these conferences.

10 a.m.: As a representative from the ADHA introduces herself — thanking us once again for being there — a small gaggle of people slowly walks towards us, deferentially surrounding an old woman as she makes her way down the aisle. As she comes nearer, I am told, with a tone of reverence, that the woman making her way to us is the “Queen of the dental hygienists.” Before she could say more, the woman reaches us and is ushered behind our table and into our booth space. Evidently, the juxtaposition of a septuagenarian dental hygienist posing with two tattooed and pierced exhibiters is a photo opportunity not to be missed.

She poses, flanked by Crystal and I, while our picture is taken. After the first set of photos, she looks at the booth behind her to see where she is — not out of mental frailty, but as someone important enough that they were used to being shuttled from one photo opportunity to the next without having to concern herself with more than being diplomatic. We were motioned together for a second set of photos, and as my hand brushes against hers she grabs it and holds it tightly with the kind of clasp that can only come from someone older, someone who has no time for worrying about misunderstanding, who holds your hand as though there could be no other reason for that grip than pure warmth and understanding. I immediately know why everyone held her in such regard, why she commanded such respect. After the pictures are taken, she turns to me and says, simply but earnestly, “I don’t like tongue piercings.” She says it in such a way that I don’t hold it against her, as I know she doesn’t hold it against me.

She then slowly walks away, followed by her entourage, her court. This was my experience meeting Dr. Esther Wilkins.

Photo credit: James Weber

Saturday, June 21

10 a.m.: Crystal and I arrive just as the exposition hall opens on the second day.

From the several ADHA representatives that stop by the booth, we get information on attendance: There are approximately 1,300 attendees this year — the highest figure they’ve ever had, with 300 of those being students — up from about 100 last year.

The response we receive is amazing. It may have been the increase in attendance, the spike in the number of students, or the fact this is our second time exhibiting, but people are very enthusiastic about our presence there.

(It’s also worth noting that, with the huge booths from Colgate, Johnson and Johnson [makers of Listerine], Tom’s of Maine, etc., and dozens of other manufacturers selling everything from medical instruments to office lighting, we’re the only booth not selling anything — not anything besides information.)

The encouraging part of the day isn’t talking to new people — to people that haven’t heard of us — but to people who already have. Repeatedly, people come up and talk about how they had done a presentation on the topic of piercing for their school, for other students, at a local health conference, for the local health board; how they had been involved in education on some level and how invaluable our material was to them.

4 p.m.: Angela helps me break down the booth and pack up for the next leg of the trip — Tucson.

Photo credit: James Weber

Sunday, June 22

6:30 a.m.: As Crystal and I are driving to pick up the rental car we run out of gas. Completely. The car simply sputters and dies as we’re going down the road. It seems that Crystal has been hanging her ADHA badge on the steering column — over the fuel gauge — and she simply hasn’t noticed how little gas we had left. Luckily, the two-lane access road is deserted (it’s early Sunday morning) and the car comes to a stop at the curb about a quarter-mile from the rental car lot. While Crystal waits for her business partner/ex-husband to come with gas (we owe him a BIG favor), I hoof it to the lot and pick up the car. Crystal joins me shortly, we transfer the booth and boxes to the rental and I’m back on the road a little after 7 a.m.

12 p.m.: I’ve been barreling through the desert for five hours. My only stop was a Denny’s in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. My soundtrack so far has consisted of Hank Williams, the O’ Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack and Bob Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde and Highway 61 Revisited. Things are good — until I realize the fuel gauge is on “E.” Fuck — twice in one day. I hear Caitlin in my head: After I told her the drive would be an “adventure,” she replied that it’s only fun until you run out of gas on the highway 50 miles from anywhere in the hot sun and they find you dead on the side of the road, your corpse picked over by vultures. (Actually, she didn’t mention the vultures, but they were certainly implied.)

The last sign I remember seeing was a “Last Rest Stop For 78 Miles” sign. How long ago was that? I’m going a steady 90 mph now and sweating, a little from the nervousness but more from the fact that I’ve turned off the air to conserve gas, and it’s 105 degrees outside. And I have no cell phone reception out here.

I finally see a sign: “Wilcox — 10 miles.” Please let me make it. Please, please, please, please … I make it the 10 miles to the exit, and I see another sign: “Wilcox – 4 miles.” It seems it was 10 miles to the exit. Shit. I make it to what I assume is Main Street — Wilcox isn’t much more than a stop on the highway — and with great relief I roll into a gas station. Whew …

2 p.m.: I arrive at the Tucson airport as Didier’s plane from San Diego is landing. We have three hours to find the convention hotel and set up the booth.

3 p.m.: We find the convention hotel — it’s a huge Hilton “resort” — and we find the hotel where we are registered. They were supposed to be close, but are four miles apart. It’s now 110 degrees. We decide to hold on to the rental car.

4 p.m.: We arrive at the expo hall. The other exhibitors give us “the eye” as we set up. It’s the annual meeting of NEHA, the National Environmental Health Association, and the hall is full of health inspectors and others who deal with public health and policy. It’s the APP’s first time here, and we’re not quite sure what to expect. They don’t know what to make of us either. We quickly set up the booth and the table and high-tail it out of there. We have to be back for the expo opening and “party” at 6 p.m., and we’re already exhausted and drenched in sweat. It’s 112 degrees outside.

6 p.m.: Didier and I open the doors and walk into the expo hall, and it’s like the scene out of Animal House where they go to the bar in the “wrong” part of town: Conversation stops and all eyes are on us. (I imagine the silverware dropping and a needle going “scrrrrrrtt” over a record as the music stops.) It’s a long walk from the doors to the table …

We set ourselves up and wait. (We’re right in front of the door — you can’t overlook us.)
The attendees start to slowly trickle in, and then we are deluged with people. Everyone, it seems, is working on legislation/policy/protocol in their state/county/city dealing with body piercing. We give away the majority of our material in two hours. They love The Point. They grab handfuls of the brochures. They take the CD manuals like they’ve been handed the scriptures. (Well, that may be a bit of an exaggeration, but they are incredibly appreciative.)

I meet a health inspector from Florida who I’ve previously talked to only by phone. I talk to inspectors from Colorado and Albuquerque that have already worked with APP representatives on policy. I talk to people who have never heard of us but promise to contact us — and they will.

It was absolutely amazing, and this was only the first three hours.

9 p.m.: The expo closes, and Didier and I grab our things and head back to our hotel, as the floor opens again on Monday at 8 a.m. It is a little cooler outside — only 103 degrees.

Didier

Photo credit: James Weber

Monday, June 23

8 a.m.: After a hurried breakfast at the hotel consisting of a precooked omelette and stale pastries, Didier and I arrive at the opening of the expo. Most other attendees are complaining about the early start time. I, however, am still on East Coast time; I was up at 4:30 a.m.

The second day is much less busy than opening night, but the people to whom Didier and I speak at length are no less appreciative of our presence or the work we do. We meet with representatives from Arizona, New Mexico, Florida, Alaska, Georgia, New Jersey, Washington DC, Utah, Minnesota, Oregon, Washington, California, Hawaii, Idaho, Oklahoma, Louisiana, Arkansas, Massachusetts, Alabama, Indiana, Michigan, New York, Maryland, Ohio, Illinois, Nebraska, Colorado, Montana, British Colombia and Great Britain. (This may not be a complete list, but it’s what Didier and I could recall after brainstorming in our hotel room.) Many of these people are directly responsible for either the inspection of body art establishments or the policies or legislation that governs and informs those inspections.

The most memorable thing I hear comes from a woman from Montana, who talks about regulations and inspections in her state. She thanks us for our efforts as an organization and closes by saying, “We couldn’t have done it without your help,” which just about knocks me over.

The stated mission of the APP is to disseminate information about body piercing to piercers, health care professionals, legislators, and the general public. As piercers, we will most likely never all fly the same flag, and the crusade to educate the public is just at the beginning of a long and hard road. But health care professionals now know who we are and where to find us; my trips to the annual conferences of APHA (the American Public Health Association), ACHA (the American College Health Association), and ADHA (the American Dental Hygienists’ Association) have proven that to me. The reception that Didier and I received at NEHA showed that we are succeeding with legislators as well. “We couldn’t have done it without your help” speaks volumes.

2 p.m.: The expo closes, and Didier and I pack up the booth and load the car. (The temperature gauge in the car says 116 degrees; we can’t tell if that means outside or inside the car.) We head to the Post Office to ship what few supplies we have left to San Diego along with the booth in preparation for the APHA conference at the end of October, and then drive the hour to the airport for Didier to catch his flight. I don’t leave until tomorrow morning, so after dinner I head back to the hotel to finish my blog of the trip and prepare for an early bedtime. I will not be leaving the comfort of the room or the air conditioning again until I leave for the airport tomorrow morning — I have to return the rental car before 6 a.m., so I’ll be up at 4:30 yet again.

Didier

Photo credit: James Weber

While this may not be the typical experience manning the APP booth at health conferences, it’s certainly not unusual. As part of our outreach to the medical community, the APP has a yearly presence at the annual conferences for the American Public Health Association (APHA) and the American College Health Association (ACHA). As of last year we added attendance at the American Dental Health Association (ADHA) conference, and this year was our first time at the National Environmental Health Association (NEHA) conference as well. While there is a significant time commitment involved in volunteering (and with my new duties as President I may not be able to attend as many in the future as I may have hoped) they are tremendously rewarding, for they give you the opportunity to talk face-to-face with people who are directly affected by the outreach we do, the material we provide, and the education we offer. Like most work on behalf of the APP, it can be incredibly hard, but the rewards more than make up for it. Many thanks to all who have helped represent the APP all over the country through the years, and thanks in advance to those set to do it in the future.]

Copyright © The Association of Professional Piercers. Reprinted on BME with permission. Articles in this column are published simultaneously in The Point: The Quarterly Journal of the Association of Professional Piercers. PDFs of back issues are available for free download at SafePiercing.org, and subscriptions are available by contacting the APP office at [email protected].

(Editor’s note: This article was first published on October 17, 2001, in The Point, the publication of the Association of Professional Piercers. Since part of BME’s mandate is to create as comprehensive and well rounded an archive of body modification as possible, we feel these are important additions.

Paul King, the article’s author, has given BME permission to publish a series of articles he wrote for The Point that explore the anthropological history behind many modern piercings. This is the first in that series.)

Male infibulation involves pulling the foreskin of the penis over the glans and piercing the foreskin through both sides, vertically or horizontally. In theory, this type of foreskin piercing secures the prepuce like a hood over the glans, making arousal painful and erection impossible. The procedure was usually performed with needle followed by thread until healed, at which point a ring or fibula pin would be directly inserted. (Sometimes, the “jewelry” would be inserted immediately after or as part of the piercing process.)

Ironically, in recent times the male foreskin piercing is usually performed to enhance aesthetics and pleasure. Most modern piercers find that typical foreskin piercings heal more quickly and with fewer complications when using barbells instead of rings.

Clear records of male infibulation can be found from twelfth century B.C.E. through fourth century C.E., then again from the seventeenth century C.E. until present. The practice seems to have fallen out of vogue for about 1,300 years in between; scanning western literature during that period, no references to the practice have been found. Then, in the latter part of 1715, Onania was published in London, and set into motion the journey of masturbation into the dark ages; this was “Patient Zero” in all religious rhetoric on the evils of “self-pollution.” The pamphlet (and the doctoral essays in the following generations that quoted from it) set the misconceptions that masturbation was injurious and evil and had to be stopped by whatever means — including piercing. The author remains anonymous.

Remember: The Arabs, Greeks and Romans were not prudes. They infibulated not for fear of sin, but out of superstition and control. They believed young singers’ voices could be kept pure and unchanged, that athletes and gladiators performed better chaste and, of course, slaves’ sex members needed to be controlled for breeding, protection from STDs, and the safety of non-slave women.

It seems that the resurgence of infibulation was most widely practiced in Germany around the end of the eighteenth century. Doctors Campe and Vogel felt piercing the flesh of the foreskin and, once healed, installing an iron ring was appropriate for “difficult cases.” Keep in mind, that these operations were performed non-consensually on children.

A few scientific heretics first appeared around 1875. They thought the evils of masturbation were exaggerated and that the medical operations were barbaric and ultimately ineffective. There were those whose rhetoric clung to the past, such as Freud and the Catholic Church. Then, however, the final nail was hammered in with the Kinsey Report of 1948, showing 92 percent of the population masturbated, thus closing the door on recorded incidences of medical infibulation in the western world. It is known that piercing continued in the SM (sado-masochistic) underground but, since SM was still considered a mental illness and illegal, records remain illusive.

As a footnote, it would seem logical that the “Prince Albert” was first practiced as a form of infibulation on circumcised men, however a clear cut example, describing the practice or of the use of the name Prince Albert, has not been traced prior to The Art of Pierced Penises and Decorative Tattoos by Doug Malloy. So far, American books on the history of circumcision (where the operation is widely practiced) have yielded no concrete references. Exploration of LGBT archives and the Leather Archives in Chicago — a museum dedicated to the Leather and SM communities — should be under taken for possible references prior to the 1970s. The smoking gun is out there — it just hasn’t been found.

A General Time Line

Twelfth century B.C.E.: Per Mensius, infibulation was at least in practice to the time of the siege of Troy. Chastity Safeguards by Anonymous.

Up to fourth century C.E.: Fragmented accounts given in the second century and after by Celsus and Oribasius, giving descriptions of the reasons and operation. Male Infibulation by Dingwall M.A.

Seventeenth century: Surgeon, Dionis, describes the “bouclement de garcons” (the male ring) piercing chastity during the reign of Louis XIV, written beginning of eighteenth century. Male Infibulation by Dingwall M.A.

Eighteenth century: Doctors such as Campe, Jaeger and Vogel support infibulation as a means to stop masturbation. Male Infibulation by Dingwall M.A.

1822: A detailed account of Dr. Marx’s encounter with a patient who had been infibulated several times appears in the Gazette de Sante.

1876-1892: Dr. Yellowees declared that he performed infibulation operations by passing metal safety pins through the foreskin. Masturbation, The History of a Great Terror by Jean Stengers and Anne Van Neck.

1910: “Self pollution: When everything else fails, we have no hesitation in recommending surgical treatment. This is of various kinds, from repeated blistering to that ancient operation which Latin writers tell was practiced upon singers of the Roman stage, called infibulation.” Know Thyself: Nature’s Secrets Revealed by Bishop Fallows and Dr. Truitt.

1926: Regarding prevention of masturbation: “Other physicians perforate the foreskin and introduce a ring.” The Sexual Life of Our Time by I. Bloch, M.D.

My usual disclaimer: I am not an anthropologist. From time to time, there will be errors. Please be understanding and forth coming if you have information you would like to share.

Please consider buying a membership to BME so we can continue bringing you articles like this one.