Skin Deep?

Walk among the villages of the Marquesan islands, and the most striking attribute of the people is that the vast majority of Marquesans are tattooed. Tatooed heavily, with remarkably ornate, often geometric patterns etched in a deep sepia black. Tatooed on their forearms, their shoulders, their calves, their ankles, and, for many women, tattooed under and behind their ears. When these islands were first visited by Europeans, the dispatches back to the mother country all mentioned the tattooing – then, many if not most Marquesans were tattooed head-to-foot, ear to ear, shoulder to shoulder.

Being different than the Europeans’ skin management practices, the arriving missionaries set out to civilize the “noble savages” and discouraged tattooing in their evangelical zeal, thus eradicating (temporarily it turns out) an important feature of Marquesan culture. The original roles of tattooing were several. In no particular order, tattooing played an important role in seduction; by the end of the 19th century, lips, feet, or hands that were not tattooed were considered ugly, and according to a G. Turner, “ a young man could not think about marriage while he was not tattooed.” In addition, and not unrelatedly, tattooing was an important part of the passage into adulthood. Motifs were approved by tribal elders, and often circumscribed the individual’s social status and potential. These ceremonies were, at the time, often accompanied by human sacrifice, explain perhaps the missionaries zeal in discouraging tattooing.

Tattoos related to privilege and social status, and often the tattoos were genealogical roadmaps to a person’s family history; in times of resource constraints, tattoos indicated allegiance to a tribe or family. Wrong tattoos? No dinner. At its core then, Marquesan tattooing – with its elaborate set of rituals, symbols, and imagery – communicated essential characteristics of one person to the surrounding community. Viewed through the lens of self-identity, tattooing became both a rite of entry into the world of adulthood, and, in the words of one author, a “protective barrier against evil influences.”

Against this backdrop, the early missionaries did their best to discourage the practice, and tattooing as a central element of Marquesan society all but died out in the early 20th century, only to find a resurgence in the late part of the century, continuing to the present. In the same way that the Marquesan language retains its own separate identity from Tahitian, Marquesan tattooing retains its unique symbols and imagery. One of the leading practitioners of this rebirthing art form is Brice, a Marquesan who lives with his parents and his two small children up the road from the harbor of the village of Taihoe, on the island of Nuku Hiva. After a three year stint with the Foreign Legion in France (“boring except for the parties”), Brice returned home and has a thriving practice in traditional tattooing. His living room – which serves as a waiting room, is filled with old academic texts of long-dead anthropologists’ examinations of the role and art of tattooing. There are also the body building magazines, soap opera guides (his mom loves the soaps), and, in the corner, a workshop where, when he’s not tattooing, Brice crafts incredibly delicate carvings from coconut shells, bones, and wood. He complains that he’s too busy tattooing to spend time with his real love, carving.


I’m here to get tattooed. I had seen many of the local’s decorative tattoos, and had asked around, and all tattooed fingers and arms pointed to Brice. He picked us up (Jennifer kept me company) at 8:00 am at the small “mini-dock” that serves as a central place for fishing boats, yacht dinghies, and, in the evening, a dozen or so women and kids fishing for small bait fish. On Saturdays, the dock becomes an open air market, but you need to arrive early: stalls are opened at 4:00 am, and by 6:00 am, there’s not much left. Brice had his two-year old son with him, and had just stopped by the market for some food and bread. Jennifer and I hopped in, helped him unload at his house, and settled into the couches. Two others also had 8:00 appointments, and the apparent triple booking didn’t concern Brice (or any of us) too much. We were on Marquesan time.


In time, Brice’s mom brought out two plates of freshly-made crepes, along with a small assortment of spreads, and we enjoyed a terrific breakfast as Brice began his work on the two others – a pair of married commercial pilots who are taking time off to sail their boat throughout the South Pacific. By noon or so, they had both been tattooed: he on his upper arm, she on her ankle. It was lunchtime, though, and we were all invited to join the family at the kitchen table for a meal of fresh-cooked Marquesan crabs (remarkably similar to but smaller than the famed blue crabs of the Chesapeake Bay), chicken, and rice. They barely spoke English, we barely spoke French, but none of that mattered --- we were, for the moment at least, family around the kitchen table.

Brice needed to digest his food, so we got started about 30 minutes after lunch. Unlike many tattoo artists, Brice expects to be involved in the choice of designs. He and I spoke of things that were important to me: my family, my loves of sailing, music, the sea, and my home state of Maryland, and we settled on a mosaic design of several images, wrapped in a ring around my left ankle, with a profile of a tiki curling around my outer left ankle. In turn, the following images were captured by Brice into the intricate tattoo that now adorns my ankle: the symbol of the Marquesas, signifying my passage here and the birthplace of tattooing (as least according to the Marquesans); a traditional motif of sea and sky, connoting a oneness with nature, and a positive attitude; the traditional symbol of a “po,” or conch shell, one of the first musical instruments of these islands; the traditional symbol for a turtle, reflecting my newfound status as a “shellback,” or one who has crossed the Equator on a boat; the traditional symbol for a crab, harkening to my family and our home state of Maryland; a distinctly non-traditional but beautiful rendering of a “lover’s knot,” which Jennifer and I have chosen to serve as the logo of our boat, and which was captured as well in a piece of jewelry I commissioned to honor her sailing our boat across the Atlantic without me; and, in curl down to the ankle, a profile of a tiki, echoing the specialness of these islands.


He worked for about an hour; he drew the outlines in a red pen, then etched the details freehand, using just his eye and a small Petzl headlamp to keep the lines straight and true. The sensation was not entirely comfortable, and the needle pulsed in and out of the skin, leaving ink in the small punctures. He’d stop every minute or so to re-ink, and, happily, the discomfort subsided immediately. I’m to keep the tattoo lightly covered in an herbally-infused Vaseline, I can’t swim for a week, and no sun for a week. It looks great, and I love it.

It’s not your garden variety tattoo, but here, it’s just one of many. Why a tattoo at age 53? I’m too old for seduction, I’m already married, and (most of the time) I’m an adult. To me, it’s a nice tangible sign of respect to a people and their islands – recognition that I too am undergoing a bit of a transformation in this sailing journey. (Importantly, it’s on a part of my body that won’t likely sag with my steadily aging skin and body.) With any luck, this journey that Jennifer and I are on together will keep our minds and spirits clear; with any more luck, my tattoo will keep me free from “evil influences” and remind me of my central loves: my wife, my family, sailing, nature, music, and my expanding sense of continuous wonder at this strange and beautiful world.