The Voyage of Spectacle

After reveling in the beauty of the anchorage for a bit, I felt extremely antsy to go to land.  Getting the dinghy off the stern deck proved a challenge.  It’s nine and a half feet long, five feet wide, and weighs 110 pounds.  Truth is, we wish we had a smaller and lighter dinghy, but it is what was available when we needed a new one in Panama.  It’s quite awkward trying to get it up and over the lifelines, and then into the water.  Andy cut his pinkie finger pretty badly as we dropped it in. 

As the southernmost island in the Marquesas, Fatu Hiva is a natural first stopping point for yachts crossing the Pacific Ocean, however, it is not a recognized point of entry for French Polynesia.  Official check-in is required in Hiva Oa or Nuku Hiva before going anywhere else in the Marquesas.  With that policy, most yachts simply skip Fatu Hiva altogether because of the need to follow the prevailing winds.  However, we have also heard that this strict check-in policy has relaxed somewhat, giving transiting sailors a respite in Fatu Hiva’s beautiful anchorage.  I guess we’ll see how it goes.

We dinghied over to the little concrete pier behind a small breakwater, tied up, and stepped on dry land for the first time in three weeks.  It felt great but definitely a little wobbly.  There was plenty of activity on the waterfront in Hanavave … children playing in the water, fisherman cleaning their boats, people lounging on the lawn and chatting.                                                             

Of my two travel guides for the South Pacific, one did not even cover Fatu Hiva, and the other mentions the Bay of Virgins, a post office, and an infirmary.  As such, I’m not really sure why I had higher hopes for civilization in Fatu Hiva … just wishful thinking, I guess, and a desperate longing for a bar.  We passed the diabetes clinic (a big problem among Pacific Islanders), a very cute church, several residences, and a very small grocery store with nothing but canned corned beef, a $15 jar of Skippy, and a handful of warm six packs of Hinano which were not exactly priced to move, as evidenced by the thick layer of dust.  We couldn’t have bought anything anyway since there is no bank on Fatu Hiva and, as such, no way to obtain the local currency, French Polynesian Francs.  We asked to pay in dollars and the shopkeeper chuckled … even on a remote island in the middle of the Pacific they know that the United States dollar isn’t worth anything. 

We did, however, find out that the owner of the store hosts a traditional Marquesan dinner at her home.  It was too late to make a reservation for that night, so we signed up for the following night.  We also were told that the other village, Omoa, although five hours away walking, was reachable by dinghy.  Since we had pretty much covered Hanavave in ninety minutes, we decided to head  over to Omoa.

The dinghy ride was much longer than advertised, but after a harrowing landing on steep and slippery concrete in rough tides, we walked towards the thriving, er…, metropolis of Omoa.  Most of the village was out enjoying the cool afternoon playing soccer in the central park.  We walked and walked taking in the scenery and stretching our legs, but there was really nothing there … certainly no restaurants or bars or shops. 

So we made the long dinghy ride back to the boat.  Exhausted and starving, we boiled some hot dogs, went to bed, and slept the sleep of the righteous.

As the southeastern-most island of the Marquesas, Fatu Hiva is the most remote of the inhabited islands.  With its 32 (mostly uninhabitable) square miles and population of 631, Fatu Hiva is also one of the most unspoiled of the Marquesas Islands.  There is no airstrip, and getting there by boat is no cakewalk either – it typically involves crossing the Pacific like we did, hiring a charter from a neighboring island or hopping on one of the sporadic supply-delivery ships from Hiva Oa.  There is only one road, eleven miles of dirt connecting Hanavave and Omoa.  It’s not usable during the rainy season.

The imposing Tauauoho peak stands 3,691 feet, and Fa’e One mountain ridge soars to 2,690 feet.  Most of the coastline is dominated by narrow valleys and headlands, carved by streams, steeply plunging in the ocean.  The Pacific Ocean relentlessly pounds the cliffs of the east coast creating an ever-present haze of sea spray.  On the western leeward coast, the village of Omoa is the administrative center of Fatu Hiva, and is located in the Bay of Omoa between Pointe Matahumu in the north and a one hundred feet tall rocky spire called Motutapu.

Many inhabitants of Fatu Hiva work on arts and crafts in the traditional Marquesan style for sale to tourists in Tahiti.  Intricate wood carvings, sometimes from the very beautiful and rare rosewood, of tikis, bowls, masks, oars, and clubs are prevalent, along with stone carvings.  Fatu Hiva’s particular specialty is the tapa, which is a beaten bark cloth painted with traditional pictures and Marquesan designs.     

The first European to see Fatu Hiva was the Spanish navigator Mendana in 1595.  He named the island Santa Magdalena after the saint whose day it was upon landfall.  Generally speaking, the Catholic explorers and missionaries proved at least somewhat accepting of the ‘pagan’ cultures of the South Pacific, and thus many artifacts remain intact in Fatu Hiva and the Marquesas overall.  This is a stark contrast to the Protestant missionaries who systematically destroyed centuries of archaeology in the Society Islands. 

However, prudish sensibilities did prevail in the renaming of Hanavave Bay.  The phallic appearance of many of the surrounding rock formations prompted early Spanish explorers to use the name Baie des Verges, or Bay of Penises.  The missionaries strongly disapproved and added an ‘i’ to the name making it Baie des Vierges, or Bay of Virgins.  Whatever you want to call it, the bay must win the award for most scenic anchorage we have even seen, especially as the sun goes down behind the jagged peaks.

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.

Andy and I went over to Taiava’s house bright and early today for my tattoo appointment.  After I picked several designs and styles in his book that I liked, he custom designed a fantastic image for me:  a hibiscus flagged on both sides with Marquesan symbols on my lower back.  This particular placement for a tattoo can have negative connotations in some circles, but I had to plan for future professional business attire and formal wear.  In any event, my tattoo is absolutely fabulous. 

With that, our work in Fatu Hiva was finished.  We picked up the anchor and sailed the short 35 miles to Hiva Oa, bisecting the islands of Tahuata and Motane on the way.

The Spectacle arrived in the Bay of Tahauku, Bay of Traitors, in Hiva Oa yesterday evening.  The spectacular mountains, ridges, and cliffs made for excellent scenery but cast a false dusk on our approach and anchoring attempts.  The bay appeared larger on the charts and in the cruising guides, but we selected a nice position behind the breakwater.  As we took some relative bearings and began the anchor watch process, we noticed that everyone had out stern anchors as well.  The rule is that you must anchor how everybody else is anchored, so we prepared to drop the stern anchor as well.  Andy and I had never done this before, but it seemed to work out fine.

The next morning, it appeared that it had not in fact worked out fine.  All of our relative bearings were way off, and we estimated that we had dragged a solid twenty-five feet or so.  In a large anchorage, a bit of a drag is not too big of a deal as long as the boat appears to be attached to the bottom in some substantive way.  Usually you can just dump more chain out and be reasonably confident that you’re not going anywhere.  But in the small and surging Tahauku Bay, with its notorious reputation for bad holding, we figured that we should do some fix-it work.  After a couple of tries, we seemed to strike the perfect balance between the two anchors.

Anchor crisis averted, Andy and I decided to venture ashore to the main village, Atuona.  Looking at the map, the position of the dinghy dock seemed to be in the opposite direction of town.  Again, we had limited guidebook resources, so we just decided to go for it.