Heiva i Tahiti: Competing against the indigenous tribes of Polynesia

The Heiva i Tahiti is the largest and most popular festival of its kind in French Polynesia, showcasing the very best in traditional dancing, artistry and athleticism. In an attempt to understand the festivities and Polynesian tribal culture better, David found himself adopted by a tribe and competing in some of the most terrifying sports on the planet.

Words by David J Constable

The traditional ʻōteʻa dances in Polynesia

Photo provided by Tahiti Tourisme

Dance and public performance have long been one of the most ritualised art forms performed across the Pacific islands; from the hulas of Hawaii and the Māori haka of New Zealand to the rapid, hip-shaking ʻōteʻa in Polynesia. When the first English missionaries arrived in the Pacific, they were shocked by these celebrations, thinking them vulgar and on the path to debauchery. They exercised their strict Christian sensibilities and prohibited the practice or any public performance. King Pōmare II further forbade dance, making it a clandestine practice – later, in 1807, he converted to Christianity, resulting in the deconstruction of the ancient Polynesian spiritual rites and rituals.

In 1881, after a long struggle with England and Protestant missionaries, France annexed a large part of what is today French Polynesia, and Bastille Day on July 14th became symbolic for the Polynesians. On this one day, France allowed sports and dancing to overcome the Anglo-Saxon influence and satisfy the natives taste for festivities. However, it wasn’t until the late-1950s that Tahitian dance returned univocally, thanks to the enthusiasm of a local teacher called Madeleine Moua after visiting France. It helped that public performance was beginning to be openly celebrated by indigenous peoples in Africa and the Middle East. Gerald Jones wrote how in many parts of the world, including Polynesia, “public dancing that focused on a physically linked couple would have been unthinkable, a violation of communal propriety.”

Despite remaining an overseas collectivity, and with fractions still seeking greater political autonomy – fighting against France’s political and cultural emancipation – authorities sort to create an event that would appease the islands and celebrate the culture. In June 1985, the Heiva i Tahiti replaced the public holiday festival of the Tiurai. Mona died in 1989, but not before seeing the festivities for herself.

The month-long celebration involves dance performances, dramas and operas. Orchestras consist of up to 50 musicians and an assortment of drums along with the Tahitian ukulele – a short-necked fretted lute with eight nylon strings. No Polynesian can resist a strum on a ukulele. With so much atoll animosity and tribal conflict centred around land and property disputes – even tribal beef over women and the giving away of wives and daughters – Polynesia has always had a plethora of warrior dances and musical melodies for conflict engagement. Add athleticism to this, all of the raw aggression and prowess demonstrated in proper shirt-off kind of stuff, and you have an event, a celebration, an open invitation to the public to witness and spectate these ancient traditions, demonstrated up-close and in the flesh.

I had contacted the event organisers and Tourism Board months before, enquiring whether it would be both possible and acceptable for me to participate in the activities – I didn’t mention anything about dance. Unsure exactly what this would involve, I was keen all the same, excited to get stuck into the activities and experience such tribal competition in a safe setting. I arrived anxious but confident, knocking on the door of fit.

The evening before the competition, I attended the opening ceremony, a sort of carnival and introduction to the visiting islands. Participating tribes from the islands of Moorea, Huahine, Raiatea and Taha’a, and the smaller islands, Ua Pou, Rapa Iti and Fatu Hiva – the most isolated of the French Polynesian inhabited islands – were paraded, taking part in dance rivalries. Competitors were presented to the gathered crowd of locals and excitable tourists. Children from local schools sang, and men and women danced in large groups, performing their take on specially choreographed ʻōteʻa dances.

Everyone was in traditional costumes, grass skirts and colourful floral decorations tied around the wrists, waists and neck. The men are all physical, smooth-skinned and visibly muscular. They wear bright cloth tied around their waists, with flowers adorning their headdresses – a quiff of colour, like some highly-sexed peacock. The women wore makeshift coconut bras or tight-fitting bikini tops, their flower leis and headdresses equally elaborate in design.

Dances are rarely slow. Participants shake and twist their hips with impressive adroitness. The most defining move is a vigorous knocking of the knees, a sort of scissor movement of the legs while standing on the spot or moving sideways across the stage. The shoulders and head remain stationary while the tempo of the knees increases. Men and women dance close together, moving faster and with a higher tenacity. There is something profoundly sexual about it. Exotic, yes; erotic, sure; but sensual too. Limbs speed up, fast and gyrating: hips, knees, body pops; the extending and punctuating of muscles. Bodies drip with sweat in the sticky heat; dark flesh shining in the moonlight, casting a spell on me and all those people watching.

David joins (somehow) the Kaukura tribe

Photo provided by David Constable

Before I can participate in the competitions, I must register so I join a line in the gardens of the Musée de Tahiti et des Îles, a Polynesian ethnographic museum, sometimes nicknamed Fishermen’s Cape. I find myself within a mix of men from Taha’a, Ra’iātea and the islands of Huahine, Rangiroa, Nuku Hiva, Maupiti, Tikehau, Fakarava, Tubuai and Manihi. Surrounding me is a cluster of flexed and tanned muscles, a hot group of pulsating tension, ready to explode. I don’t know who I’m with or where I belong, but I’m experiencing a show of pent up manly aggression, despite this being a nonviolent practice. A man behind me is standing far too close, ignoring all queue etiquette. He jabs his shoulder into my back on three occasions; by the fourth, I’m sure that it’s deliberate. The atmosphere is not the happy vibe I had hoped for, but hostile.

I’m a curiosity to these men, mixed-up in something I shouldn’t be. It’s clear to everyone in the garden that I have no right or qualification to be here. White people are spectators, not participatory.

The men are wearing a coloured cloth around their waists, a tightly knotted sarong patterned with swirls. Tattoos on show reveal all of the Polynesian artistry synonymous with warrior intimidation and tribal warfare: shark teeth, lizards, stingrays and scowling tiki faces, inked across bodies from the feet and legs up to the torso and even the face.

The Polynesian tattoos of a Heiva i Tahiti competitor

Photo provided by David Constable

There are two Tahitian words commonly used in the English language: taboo and tattoo. I saw the inkings in all their frightening glory, celebrated and exhibited. When the Catholic and Protestant missionaries settled towards the end of the 18th century, they fought against the practice. As well as the abolition of dance, King Pōmare II also drew up a code of rules that included banning tattoos, describing them as something that must be wholly abolished, belonging to “ancient and bad customs.” As Polynesians had to be fully clothed in the newly Christianised society, the very raison d’être of tattooing was disappearing and much of the culture with it.

I waited around the museum garden, shirtless and unprotected in the blistering sun. My shoulders peeled and were spotted and raw, my feet slippery in the sweat and dirt of my flipflops, highlighting further my alien presence and participation. Every other competitor was barefoot, their feet hardened by contact with the earth and a life without protection. The problem I have, and why my participation is causing such distaste, is that no tribe will adopt me; and without a tribe, I am missing the one must-have entry condition for this sporting spectacular. No one here was going to take a punt on me. I’m a white wash-ashore, and the results could be catastrophic.

Looking to bolster my chances of participation, I began speaking to a man from the island of Kaukura. He’s part of a tribe from a small islet in the western archipelago of Tuamotu, but which geographically belongs to the Palliser Islands. The population of the island is only 475 people. He appears welcoming enough, then pointed at my feet, laughing. These aren’t exactly fighting fit warriors themselves, ranging from stringy beanpole to pudgy obese, not the kind of physical conditioning you associate with modern athletes. ‘I was hoping to join,’ I said. ‘Joindre?’ He looked at me, puzzled, ‘Vous pouvez vous joindre. Notre home blanc guerrier.’ I proceeded to step into the pack, assuming, egotistically, that I had been accepted. I wouldn’t go as far as to say that I was welcomed, but I didn’t face any resistance. I wasn’t pushed or beaten, just stared at with confusion. It was strictly business from here on, and I knew that I was here only to bolster numbers. Just another nameless soldier who’ll fall in battle.

A Polynesian competitor in the gardens of the Musée de Tahiti et des Îles

Photo provided by David Constable

The opening event is a Tahitian take on the javelin in which competitors are given six handmade wooden spears to fling at a faraway coconut spiked on top of a 40-foot pole. The tip of each spear is made by heating strips of tin and twisting them around the end to create a sharp point with a hole at the centre. About four centimetres of iron rod – salvaged from beaches or buildings sites – is then placed in the opening, the tin pressed to hold the iron in place and heated to bind the point, creating a spike. A man from a competitor tribe is the first to approach. He’s older than most men there with dark, leathery skin and a muscular but wiry body. He’s small in stature, and on his head, he wore a crown woven from looped yarn. He must be in his early-70s, although his pronounced calves and bicep muscles suggest he could be younger.

The tattoos across his shoulders and chest had long faded so that the black markings were now an off-purple colour, almost blue. I paid close attention to how he positioned himself, how he moved his feet and held the spear. Then he paused and turned to me, ‘eh, vous etes homme Anglais!’ He balanced the spear between his index fingers, wiggling the light wood. ‘This hand [he moved his eyes towards his right-hand] is balance, comprendre? D’accord, vers l’avant, bend and kill noix de coco!’

I wondered if this was all educational and for my benefit or a subtle note of competitive intimidation? It wasn’t until relatively recently that the coconut was introduced as a target. The event had initially been developed using the severed heads of European missionaries and defeated warriors. The heads, long since severed, became soft and rotten in the sand, so they were displayed on spikes and used as target practice. Across the islands, bodies were consumed on the battlefield or brought back to villages where they were butchered, baked and eaten to honour the gods. Captives were often forced to watch their own body parts being consumed or even to eat some themselves.

David during the Tahitian javelin competition in the gardens of the Musée de Tahiti et des Îles

Photo provided by David Constable

In New Zealand, the 18th century French explorer Marion du Fresne was killed and eaten by Māori inhabitants whose favourite delicacy was a mix of human flesh and meat from the moa bird. In the Marquesas, it was considered a triumph to eat a dead man. Tribes would treat captives with great cruelty, noted the anthropologist, A.P. Rice, “breaking their legs to prevent them from escaping, they would keep them alive so they could brood over their impending fate.”

Rice also describes how the captive’s arms were broken, as were their ribs, which pierced their lungs so they could not cry out. They were then impaled on poles and finally roasted on spits that entered between their legs and emerged from their mouths. I’m sure the old man meant the comparison between the coconut and my head in jest, but it wasn’t all that long ago. I was still a stranger, still a European – and grudges never die.

I turned to study the tribesmen who were now standing behind me, whooping and baying for blood. They started making a strange, guttural noise, ‘Ough, ough, ough…’ pumping their fists and stamping their feet. ‘Draw-back,’ said the man. ‘Arrière, psssh…’ He launched the spear. It left his hand with a snap and made a sound like tearing silk, narrowly missing the target. ‘Wooarrghh!’ he screamed. The men continued their rallying cry, ‘Ough, ough, ough…’ growing more animated. A whistle sounds, and everyone shuffles to the line in the dirt, shoulders bumping against shoulders, feet trampling on feet.

I stepped to the line, then launched my javelin along with the men. Hundreds of human-made spears fly through the air. Most pass the target and fall to the ground, spiking into the soil. A few strike the coconut, puncturing it from a variety of angles. Several sticks poke out of the fruit like a spiky porcupine in the sky.

Shortly after the spear-throwing, I’m informed that the organisers have barred me from the coconut tree climbing. I ask why, but their reasons are unclear. ‘Trop dangereux,’ one official tells me but doesn’t elaborate. I’m forced instead to watch from the sidelines as wiry men with hairless chests cling to the base of a tall, leaning coconut tree. They wriggle upwards, their legs and arms wrapped around the trunk. Then, like a spring, propel themselves skywards towards the top. They scramble to touch the summit as the thin trunk sways, then slide down. Other officials approach and inform me that I’m unable to participate in the stone-lifting competition, repeating the same excuse. ‘Can I at least try?’ I ask, frustrated that I’ve come all of this way just to be a spectator, ‘s’il vous plaît. Un essai?’

I watch as new athletes present themselves; bigger, broader athletes. These aren’t the same men from the spear-throwing or coconut-tree climbing; these are Pudzianowski in size. They capture the crowd’s attention with their bulk, waddling towards the quiescent stone, their huge thighs rubbing together. They have large and rocky backs, lumpy with muscle. Female competitors are equally as tall and wide as the men. Some, as they would demonstrate, just as strong.

Stone-lifting champion, Tetuarii Pino Teapehu

Photo by Ariiatua Tepa

Each of the strongmen approaches the stone with fierce determination, looking indestructible, like visiting gods. They lower themselves, folding their legs like a jack-in-the-box. Once crouched, they wrap their arms around the circumference of the stone, their biceps pressed against the cold boulder. Those who can interlock their fingers and hands, then hoist. Blood rushes to the face, and their cheeks expand like whoopee-cushions. Faces turn purple. Teeth are clenched and jaws pronounced – veins pop. Eyes turn bloodshot as 250 pounds goes up. Then, 300 pounds. Then, 350. By the time the fourth stone is revealed, rolled into position from the wings by ten volunteers, only a handful of competitors are left. Four men lift the 400 pound stone easily enough, but it’s a struggle to raise it upon a shoulder once at waist level. It’s not so much about lifting the weight, but technique and balance. Once the rock is on your shoulder and you’ve gathered yourself, confident that you’re not going to buckle under the extreme weight, you must raise one hand in the air to prove both your strength and balance. Those who achieve this are lifting over 450 pounds, around 28 stone.

A local athlete, Tetuarii Pino Teapehu, claims victory; a massive man with a childlike grin and a wide-barrel chest. His tattoos are mostly black spirals, with dashes across his torso. In the centre of his sternum is a large horned ram. I see him after the victory, leaning back, triumphantly, into a deckchair that’s seconds away from buckling.

I cautiously approached the champion, who introduces me to his friend, Ariiatua Tepa. The two men could be brothers. They look similar and have the same stocky physique and dark skin with a broad and flat nose, like a heavyweight boxer. Despite their fearsome appearance, both have guileless eyes, ready to break into fits of laughter. I noticed this throughout my meetings and interactions with Tahitians, whom all have a playful manner. I found them to be caring, time-giving and generous people.

Tetuarii and Ariiatua took me under their wing, just as the Kaukura tribe had. They asked the judges if one of the stones could be rolled back out to demonstrate their technique and let me try myself at hoisting the weight. The draconian judges appear strict at first, grumbling their objections, but after some petitioning, how could they refuse the champ. Tetuarii then proceeded to talk me through the technique; the positioning of the feet and shoulders, the slow bend, the straight back, remembering to interlock fingers and hug the cold stone. I give it a go and lift the 200 pound stone to my waist, then up upon my left shoulder. It was easier than I expected, but both my knees click. My lower back spasms, a jolt of anguish I manage to disguise with a smile.

Competitors rush to the start of the fruit-bearing finale, part of the Heiva i Tahiti in French Polynesia

Photo by Ariiatua Tepa

The following day, I’m declared fit for the fruit-bearing finale, a brutal race around a car park near the Papeete ferry plaza, hoisting 100 pounds (over seven stone) of tree trunk, loaded with taros and bananas – the fruit weighs in at another twenty-five pounds. It's a different breed of athlete here; leaner and fitter than any I competed against in the spear-throwing. They have big dusty feet and are wearing coloured sarongs. I’m handed an unflattering red one that's tied around my waist and wrapped under my balls like an intolerable penis pouch. Tetuarii tightens the cloth so that it pinches in a severe constraint underneath my rib-cage, like tying a bow around a lung. I think the track is about 1,500 metres, but nobody seems to know precisely. All of the men around me appear to be focused on the course, but from what I could see, it disappeared after 100 metres around a bend.

A few bodies knock together, looking to intimidate. Then, I see a flash of white skin – members of the French navy who, judging by their physiques, are here to compete. I was impressed by their sense of duty and steadfast demeanour. Those athletes with confidence pushed to the front, eager to get underway. I opted to remain hidden in the mix, lost in bodies. Suddenly, there’s a tannoy call or something, and unaware of the route, and with my particulars tucked away and carrying 100 pounds plus of tree trunk and fruits, I set off.

Heavy-footed, I followed the athletes around the marked track, picking up the pace as I heard men behind me making ground. I was determined to perform well and not embarrass myself, so I overtake one, then two, then five. My confidence grew, but after 200 metres or so, they all passed me. The trunk was digging into my shoulder, tearing at my skin, bark grinding against sun-scorched patches. I attempted to take pause and switch the load across to my other shoulder, but the trunk was unbearably heavy, and I’m afraid that any break will mean my position is lost. My feet had blistered, and I could feel the grit and the dirt grind into my open wounds. I squeezed the wheezes from my aching lungs and dug deep, pushing forward.

David pushing forward during the fruit-bearing finale, part of the Heiva i Tahiti in French Polynesia

Photo by Ariiatua Tepa

Turning a sharp corner, I slowed so as not to twist my feet into the hot cement and cause further damage. As I did, two men passed. A blackened and bruised bunch of bananas fell from one of the loads so that I’m forced to run around, adding extra track to my course. It pissed me off, so I overtook in a moment of frustration. It was a misplaced decision, and as I turned another bend, I saw the home-straight feeling an overwhelming sense of urgency to meet the finish line. My energy builds on the thought, and I begin to feel triumphant. I must have passed twenty competitors on the straight, thirty perhaps, focusing on the two athletes at the front of the pack. I watched their backs as I chased, sweat running into my eyes, blurring my vision, stinging like a slap in the face.

Most of the fruit on my shoulder had warmed and split, causing a runny pulp to flow down my back. I looked up, feeling content with a third position, watching as the leading two men battled it out. They crossed the finish line and then kept running, turning a corner and disappearing from view. I watched as other men crossed the line and continued on a second lap. FUCK. It was two laps, possibly more. No one had told me, and I had never considered running more than a single lap. I slowed my pace and changed the weight across my shoulders, lowering my head and switching the load from my left to right shoulder, feeling great relief and the speckled sea-salt air as it calmed my torn skin.

Crossing the line, I knew that I must hold back, that the second time around would be wonderfully painful. I attempted to shift focus, and am taken back to youthful competitive days, when during a 400 metre race, after a particularly painful first 200 metres, I would look down at the painted white line bent across the track to signify the start of the next 200 metres, and think to myself, All of that again? But I wasn’t barefoot then. It wasn’t forty degrees, and I wasn’t carrying over 100 pounds of forest and fruit on my back. I eventually crossed the finish line. Men ran over to relieve me of my burden. At that moment, I felt the torn skin and scratches, but it’s my feet that re-introduce me to pain. During the race, they were over-active and numb, fizzing with hot energy.

David taking a needed water break between events, Tahiti, French Polynesia

Photo by Ariiatua Tepa

Upon finishing, a wave of pain crashed over me. I lifted my left foot and rested it in my hand, cradling the hunk of throbbing muscle. The heel was pink and prickled with grit. The underneath of my toes had lost several layers of skin and were now just ten pink ovals of throbbing muscle. It was as if I had run a marathon across hot coals, the devil in quick pursuit. I clocked seventeen minutes and... something. I wasn’t bothered about the time. I didn’t win, but I wasn’t last either. Relief turned to anger and irritation, surpassed by a feeling of overwhelming misery as I sat insensate on the baked grass. I hauled myself up, leaning back onto my heels so that my piggy toes were elevated from making contact with the floor, and walked on the balls of my feet, slowly and cautiously, towards the retreat of an ambulance at the other end of the car park. My toes were cleaned one at a time, antiseptic cream applied before each little giblet was individually wrapped, bandaged and taped. It’s almost impossible to balance, so all of my weight transfers to my other leg, which is just as cramped, pumping with lactic acid. I’m in pieces, barely holding it together.

I still had a bruising, nagging pain in my knees from the stone-lifting, and I hadn’t travelled all this way to suffer alone. My tribe had now gone and all of the dances finished, the exuberant presentations and feats of tribal athleticism all ended. Tetuarii and Ariiatua were back in the car park. I was burnt and blistered, battered and bandaged and ready now for the other side of Polynesia, the postcard image; the sun-spanked beaches and elaborate, boozy cocktails. I was ready now. Let me find that place.

David J Constable is a writer, editor and CELTA-qualified teacher of English to speakers of other languages. He is also the founder of Ghost Dance. Born in Maidstone, Kent and educated in both the UK and USA, he has led a nomadic life, living in London, Kansas City, Bangkok, Lucca and now Kent on the English coast. Follow him at @davidjconstable