Marquesan Millennials

Marquesan Millennials

An epic photo-journalism quest in the Marquesas Photography Julien Girardot Text By Aline Dargie

Making lunch after two days of back-to-back goat and pig hunting missions. the apprentice Stevie gazes into the fire reflect upon the emotional atmosphere and drinks hot sugary coffee.

He gained personal warrior status while risking his life following his role model, Teiki, who now sears and skins a young pig.

g n i rn

Lea Slow Traditions SYNOPSIS At the southern tip of the geographically most remote archipelago in the world lies the dramatically gorgeous island of Fatu Hiva. Millennials dream to live a more western lifestyle, while traditions from ancient times hold strong in their The Marquesan millennial generation, born in conscious. the 1990s and early 2000s, and are now deciding Earlier this year, a hydroelectric power plant was which cultural paths to focus their lives on. constructed to replace the diesel generator powering Hanavave village’s sixty homes. Sensitivity In Fatu Hiva’s abundant natural environment, to human impacts on local ecosystems is pres- taking time to collect materials and make things ent; however, eco-ideals and slow traditions are with the hands to eat, use, or look at, is intrinchallenging to practice in a modern materialistic sically symbiotic with a happy and healthy local lifestyle. A young man with a Catholic upbringatmosphere. ing named Stevie lives in sync with Mother NaThe Aranui V passenger cargo ship brings tour- ture’s rhythms, taking time to use more organic ists to Fatu Hiva on stopover while delivering materials than imports and respecting people imported foods, electronics and drums of gaso- for how they choose to express themselves. line. Petroleum powers faster hunting and fishing, outpacing slower traditional techniques and As he grows into a man, will Stevie identify more stressing animal populations, while getting food with the macho-petroleum-powered-warriors, on the plate faster and enjoying modern conve- the devout Catholics, the digitally native youth yearning for more urban lives, or will he conniences. tinue to slowly craft his local life, portraying his A ninety-five percent Catholic population, peaceful expression of a Marquesan millennial?

France’s neo-colonial control, capitalistic culture using imported goods, and the young adaptation Above, Stevie hangs out on the jetty in Fatu Hiof living with smartphones, all lead to a dispa- va’s Bay of Virgins. To the right, a young boy exrately layered youth culture in Fatu Hiva today. presses great joy after cathing a fish on the jetty.

Marquesan Marquesan Millennialls Millennials

in Fas t Mode rn Liv es

A three-hour, 35-mile, teeth-rattling rolly bonitier motorboat ride, or all day peaceful side wind sail south, from the already remote Hiva Oa, lies the mythical isle of Fatu Hiva at 10 28’ S 13 40’, in the Marquesas Archipelago. No airport nestles between her steep cliffs, nor cash machine in either of the two small villages. Just one family guesthouse with two rooms welcomes overnighters. The windward eastern side is home to far more goats and pigs than humans. Strong swell from the southeast trades pounds mercilessly into nearly vertical crumbling cliffs jutting upward from the depths of the Pacific.

Tourists must arrive by boat to Hanavave village, pictured below. There is no cash machine or restaurant, just a post office open sometimes, phone booth, mayor’s house, and a one-room shop. The shop sells imported goods including basic food staples like rice and flour, candy and cigarettes, and one shelf of seemingly random, albeit locally practical, hardware illegibly marked with imported prices in permanent marker.

“Always respect the soil, it brings life”

Deep in the valley of Hanavave, ‘fae’ bananas are harvested in a family faapu, or vegetable garden.

This land provides a home for the family’s flock of goats as well. They have a large family, and tell their children, when they visit from their more urban lives at school or work in Tahiti, “always respect the soil, it brings life.”

With this philosophy, and the ongoing desire to share authentic interactions in person with their children, practicing how to organically grow and harvest fruits and vegetables, these farmers are shaping the future. These farmers, and other sensitive locals like Simon, are peacefully advocating through actions the continuation of Marquesan traditions of living in sync with nature, respecting while utilizing the sea and the earth.

Iconic pinnacles dominate the Bay of Virgin's horizon over Fatu Hiva. Look closely to see the Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus in her arms.

During the Catholic Aescension of Jesus Sunday in early May, church going villagers from the neighboring village of Hanavave arrive by boat. The air is filled with gasoline fumes as family steps ashore to give hugs and kisses. Young

and old delightfully chant prayers to traditional, rhythmically swaying, Marquesan dance movements in a procession from the dock to the church. The church is open and accepting to everyone who comes to enjoy worship.

A beautiful vahine named Veronica took a moonlight stroll in the village, stopping for a peaceful moment next to Hanavave’s Catholic church. Upon arrival in Hanavave’s Bay of Virgins, we did not anticipate to be immersed into the devoutly Catholic community of Hanavave, intertwined with habitual traditional Marquesean practices that are, unexpectedly, laced with sexual innuendo: tapping tapa cloth, carving phalic tikis, and using a stone penu to crush plants.

On an evening walk up the steep and windy paved road we arrive at an overgrown garden of scarlet red hibiscus. We take a drink of water and watch the lavender sunset and lime green streetlights turn on. A warm smile lights up my face, knowing the river water we drink also powers the hydroelectric power plant, providing electricity around the clock to the entire village.

In the distance we hear the base of peaceful chanting, guitar, singing, and pahu (goat skin drums). The songs layer and echo in abundance of Holy Spirit.

Eighty of Hanavave village’s three hundred residents are divided between four Catholic prayer groups. Frequent gatherings are conveniently organized by proximity of family homes. Prayer groups foster joyous singing in community followed by sugary cake socials.

A smaller number of locals, like Stevie, choose to spend their time practicing inidvidual spiritual interpretations through the practice of writing and prefroming original songs, layering cues from popular music artists, Catholicism and connections with nature.

“We are again startled by the paradox we are witnessing.”

For the month of May, every night there is prayer held in a family home in honor of the Virgin Mary. The prayer location moves between group members’ houses every three nights by means of a singing, candlelit procession led by children carrying fresh flowers and a small plastic statue of the Virgin Mary. We follow a mother dressed in a red-hibiscus-embellished cotton fitted dress carrying the group’s flag. The Tahaki family spiritedly follows wearing day-glow lime green shirts

with Maria-Te-Kui-O-Te-Haikaoha Maman, the group’s Marquesean language Caholic name, printed across the breast in the same blocky text as the local football team’s jerseys.

A colorfully arranged alter and mini fresh flower crown await Mary’s arrival. Bouquets bursting with birds of paradise, finely laced with fragrant basil and mint, welcome us into Tahaki’s home.

The all day labor by Tahaki’s wife Marie is a beautiful expression of creativity with native plants, with love and devotion for Mary. Marie gazes at Mary who stands on a rosewood pedestal, staring at everyone who enters the home.

The Virgin Mary statue that has just arrived in the Tahaki home was made in China of thin, molded plastic, hand painted in a hurry with uneven brushstrokes, by busy workers in a factory producing thousands of replicas. In a small

Catholic specialty shop in Tahiti, this fortycentimeter imported, taxed, plastic object sells for 30,000 CFP, or about 300 USD. A passionately handcrafted, one-of-a-kind, rosewood tiki statue that Tahaki carves to sell in Tahiti at the bi-annual Marquesan exhibition, sells for the same price. Marie would not consider adorning her home or worshiping with tikis, as she says it is sacrilegious and unfashionable. We are again startled by the paradox we are witnessing.

"I want to grow my spirit...

With stars in his eyes, Stevie loosely quotes the locally popular Tahitian music artist Barthlemy, “the money is in my fingers, I find value in nature.” Even though Stevie feels a connection to Barthlemy’s lyrics, he says in a dreamy voice “I do not dream of being famous or owning the associated problems… celebrity status, and money

are fake dreams… I want to grow my spirit not my bank account.” Along with harvesting copra and working in his Catholic family’s home, Stevie is also an aspiring singer and bravado fisherman, philosophically rejecting locally popular western-inspired materialism found in nearly every home, for a simpler way of life.

...not my bank account�

Stevie’s wishes are to spend his forces working the land and sea for the family he seeks to create.

His dreams are not for the vanity of earning gorgeous images of himself in island paradise for social media status on Instagram. His routine processes of foraging food, moonlit fishing in rolly seas, and climbing mango trees are strikingly

beautiful from any lens, and intrinsically excellent exercise, to be followed by healthy meals.

Stevie and his friends share the passion of catching little fish called komene with a young boy.

Knowledge is transmitted through generations everyday through experiences in nature in Fatu Hiva.

“Traditional Poeto fishing... uses far less gasoline than trolling and successfully brings in the same fish!�

This little boy learns from an elder specializing in poeto fishing. In the morning, back at the dock, young men laughed as this grandfather loaded up the boat with a heavy bag of heavy volcanic stones. Aboard the boat, to practice this type of fishing, he takes a rock with the komene fish the boys fished the day before and chunks of wahoo fish, puts the hook in the komene, then wraps the package in fishing line held on with a slip knot. This end of the line is let out by hand until the fisherman feels it hit bottom, and gives it a sharp pull to relesase the slip knot, rock and chum, leaving just the komene and hook attached to the line.

The other end of the line is tied to a buoy and cast over the side of the boat. We motor a bit deeper and set a few more rigs then turn off the engine and quietly wait. Moody afternoon squalls pass as the little boy takes a nap on the bow and we get wet for ten minutes. Clouds clear and we see one buoy start to bob up and down, we have a bite! After motoring over to the spot, the little boy helps to reel in the long monofilament as the grandfather pulls it in. I gaff the fish and he kills it quickly with a wooden stick, then we motor back to the village dock. This method is a bit slower and requires more skilled work with the hands, but it uses far less gasoline than trolling and successfully brings in the same fish!

Upon disembarking from his yacht hitchhiking adventure from Tahuata to Fatu Hiva, Stevie quickly made friends by passing time at the Hanavave village dock, looking out onto the Bay of Virgins.

Every calm evening during the local happy hour for fishing, from about four to five o’clock, many children from age four or five are allowed to run free around the village with their peers, sharing playful energy while casting into the golden light before sunset.

The adults mingle among flocculating social groups sitting on coconut tree trunk benches around the dock, or on the surf-softened rocky beach neighboring the football scrimmage.

The boys to the right are proud of their catch. Silvery and strong like tiny red tunas, these fish are often swimming in large schools by the dock. The abundant small fish may be eaten raw, cooked, or used by older kids as bait for catching bigger fish.

In return for fishing and hunting for the family’s table on the wild south side of the island, Stevie occasionally receives material gifts from his sister Marie and her husband Tahaki, such as Nike shoes for playing football. They love Stevie, he makes their life easier by helping a lot in the house.

While he rests in their home, the efforts of his days are owed to support the family’s basic needs of eating and living in a clean space, until about three-o-clock on sunny days, when he plays football with the guys. To the right, Stevie’s team commutes to Omoa village for the football tournament.

Stevie was welcomed as goalkeeper into the local football team boasting the best record, and the most stylish young men. With four men’s teams and two women’s teams, the Hanavave football association involves about one quarter of Hana-

vave village’s population of 300. Aboard a colorful ‘bonitier’ fishing boat, teammates and familial fans commute to a few miles to Omoa where there is a stadium to host seasonal indoor soccer tournaments.

To prepare for tournaments and play outside, on weekday evenings between four and five-oclock, the Hanavave waterfront is enlivened by football practice. The men’s teams occupy the premier spot, a series of flat, grassy fields, with a meandering line of tamanu trees delineating the

field from the river. Teammates wear anything available in terms of colorful, specifically-stylistically-mismatched clothing; bleached blonde dyed tips, shaved eyebrow designs, and colorful, meticulously cleaned, expensive American-designed shoes, to compose wildly unique personal styles.

Shaded by the tamanu trees, sitting on leaves or leaning against boulders in an oblong, inclusive circle, a group of young men rhythmically nod their heads and bob their shoulders to beats from Los Angeles originated hip-hop music. As Julien and I walk a bit further with camera gear in hand, we hear the next circle’s cell phone speaker music approaching. Repetitive reggae tone beats recorded a decade or two ago drowns the rhythmic sound of crashing waves onto smooth rocks.

New music freshly arrives in sporadic doses to the island, normally not by the rare Internet connection, rather via USB key sharing between locals and visiting sailors. These exchanged beats enliven this chill island-party-style evening ambiance.

On the other side of the river mouth, the ladies football team practices in a their own style. These

ten young women, all in their twenties, share a more relaxed, mildly competitive dedication to afternoon football time. Ladies football means putting on older, ripped and patched clothes and letting their babies enjoy plastic toys and packaged snacks on the sidelines. They divide into two informal teams on the spot and start a lively game on a twenty-by-thirty-meter flat, old concrete foundation.

After a short hour and a couple of goals, entertained by the music of the children playing and catching fish on the adjacent dock, the ladies team spends time seated in a circle. They stretch and share stories of their days as the sun sets over the Bay of Virgins. The name is from the myth of virgins ready and waiting to romance visiting sailors and colonialists upon arrival, to enjoy some variety to spice up the life, and mix the blood.

A peaceful evening overlooking sailboats at an- sail, lie major ports from Seattle to Panama, the chor in the Bay of Virgins. Far across the Pacific, origins of hundreds of cruising sailboats arrivthree thousand miles northeast, or a three-week ing in this bay every year, with a peak season between February and June.

Night diving for lobster around the corner in a bay nearby Hanavave with a local couple, Jacques and Desiree, whom run a small yacht services business from their home.

Two men from Hanavave line fish by the full moon on a Saturday night. There were four other boats out this night in the same ‘secret’ spot, a deep hole a little west of the bay, filled with delicoius fish.

Teiki and his son rendezvous on the water before parting their separate ways to go hunting and fishing on their crafts of choice.

It’s awater real challenge to live entirely in sync with nature even in the most remote islands of the Pacific.

Once a difficult paddling journey with bows and arrows, wild game hunting in Fatu Hiva’s wild south side now is an expensive gasoline-powered, life-risking, cliff-hanging mission. Today, Teiki and his pack of hunting dogs depart in his ‘cow’ dinghy, a thirteen-foot aluminum boat., to motor into the rough seas.

Teiki has an argue with his teenage son just before leaving, so the son stays back in the village, paddling his va’a everyday to catch fish with a simple handline to eat, gift and trade.

The ancient warriors used only natural materials such as canoes dugout by hand, animal skin or woven palm frond shelters and vessels, to carry out the hunt and make a camp. They did not have the cheap option of a convenient plastic tarp shelter, instant coffee or a flashlight for nighttime pig hunting. Tahaki, his uncle Teiki, and brother-in-law Stevie, are now engine boat powered, GI-style camo-print covered warriors on a weekly hunting mission with rifles to shoot goat and pigs.

the land as many animals to eat as possible. Both modern and ancient eras have satisfied their adrenaline cravings and need to feed family by aggressively and energetically engaging in the hunt, giving all they have and risking their lives to succeed, afound, or full power. It is in this energetic engagement and dedication of time to hunting that Stevie is learning the trade and following the men to become a modern warrior. The men earn strong physical and emotional rewards from tracking savage animals in intense natural conditions of thick forest, funneled wind, forceThese resourceful men get creative with modern ful waves, and steep during their regular hunting machines to be more efficient in gathering from ritual.

Teiki embodies the agile gaze of a predator as his eyes hunt for milky specks grazing on green herbs. A herd moves under his radar. He revs down the outboard and holds his rosary beads.

The next several minutes are passed creating an exit strategy by scanning the rough coast for a place with less wave action where the men could disembark and keep the guns dry. We bob around in neutral for several minutes while the men silently meditate a route to ascend the rock face, or perhaps to descend later while tracking a goat during the hunt.

A few quiet Marquesan phrases are exchanged, as this leg of rough sea and nearly vertical coast is deemed unsafe to board. He motors around to the next bay to size up the leeward side of the ridge. The breaks crash relatively softer on the rocks here, so he drives the bow inches from the rocks, passes the wheel to Stevie, and jumps ashore on the next surge. This is an intrinsically dangerous maneuver that he gracefully completes, then puts out his hand to receive the next man ashore. Tahaki and Julien, the expedition photographer, follow his lead.

From the tiny boat at anchor in the bay below, Stevie and I looked vigilantly for obscure hand signals from the men, ordering us to collect them or the goats in the boat. Stevie motors to the middle of the bay where we can drop the hook, to get a good look on the action of the hunt. As one, two, three, hot sunny hours pass, just six hundred miles south of the Equator, I watch them deftly scale the mountainside like the goats they track.

Gradient cobalt to steel gray sky falls over the horizon as a full orange moon rises like a sun.

With loyal attention, we follow three bobbing patches of red torchlight descend the goat’s cliff.

Defying all rules of seamanship as I understood it prior to today, Stevie, now exhaustedly seasick, warrior-in-training on his first hunting mission in Fatu Hiva is yelled confusing directions, as his macho-modern role model uncle descends at sea level with a goat swung over his shoulder.

I now understand this

This extrame life risking mission was not just about putting food on the family’s table, The greater rewards include intense adrenaine rushes heightened by our convivial wild adventure spiriits, creatively surviving in Fatu Hiva's strong natural elements. The hunted goat is a symbol to represent and reflect a masculine warrior today.

hunting mission was

for more than a goat.

“What is a life worth?

Is it worth risking all of our Bodies and the things we carry... for a goat?”

Perched on slick algae and barnacle crusted rocks, salt spray veils Teiki’s aggressive Marquesean voice and theatrical hand signals as he chucks a dead goat and signals to Stevie with his flashlight. Teiki oråders Stevie to quickly maneuver the vessel to approach and retreat from the cliff. The unconscious sea launches us up and down between six-second periods of heavy swell breaking violently onto the rocks. I imagine the boat might crash onto the leeward shore, launching our bodies into the rocks at any moment.

Tahaki, Teiki and Julien wait for the right moment to jump in between crashing waves, swimming as fast as possible away from the visceral danger of being crashed into the rocks. Tahaki and Teiki gracefully boarded with pride to have completed this leg. Julien arrived wearing board shorts and one shoe. Our eyes were open wide with a new understanding of the real purpose of this mission, thrilled to have survived.

In the moonlit ride back to camp, the goat smells like the unchanged underwear of a man who With cloudy moonlight and gravity guiding me, has been running for two weeks straight. Our I breathe deep, watch for rogue waves, and calm- pleased hunters rearrange the goat to balance ly plan an exit strategy, premeditating possible the boat, with exaggerated gests of ownership. complications. If we capsize it will likely be just after a large wave breaks over us broadside, or The small boat mounts up and jumps off every slams us into the shore. With bursts of white windward swell, slapping the bow down onto the water eliminating visibility, I would make move- following trough. Even though we are moving ments to avoiding getting chopped to pieces, like fast Sickly sweet odors occupy the air reminisraw goat flesh shaken in coconut milk, by the cent of the sugared coffee we drank hours ago, propeller as it thrashes, uncontrolled in the surf. mixed with goat’s milk cheese forgotten at the bottom of an army sack.

The men collect their beams of light on the spot in the surf where the goat is floating amid white I consider how precious and delicate our lives water turning pink, losing blood from a fresh are. What is a life worth? Is it worth risking all of wound in this washing machine of boulders. our bodies and the things we carry... for a goat?

We try to spot and approach the goat, but after I now understand that what we experienced is a minute its body is lost to the dark sea. Impa- for far more than a goat. A different importance tiently, the uncle throws another goat towards than putting food on the table, the hunted goat us. This time Stevie sees the toss and jets the en- is a symbol to represent and reflect the concept gine ahead, skillfully stopping alongside the goat of a warrior. to fling its forty young kilos onto the boat.

How does a Marquesan man gain respect and Our next worry and priority are retreiving the status in this age? The engines and guns enable guns and camera bag. They are thrown roughly, faster hunting, which leads to an imbalance in much to Julien’s silent distress, into Stevie’s nature. How does hunting like this alter their arms, tumbling him backwards as his body ab- ego and reputation back in the village? sorbs the force of the throw. Stevie shoves the bags into the safety of my arms and grabs the Stevie has now completed one step to achieving wheel once again to reverse us away from the his vision of a modern day Marquesan warrior by learning to drive a dinghy in life-threatening rocks. crashing surf on a wild windward shore.

Contemporary carnage lines the coast of the campground. Weathered bones are strewn among sunburned plastic wrappers, fragmenting and gusting around, making rainbow sprinkles on chocolate-ice-cream-like dog feces. Large volcanic boulders lead into the

ocean, variegating into smaller rocks the size of human heads, beaten constantly by breaking swell, eventually adding grains to the sand. Five hungry dogs are tied by short pieces of recycled sailing line to random roots protruding from fertile soil under roughly pruned ebony trees.

Every branch within reach is a potential butcher station to hang and process freshly hunted pigs or goats. Black banana peels, green citrus skins and muddy papaya seeds rot into the earth around the campfire attesting to the frequent use of the cooking site.

The guys drink thickly sweet hot water with a small spoon of instant coffee, as they awaits the goat meat to slowly soften over the fire. Chunks of ebony and rosewood, destine to be carved into tikis by Tahaki to sell to tourists in Tahiti, rest under living branches with us, curving over this scene.

Mid-hunt, Tahaki finds solace in the pandlenousse forest. He listens for oink oinks from pigs and smells for a whiff of their pee, carried over the mountainside by the south east tradewind.

Tahaki tells me a story of how he used to be a boxer, while I weave a bamboo basket. Through focus and dedication he became a champion in Tahiti.

Back in the village, May is the month of the Virgin Mary and the last month before the bi-annual Marquesean Exhibition in Tahiti. It is crunch time for Tahaki’s family to fill the family crate with tikis and other local goods made specifi-

cally to sell to tourists and collectors in Tahiti for cash. Carving is the main source of income for Tahaki and his wife Marie. They make and sell their artisanal crafts including rosewood and ebony tikis, vessels, and boxes.

Tahaki uses techniques he learned at a Marquesean trade school for three years as a young adult in Taiohae Bay, Nuku Hiva. Marie does the finishing, fine hand sanding and oiling. Other families, like Simon’s family in Fatu Hiva, pass down

their knowledge through generations: the youth apprentice with the elders to learn the craft of stone and woodcarving. Families from Hanavave packed one meter cubed crates filled with six months worth of handmade products.

The Aranui V's barge captains take turns between Villagers in Hanavave create their lives with a shuttling tourists and crates of tikis between the creative meĂŠlange of local and foreign materials. boat and the dock.

Prized, relatively expensive imports include processed foods from all around the world, drums of

gasoline, power tools, freezers, concrete bricks, televisions, outboard engines, manufactured boats, and vehicles. These goods arrive by both the touristic Aranui V cargo and passenger cruise ship and the local Taporo freighter.

With only ten people out of the three hundred residents of Hanavave working a regular job for a salary, the local gift economy continues to coexist, but is still trumped by capitalism, and the desire to own more, better, faster imported goods.

Mary is not the only virgin in the mythical Bay of Virgins today. On a Friday afternoon in late May, just after the Aranui V dropped the hook and barged the first passengers ashore, Elona Vaki, a twenty-year-old young woman, dressed for the hunt, stepped onto the dock.

faux pas of wealthy retired Aranui V cruise ship tourists.

They are enjoying their process of searching and assessing possibly eligible foreign bachelors.

Cruisers from sixteen sailboats resting in the bay came ashore, in expectation of purchasing A flashy red hibiscus flower was behind her right a wider variety of imported foods and more imear - a symbol of availability when the flower is portantly, beer, freshly delivered by the Aranui V. not worn above the heart. An electric blue tube top with lace overlaid her perky chest. Cut-off By the time that most sailboats reach the Marshorts covered her curves just enough to be pub- from across the ocean, they have run out of varilicly respectful in this small Catholic village. ous items, especially vegetables and beer. There is only one licensed shop in Fatu Hiva to purShe told me in a hush-hush girl talk voice, “je chase a limited supply of alcoholic beverages. cherche un matelo a choper,” she was hunting for a sailor to shag for fun and then after, hopefully The shop’s limited quantities inspire some busimarry. ness minded villagers to quietly buy extra when available and re-sell at almost double the price Elona is aware, as most locals are, that the blood after the shop runs out of stock, to people who from this village must be mixed. Due to inter- did not plan as well ahead, but are still wanting marriage, incest, and a history of taboo interfa- cigarettes and beer. milial rape, there is an un-proportionately large percentage of cotorep, people born with mutated Stevie has resisted so many modern conveniencbrains or uniquely shaped bodies. es and embraced a lifestyle without electronics.

Today his sister Marie bought him a cell phone Sitting next to her on a concrete step by the dock, to communicate with his new friends. This is the her best friend, Stevie’s girlfriend Bernadette, beginning of the next chapter in Stevie’s life that whispers crude aesthetic observations about will test his ability to remain true to Barthelepassing young men’s musculature or the fashion my’s anti-materialistic lyrics as he embarks on building his family.

“she was hunting for a sailor to shag for fun & then after, hopefully marry�

Hanavave’s mayor made a huge step in respecting the environment again this year by replacing the old diesel generator with a new hydroelectric power plant. This move set a new standard for ecological thinking in the village, in line with Stevie’s sensibility. Eco-friendly ideals and natural living tra everyday in danger of becoming imbalanced with desires to make more money, to buy more imported food and petroleum, to hunt more animals faster, by a growing number of today’s youth, and the influence of macho warriors.

Are they the Marquesan Millennials showing us the future of this ancient island culture? Even with his new smartphone and macho influences, precocious Stevie prioritizes time and strength to practice his heartfelt beliefs and tough Marquesan work ethic.

While goat hunting, Julien captured this view of Fatu Hiva's wild eastern coast. Ouia, the valley pictured with smoke rising, is where the Norwegian Explorer Thor Heyerdahl and his wife lived in 1937-8.

locals. They ended their stay by sailing north to Hiva Oa in search of modern medicine to fix infections and sickness.

Gracefully harnessing Fatu Hiva’s natural elements is challenging for for those who do not Later, Heyerdahl wrote the book, Back to Na- practice every day. Practicing techniques of how ture, detailing their experience in the wild. The to thrive in nature often takes second priority to Marquesan family that owned the land in this interacting with electronics or earning money. age continues to hunt game, harvest fruit, and cut ebony and rosewood to carve today.

Habitual transmission of knowledge to Marquesan Millennials keeps traditions alive. People Heyerdahl found there were challenges to living who take time to learn and adventure with peers a completely natural life off the grid, even with outdoors, while respecting the soil and sea are the generous knowledge and gifts from visiting leading the way for others to follow.