It’s an art form that has clothed Samoan people for centuries.
Tatau, also known as a malofie, is the traditional Samoan tattoo. Rooted in a deeply sacred cultural practice, it’s produced using serrated combs and a mallet to hand-tap patterns of ink into the skin that signify a coming of age and identity within Samoan culture.
In March this year, Christchurch-based Poasa Alaifea contacted Frank Film with a proposal. Five men and four women from the region’s Samoan diaspora were preparing to receive their malofie in July. For the first time, the process would be open to the public.
Members of the Samoan community, school students and the Frank Film crew would be welcomed into the Tagata Moana headquarters to witness the tattooing, also known as tapping. Tufuga (master tattooist) Su’a Peter Sulu’ape would travel from Auckland to Christchurch to perform tā tatau for the group.
Alaifea, 33, was among those receiving his malofie and says he feels honoured to share the experience.
“I’m super emotional anyway,” he says, “so I’m just gonna be an absolute trainwreck for the next few weeks. I wear my heart on my sleeve.”
Traditionally in Samoa, boys receive their malofie in their teenage years, as a rite of passage into manhood. For the diaspora community receiving their malofie later in life, the process is a cultural coming-of-age. “Now, it is a matter of moving to a new life – a shedding of the old skin, I suppose,” says Alaifea.
Alaifea’s wife, artist Nina Oberg-Humphries, says one thing she admires about her husband is that “above all else, he loves being Samoan”.
“This [malofie] is really special because, not that it cements his identity but, you know, I can’t imagine the feeling of being able to speak the words of your ancestors and then being able to bear the marks of them as well,” she says.
The motivation to get tapped surged for Alaifea last year, after his sister died. “I felt this great sense of urgency,” he says, “I won’t let another woman of influence in my life see me without the pe’a.”
The male malofie, also called a pe’a, covers two-thirds of the body, with patterns of thick black lines, dots and arrows spreading from the shins to halfway up the torso – front and back. The female malofie, called a malu, covers less of the skin and takes one or two days to produce. The tufuga taps free-hand, tailoring each design to the unique journey and lineage of the recipient.
“It’s bigger than just tattooing, this is the one thing that every Samoan wants to be,” says Tufuga Sulu’ape. “To mark by the pe’a actually is the closest connection to our culture.”
Most of those receiving their malofie this month are New Zealand or Australian-born. “So part of the diaspora,” says Alaifea. He acknowledges that it can be controversial for those outside of Samoa to receive their malofie.
“There’s definitely a growing interest in it because, as we move into second and third generations of Pacific people living and being born outside of Samoa, there’s a growing disconnect – a wanting, or a longing, for individuals to be able to have that connection,” says Alaifea.
The word tatau is derived from the sound of the tapping and the Samoan word for connection. Sulu’ape says preventing those who are not Samoan-born from receiving their malofie puts a barrier between a person and their culture.
“This is a mark of your identity, showing people that you are from there. We shouldn’t have any reasons that you cannot [get the tattoo],” says Sulu’ape.
But the process is ruthless. “You’re literally faced with all of your demons – there’s nowhere to run,” says Alaifea. “It really is not only the shedding of the skin, it’s almost like a shedding of your soul.”
Basically, he says, “we’re going to be having a whole bunch of open wounds on our body”.
The tapping sessions are usually two to five hours per day, but this is tailored to each recipient depending on how much they bleed and how quickly their wounds heal.
“Every strike is painful. Honestly, it’s such a weird experience, because it’s both beautiful and torture at the same time,” says Alaifea.
He says of all the people he spoke to about receiving their pe’a, every one said that, at some point during the process, they wanted to quit.
On day one, Alaifea lies surrounded by family on woven mats (falalili’i). His young daughter holds his hand.
He closes his eyes. The tapping begins.
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