It’s hard to look away from the fine blue lines on his face. Like strands in a spider web, they mingle and separate with every change of expression. The octogenarian catches me staring at his tattooed face and smiles gently.
As an anachronism in a rapidly modernising world (and probably even for his jeans-clad sons and daughters, nieces and nephews), he’s used to it. “Did the tattoos hurt when you got them?” I ask. “The ones on my face hurt like hell,” he says. “I got them at 14, and still remember the pain.” The stories of his tattoos bring

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