The Voyage of Spectacle

As is often the case on this adventure, tourism and fun were preempted by catching up on boat work.  Ian gathered some thirty plastic water jugs to take to shore, fill up at the public spigot, bring back, dump into Spectacle’s water tank, and repeat — a truly heinous job.  We worried about leaving a bunch of plastic jugs for Fatu Hiva’s unspoiled environment to deal with, but luckily, many locals volunteered to take them off of our hands.  Evidently, we’re not the only ones who fill up at the public spigot and haul water home.

Andy and I stayed on board finishing the projects to close out the passage and catching up on the projects neglected by being at sea.  And then Ian came back from his second water delivery trip with the following announcement:

“I found a really good tattoo artist, and if we go to his house in an hour, he can tattoo all three of us before our dinner reservation at 7:00.”

Andy responded, “That’s the stupidest plan I’ve ever heard in my life … ok, let me get changed.”

You can’t cross the Pacific Ocean on a small vessel to the birthplace of tattoos and not go native.  Indeed, the crew of Spectacle for the Pacific crossing talked a lot about getting tattoos in the Marquesas, but I couldn’t quite sort out whether this plan was residual slap-happiness from the passage or for real. 

Before the arrival of Europeans, the thousands-year-old practice of tattooing in Polynesia was the most advanced and intricate in the entire world.  Much is learned about Polynesian tattoos from the ship’s logs of many early explorers including Captain Cook in 1769.  Archaeologists have found ancient tattoo instruments of chisel-shaped bone filed sharp on one end that are 3000 years old.  The ink was made from watered down soot. 

Anthropologists explain that ancient Polynesians were very secluded and insulated with fertile soil, plentiful fish, fruit falling from trees, clean drinking water, moderate weather, no natural predators or enemies, and very little disease.  As such, ancient Polynesians spent much less time toiling to provide subsistence necessities and struggling to survive than other civilizations (indeed, this remained true up until the Industrial Revolution – this is discussed at length in Gregory Clark’s provocative “A Farewell to Alms: A Brief Economic History of the World“).  With those needs met, Polynesians focused on art, crafts, and culture, including the evolution of tattooing.  Almost everything produced by ancient Polynesians was intricately decorated with a sense of pride, even items of pure practicality like tools and canoes.

Tattoos were prevalent throughout Polynesia but particularly in Tonga, Fiji, Samoa, and the Marquesas Islands.  In addition to pure artistry, tattoos served many communicative purposes, including explanations of heritage, rites of passage, personal experiences, local customs, and tribal associations.  Maori warriors covered their faces in tattoos to intimidate the enemy.

In the late 1700s, the Protestant missionaries outlawed tattooing as a manifestation of paganism.  The Christians found the Polynesian religions to be blasphemous, superstitious, and steeped in sorcery and black magic.  But their disapproval of tattoos had far deeper ramifications.  Missionaries and colonists argued over possessions, plundered the natural resources, and forced Polynesians to wear European clothes and work menial jobs.  As such, the focus on pride in art and culture subsided until recent strides in reviving Polynesian traditions, including the practice of tattooing.

So we headed off to the modest but (mercifully) clean house of our tattoo artist, Taiava.  One wall was decorated with Taiava’s many certifications, awards, and recommendations.  Taiava learned his tattoo skills originally from his father, who in turn learned from his father.  He supplemented his experience with formal training in France and then many years of private practice in Tahiti.  He has recently returned from Tahiti and is a bit of a local celebrity.

Andy went first, picking a tiki for his left shoulder, which will be accessorized with symbols of future ocean crossings.  Ian was next, placing a bracelet of Marquesan letters squarely under his watch band.  Since our dinner reservations were at someone’s home, we did not want to be rude to our hosts by being late, so I made a tattoo reservation for the following morning.  This suited me fine because I was still unsure of what to get and where to get it. 

As Ian finished up, Andy and I headed over to the house for dinner.  We were momentarily lost, but literally everyone walking around the village already knew where we were headed (word travels fast in a town of maybe 150 people), so directions were easy to come by.  We arrived at a small home with a large picnic table on the porch set for three.  Kids and dogs and cats and chickens were milling around the yard.  Inside, a gentleman was laying on the floor with an oversized pillow watching a South American soap opera dubbed into French.  He had his knees propped up and a child leaned against his shins like the backrest of a chair.      

Dinner was surprisingly good.  We had manioc fries, breadfruit, red bananas, steamed white rice, a delicious green papaya salad, and big juicy broiled chicken leg. 

Our hostess spoke a little bit of English and talked a lot about the state of affairs on the island.  For instance, according to her, there are not enough jobs to go around on Fatu Hiva, so the work force is required to rotate every three months.  In the unlikely event that you locate work on a project that lasts a year, a five-year period of mandatory unemployment is enforced (this is what she tells us…).  Additionally, school lessons are French only; maintaining the native tongue falls squarely with the household.  This policy may seem a little draconian at first glance, but it has its benefits as well.  While I’m not in favor of allowing ancient languages to die out, I think that a French education provides a ton more opportunities than does the native language spoken on just a handful of obscure islands.  At a minimum, without that same French education, the guy on the living room floor would not be able to understand the important goings-on in his soap opera. 

After dinner, we stopped by the catamaran, Que Barbara, who was hosting the crew of every yacht in the anchorage for a little soiree.  Much fun was had by all, and our hosts had a couple of Balboas left from Panama, which was a nice treat.