Despite its piercing crack, I feel no pain. With Iswandiarjo’s skilful control, the thickest part of the whip strikes and wraps around the length of my back. I hear the crack of the whip before I feel its impact-a testament to how fast the whip moves through the air. It travels at a fraction of its fullest speed, but its signature crack, albeit slightly muted, is still terrifying. The red hue of the whip blurs as it slices through the air. Iswandiarjo has his work cut out for him. I’m here at Iswandiarjo’s abode to learn about the ancient-and in Singapore, restricted-art of Kuda Kepang. Getting whipped is par for the course of my investigation. From the corner of my eye, I see my colleagues huddled in a corner, watching all this unfold. Even in a spacious lift lobby, the range of the whip’s sting is remarkably vast. Iswandiarjo swings the whip back and forth to get a better sense of the space.

Amongst other pain-defying, almost inhuman feats such as eating glass. During the performance, practitioners-while in a state of trance-withstand the force of a full-bodied lashing.

Whips are a common sight at Kuda Kepang (‘Flat Horse’ in English) performances. Iswandiarjo is the fifth-generation leader of Kesenian Tedja Timur, or ‘Rainbow of Arts from the East’, one of Singapore’s earliest professional Kuda Kepang groups. The whip that the 39-year-old is holding bears a striking shade of red, with an uncanny resemblance to our national flag. Today, I’m leaving the whipping in the proficient hands of Iswandiarjo. But here I am at the lift lobby of an HDB flat along Haig Road, bracing for impact.

When I started my RICE internship, I never imagined I’d be getting whipped. All images by Stephanie Lee for Rice Media unless otherwise stated.

Tari kuda lumping