Tahiti tattoo's

Tattooing, banned by early 19th-century missionaries, still thrives on Huahine, writes Andrew Taylor.

Georges Barff looks like he's just walked out of Long Bay after serving 20 years at her majesty's pleasure. Tattoos cover his legs and arms, feet, hands and fingers, the right side of his chest and one-half of his face. And unlike the inmates in Prison Break, Barff's tatts have been painstakingly carved into his skin by a tattoo artist on the nearby island of Moorea and not just splashed on by a Hollywood make-up artist.

"It makes me strong and proud to honour my ancestors," he says.

"It makes me stronger inside; it's my culture, my philosophy and my thinking every day. It makes me more courageous with my life."

It's also a good way of showing off his craft, since Barff is also a tattoo artist, and eager to revive what was one of the most vibrant expressions of Polynesian culture - until thin-lipped Christian missionaries banned tattooing in the early 19th century.

Each of Barff's tattoos is rich with meaning, which he happily spends half an hour explaining to me, like a guide in an art gallery. The markings around his eyes symbolise his wife, Pauline, a descendant of the Bounty mutineers from the Central Coast, and also his children, while the rocks around his legs represent his ancestors.

The gecko and turtle climbing up his torso and the manu birds flying across his arms depict various gods.

Barff might bear more ink on his body than most of the other 5000 or so inhabitants of Huahine but he is not alone when it comes to wearing his art and culture on his body.

One hour's flight from Papeete, Tahiti's steamy, traffic-choked capital, the two islands of Huahine have largely escaped the surge of tourists who check in to five-star hotels on Bora Bora or Moorea.

Huahine has the lush rainforests, warm clear waters and heavily tattooed women of a Polynesian island paradise. But there are no chic boutiques, elegant Parisians promenading in string bikinis or any overweight businessmen crossing the tarmac with me at the minuscule airport at Fare, Huahine's snoozy port.

However, I am not alone. Francyne and Suzanne, two women from Quebec who remind me of Eddy and Patsy from Ab Fab, are also at the jetty waiting for a water taxi to our hotel. It could be jetlag after their long flight from Montreal or the huge amount of luggage they've had to haul from airport to jetty, but they're not happy.