The Souvenir that Never Leaves My Side

In early 2009 I was ambling down "the road" in downtown Tonga with the Shackle-Dragger.  We were deep in a conversation about kids, rules, piercings, culture, and tattoos.  We concluded that, given the opportunity, we'd get tattoos in Tonga.

In Tonga, two traditions converged at the junction of tattooing.  First, there was a strong culture of tattooing in Polynesian.  In fact, the word "tattoo" is believed to be a corruption of the Polynesian word "tatau" (fun fact: only one Tongan word ever made it into the English dictionary: taboo).  That culture disappeared in Tonga after the arrival of missionaries, and there is only one known sketch of a traditional Tongan tattoo.  However, the tradition continued strong on other Polynesian islands including nearby Samoa.  We drew the line there, and did not venture into the realm of traditional Samoan tattooing (an ordeal involving combs and hammers that takes many weeks to complete and is very painful). 

Second, and most important for the Shackle-Dragger and I, was the tradition of getting tattoos in Polynesia.  While he was in the South Pacific, Cook (that's right, another chance for me to talk about Captain Cook) saw many "tattooed savages" in New Zealand, Tahiti, and Hawaii.  During the first voyage, Cook's Mr. Spock, Sir Joseph Banks, was tattooed.  Many of Cook's men also came back with tattoos, leading to a tattooing tradition among European sailors vising the South Seas and spawning today's association between  men of the sea and tattoos.  Like many sailors of old, I would spend years in the South Pacific, and decided that I, too, wanted a mark of the experience.

Having reached our decision, fate immediately stepped in.  A van sporting the word "TATTOO" under its windshield pulled over to the side of the road in front of us.  We approached the driver, Sonny, who seemed unfazed by his amazing timing.  He produced his business card (his first name, town, and cell # written on an old Sydney Metro pass).

A few weeks later, we bussed to Sonny's tattoo parlor in Hihifo for a look at his operation.  The parlor turned out to be the actual parlor of his house, an eight foot square room that was also his bedroom and living room.  But we were impressed with his trade (hospital orderly), experience (tatooing for the Tongan Rugby Team and Tongan players in Rugby teams throughout the Pacific), and equipment (unopened ink, needles, and a brand new autoclave from Sydney).  He showed us some beautiful pictures of his work, and pictures of other palangi showing off their fresh tattoos there in his parlour.

The following Saturday morning the Shackle-Dragger and I were again on the bus to Hihifo.  I bravely choose to go first.  I'd already picked my design - the turtle, in addition to being my favourite animal (sorry Angora rabbit), was also a popular tattoo in the islands.  I'd already noticed several Tongans sporting them in the past week.  I'd seen many bicep designs, and though I was now often mistaken for muscular Canadian woodsman Paul Bunyan, I imagined myself as an old man with a sad saggy tattoo where my bicep once was.  I knew that, muscular or not, I'd always have a shoulder.  I selected the location, the animal, and the size (go big or go home, I decided), but left the rest in Sonny's capable hands.  He free-formed the details, resulting in a beautiful strong design I'm proud to carry to the grave.

The tattooing process was pain incarnate.  I'd never broken a bone (aside from my skull), and I'd never been tortured, so this became the pain against which I would measure all future pain.  I took it like a champ, smiling in answer to the Shackle-Dragger's questions and the curious faces of Sonny's little girls.  Hours later, Sonny asked me to take a look.  I was relieved that the process was over, until I sized up the tattoo in the mirror.  There was the head, and four flippers.  The entire center of the tattoo was still a blank patch of skin.  I lay down for several hours more work.

If I worked for an oil company for two years, I don't think I'd get a tattoo of an oil rig on my shoulder.  And with no connection to China, I probably wouldn't get some characters tattooed above my heart.  But this was different, because of the Tongan culture of tattooing, the tradition of getting tattoos in Polynesia, and the significant part of my life that Tonga had become.  This wasn't some knick-knack on my shelf or a key chain in my pocket.  It was a physical reminder, every time I took off my shirt, of the country I'd never heard of that became the country I'd never forget.